Читать книгу Name and Address Withheld - Jane Sigaloff - Страница 12

Sunday morning dawned a little earlier than usual at 56 Oxford Road. Lizzie had been wide awake for a good half-hour, pinching and tensing various body parts and wondering whether it was physiologically possible that she had put on a visible amount of muffin-related weight since Friday night. If she concentrated hard she was sure she could feel a spot on her nose. Perfect timing. A first-date outbreak. She resisted the overwhelming urge to wipe her t-zone on the duvet cover and finally conceded that more sleep was out of the question. Time wasn’t going to tick by any slower if she got up.

Soon Lizzie was languishing in her second bath in twelve hours. Last night’s had promised to detoxify her and this morning’s foaming oil was supposed to be sensual, although it smelt more like a melted down throat lozenge than an aphrodisiac to Lizzie. Maybe that was where she’d been going wrong all these years.

A strange transformation was taking place. Over the last couple of years, via a gradual process of attrition, Clare had introduced a new dimension to Lizzie’s cleansing ritual. A quick splash with soap and water had been outlawed, and while at first she had complained about the complexity and expense of it all, Lizzie now secretly enjoyed her ablutions. Her brother might have taught her how to spit bathwater a very long way, but he hadn’t given her the inside track on exfoliation and soap-free cleansers. Thanks to Clare, Lizzie now had a beauty ‘routine’ of sorts.

Fifteen minutes ago she had decided to administer an amateur mini-facial to her over-cleansed pores in preparation for lunch. Only now, reading the small print on the back of the tube, it appeared she needed a muslin cloth. But where on earth did you get a muslin cloth before eleven on a Sunday? And what did you do with it the rest of the time? Her bathing idyll shattered, she hurriedly washed the mask into the bathwater and pulled the plug.

Once safely returned to dry land, she inspected her shins slowly to check she hadn’t missed any hairs on her earlier shaving spree while debating what to wear. At least if you met someone after work there was only so much you could do in a maximum of five minutes with mascara, a hairbrush and a hand towel in the Ladies’. Sunday lunch usually called for the ‘girl next door’ look, but this was proving difficult to plan as she didn’t know where Matt lived or where they were going. As Lizzie moisturised all over she couldn’t help wondering whether this was all a waste of time. The more effort she made, the more disappointing the date usually turned out to be. But the pampering was for herself. Honest.

Back in her bedroom, Lizzie stood in front of her chest of drawers, the towel tied round her waist gradually loosening itself, forcing her to gyrate her hips slowly as if trying to keep an invisible hoop aloft. Clare must have thought this was some sort of pre-date limbering up process when she chose that moment to bring Lizzie yet another cup of tea. Maybe it was a thinly disguised attempt at sabotage. Lizzie was sure that she had read somewhere that tea was bad for cellulite. The towel finally fell to the floor.

‘Great, Liz, he’ll love it. The nude look is really in this year. You might think about a few accessories though.’

Lizzie reclaimed the damp cold towel and tied it firmly round her body, using her armpits to clamp it in place before taking her tea from Clare.

‘Ha-ha…’ A slight edge of panic crept into her voice as she just stared into the open drawer. It might as well have been empty for all the inspiration its contents were currently emitting. ‘What on earth am I going to wear?’

‘Why don’t you start with underwear?’ Clare climbed into Lizzie’s bed to watch her getting ready. She’d given up on dating. She didn’t want to have to think about putting a loo seat down when she stumbled to the bathroom during the night, and her days of removing pubic hair embedded in the soap because Mr Shag didn’t believe in using a sponge were over. But if Lizzie was still determined to give men the benefit of the doubt then at least Clare could experience the first date build-up vicariously, and of course she was there to give Lizzie all the sartorial and moral support she needed.

He could do the justification. The fact he was entitled to a little bit of happiness. The fact he wasn’t having what most people would call a relationship with his wife these days. The fact that he’d found someone to have some fun with. The problem was that, whether it was in name only or not, he was married. Fact. No matter which angle you approached the situation from, he only came out of it one way. As a two-timing, unfaithful lowlife.

It may be a cliché, but Lizzie really was different. And when he’d woken up yesterday he’d felt fresh for the first time in months. He’d walked round London with his eyes wide open, invigorated by the smells of life and the sounds of the capital. Everything appeared to have more colour. Now he was sounding like some sort of love-struck teenager in a creative writing class. There really was no hope.

Matt knew he was being selfish, but being fair hadn’t worked that well for him so far. It wasn’t that he resented his wife’s success, her hours or her focus. Quite the reverse. He’d never done needy. And he’d been so proud of her. Objectively, he still was. He wouldn’t care if they barely saw each other if, when they did, it was special. Now it wasn’t even mediocre. And she wasn’t prepared to try. That was the problem. One-way traffic. Their relationship wouldn’t have passed even the most relaxed quality control.

Yet, even with all the excuses, devious just wasn’t his style. He was a nice guy, not some Lothario, and frustratingly he seemed to be at the mercy of his principles which apparently weren’t interested in keeping a low profile. He was going to tell Lizzie over lunch. She was an agony aunt; she knew life wasn’t perfect. He’d just have to trust her to understand. And hope she didn’t run a mile.

By the time the doorbell rang at nine minutes past one Lizzie had been pretending to read a magazine on the sofa for the last twenty minutes, but not a word had sunk in. Instead it appeared that the glossy pages were simply reflecting her nerves straight back at her. She didn’t know what she was worrying about, and it had been so long since she’d last been on an official ‘date’ that she couldn’t remember whether she’d always felt like this.

Clare had finally—and thankfully—gone to work just over an hour ago, but that had left Lizzie with nothing to do except sit, sit, sit, check her appearance in the mirror and then go to the loo again. Her clothes said relaxed and weekend but not scruffy, and she’d put enough effort into her accessories and eye make-up to signify effort without trying too hard. At least she was waiting at home and not pacing up and down in the cold, round the corner from where she had actually arranged to meet him, in order to try and be a couple of fashionable minutes late.

She left a few seconds after the buzzer went before sauntering over to the intercom while her stomach looped the loop a couple of times. There he was. Fantastic. She grabbed her keys and cast a quick glance over the radiators. All set for a possible post-lunch coffee. The sitting room was a knicker-free zone.

As she opened the door she wondered…to kiss or not to kiss? Awkward moment number one, and they hadn’t even said hello yet. Dating hell had begun. This was, she reminded herself, why recently she had opted for the being single option. That and the fact that there hadn’t been a long line of eligible or desirable suitors to hand…not even a short line.

‘Matt.’ She was bright, breezy, and hoped her choice of perfume wasn’t too overpowering. Nothing worse than burning your first date’s nasal hair within seconds of meeting. He seemed unfazed, and didn’t sneeze. All good signs. To her disappointment he resisted the urge to kiss either her cleansed and toned cheeks or her freshly moisturised and glossed lips. She pretended not to care.

‘Lizzie, hi…you look great.’ She really did. In actual fact ‘great’ really didn’t do her justice. Matt could feel his good intentions slipping away. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. I had to shoehorn my car into a tiny space up the road.’

He had driven. So he wouldn’t be drinking much. Lizzie wasn’t sure if this was good or bad.

‘What do you drive?’ Lizzie craned her neck to look at the row of wing mirrors jutting out into the pavement at waist height.

Matt resisted the urge to answer ‘a car’. Sometimes the oldest lines were not always the best.

‘A Karmann Ghia….’

‘Wow.’ Not Lizzie at her most articulate. But definitely one of her favourite classic cars of all time. Very stylish. A sign? An image of Clare shaking her head appeared. Of course not. Just a car.

‘It’s one of my weaknesses, I’m afraid. I spent my last bonus on having her resprayed.’

‘Convertible?’ Lizzie knew the answer before she’d even asked the question.

‘Of course. Vital for the approximately thirteen sunny days we have every year.’ He grinned, proud of his male logic.

Lizzie laughed. Excellent. He could tease himself, and hadn’t even tried to drop engine statistics into the conversation.

‘Such a great shape. Obviously designed when wind tunnels hadn’t been invented to ensure maximum fuel efficiency.’

Matt nodded. ‘We’ll have to go for a spin in it some time.’

A spin? A spin? Matt’s cool temporarily deserted him. No one had gone for a spin in forty years. Was embracing your parents’ vernacular all part of the ageing process?

‘That’d be great.’ Lizzie hadn’t registered ‘spin’ per se, only the allusion to a follow-up outing before they’d even left the doorstep. Excellent. ‘So where are we off to, then?’

Lizzie managed to sound much calmer and more offhand than she felt. She could feel her blood coursing through her veins and was trying to breathe deeply and slowly without it being apparent to anyone but herself. She didn’t want Matt to think she was about to break into an aria as they were walking along.

‘I’ve booked a table at that flash-looking restaurant on the river. I thought we could probably walk from here. It’s a perfect day.’

‘Fab.’ A man who felt happy eating somewhere that wasn’t a pub, a Café Rouge or a Pizza Express. And he was right, it was a perfect day. Lizzie inhaled deeply as they walked down the road. It smelt like December. That fresh, clear, cold and slightly smoky smell which even in London made you think of log fires and snow-covered copses.

Winter was probably Lizzie’s favourite season. On the days when the pale yellow sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky and frosty grass crunched underfoot, life was good. There was something ethereal about wrapping up in jumpers and fleeces and walking until the tips of her ears and toes froze only to be rewarded with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, or lunch with a mysterious new man…

Matt broke into her reverie. ‘I love days like this. All we need is a bit of snow and a few Alps…’

Yippee—same wavelength.

‘An open fire…logs crackling…and blankets.’ She had meant it innocently enough. Only out loud it had overtones, under-tones and double entendre at every turn. Matt fortunately hadn’t picked up on it. He was happily chatting about the positive effects of sunshine on the UV-challenged British public.

As they strolled down towards the river Lizzie sighed contentedly. It was at times like this that she felt the relief of finally being an adult without all the hang-ups and put-downs that had dominated almost every conversation on dates in her twenties. So her dates were further and fewer between these days—at least they had some potential when they did happen. A complete contrast to the grab-any-guy-to-prove-I’m-still-attractive approach that had kicked in after her last serious relationship crashed and burned. No one was going to tell her who she was and what she wanted any more. Love me, love my CD collection. Gone were the days of hiding The Best of Erasure in the depths of her underwear drawer. It might have taken a while, but it seemed she had finally learnt her lessons well.

Lizzie managed to eat her herb salad without splashing her face with balsamic vinegar or resorting to the Ermintrude display-a-leaf-between-your-lips approach, and didn’t spill anything on herself or the tablecloth during the other courses. From their table by the window they watched rowing crews glide past, a reminder of halcyon days when sportsmen hadn’t felt the need to don shiny sportswear plastered with the marks of their sponsors. The tranquillity was interrupted intermittently by the idiosyncratically speedy and noisy afterbirth of fibreglass bathtub launches and loudhailers as the coaches tried to keep up with their oarsmen.

The distraction was welcome as they hadn’t drunk nearly enough to move onto the searching questions round, and so their conversations were dominated by dissections of work and Friday night. Lizzie was doing her best to fill any silences, and it was due to this, coupled with an over-attentive head waiter who appeared silently to check on them at inopportune intervals, that Matt hadn’t got round to mentioning his marital status. He’d now decided to wait until there weren’t people sitting at tables only a few metres away desperate to eavesdrop on other people’s lives because their own were so dull. He didn’t feel the need to provide a floor show. Nor was he impatient to ruin the moment.

The light was fading rapidly by the time they’d finished their coffees, and it was Matt who suggested that they cross the bridge and go for a walk in Bishops Park. He took a deep breath as he followed Lizzie out of the restaurant. It was now or never.

He was just rehearsing his confession in his head when he realised that Lizzie must have asked him a question and was, as is customary in a conversation, now waiting for an answer. Her eyes were glistening, and to his amusement he noticed that perfect crimson circles had formed on her cheeks, which were now rosy in the style of Noddy Goes to Toytown. He smiled slowly, stalling. It was no good; he was going to have to admit that he had been thinking about something else instead of hanging on her every word.

‘Well?’ Lizzie was getting a little impatient.

‘Sorry, Liz… What did you ask me?’

‘I just wanted to know if you do this often.’

‘What?’ Matt wondered if the word had come out as defensively as he thought it had. Lizzie didn’t seem to have noticed anything strange. But then she didn’t have a guilty conscience screaming silently at her.

‘You know—pick up women on a Friday night, play the chivalrous man, whisk them home in a cab, send them a basket of cakes, and then do a Sunday lunch date?’

Matt laughed despite himself. Nerves had always had an unpredictable effect on his emotions. There must have been a short circuit somewhere that had permitted this particular reaction.

‘No, to be completely honest I’m a bit out of practice. This is the first date I’ve been on in years.’ Matt felt his chest tighten. It was about time he was completely honest about a few other things as well. He had just deftly dodged the perfect opportunity and he knew it.

‘Really?’ Lizzie was pleasantly surprised. So there were eligible men out there who could cope with being on their own… Just wait until she told Clare. Her afternoon was improving by the minute. As they came to the rail by the river Lizzie closed her eyes for a minute, savouring the moment and resting her eyes from the now biting wind. Matt stood behind her and she leant back, resting her head on his chest.

Matt was incredulous. It felt as if they had known each other for years. It couldn’t have been going any better. And the better the afternoon got, the less he wanted to spoil things. Why couldn’t he have mentioned his foundering marriage on Friday night? The longer he left it, the more calculating he appeared. And how on earth did you drop having a wife into conversation without ruining everything? You just didn’t see films where the guy got the girl after a ‘Hey, I’m married, but not happily…now kiss me before you think about it too much’ moment. And the last thing he wanted to do was upset her. Bit late now, he thought grimly. But maybe if he had a chance to explain… As he stood there, Lizzie’s head resting on his jacket, the chill wind burning his nostrils and filling his lungs with the floral scent of her freshly washed hair, luckily the icy gusts could take full responsibility for the water that had suddenly appeared in the corners of his eyes. How could his life have become so complicated in less than forty-eight hours? Matt wrapped his arms around Lizzie from behind her, in a reverse bear hug, and luckily couldn’t see the enormous grin on her face as they stood gazing at the river in silence.

Matt was desperately searching for the words to continue. Eventually he managed to produce something that resembled a voice, albeit not really his own.

‘Lizzie?’

‘Mmm.’

‘I’m having a lovely afternoon—you know that, don’t you…?’

‘Yes, I do…’ Lizzie felt a flush of pride ‘…and I’m having a great day too. I take it all back. Office parties are fabulous.’

She was effervescent in her enthusiasm. Matt’s heart plummeted to his stomach.

‘The thing is—look, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. I should’ve mentioned it on Friday night, I suppose, but I just never got round to it.’

‘What is it?’ Lizzie tensed and turned urgently to face Matt.

His heart, now back in the right place but beating faster than normal, melted.

‘It’s just that…well…you’d be bound to find out sooner or later…I just wanted to tell you myself… It’s not very good timing, I’m afraid…’ Come on, Matt, he berated himself. Come on…

Lizzie was just staring at him. Aside from the wind that was whipping through her hair, animatedly fanning it out behind her, she was totally motionless. He couldn’t do it.

‘The thing is…I’m off skiing on Tuesday for two weeks, so I’m afraid I won’t be around after tomorrow until the middle of January. I guess that rules me out of the whole holiday season as far as you’re concerned. But, if you can wait, I’d love to see you when I get back.’

Lizzie shook her head in disbelief. Matt could see the tension in her face dissipate. Finally she smiled.

‘You are a funny one, Matt Baker. I thought you were going to tell me that you were married or gay or only had a couple of months to live or something…’ Relieved, she turned to face the river again. ‘Believe me, Christmas is overrated. You have to spend the day with close family on pain of death. You eat too much, try and wash it down with too much alcohol, and then top it off by watching a usually highly unsuitable film and having to pretend not to be looking when anyone shags or swears in case your parents or great-aunt are still awake on the sofa next to you. Alternatively, the evening is spent arguing over the annual game of Trivial Pursuit. I’m not sure what’s worse, actually. As for New Year’s Eve—well, that was obviously invented just to make everyone feel that they lead really dull lives. Year after year everyone feels that they are the only person who hasn’t been invited to the party of the season. I get hundreds of letters every January from disappointed people who are thoroughly depressed after the Christmas build-up turns out to be a load of old hype…’

Lizzie was rambling. And Matt wasn’t really listening. Lizzie might not be a weekly dater these days, but even she could tell that his eyes were now glazed. And she wasn’t even facing him. His muscles were locked and he was standing stock still. Maybe he had frozen solid.

She decided to test her theory…

‘I mean you’d be depressed if you were forced to spend three weeks every year on a beach in California, wouldn’t you?’

‘Mmm…’

It was an automatic response. Inserted at the first sign of a pause. He definitely wasn’t listening.

Sure enough, Matt was miles away. In a place where he was watching a slow motion replay of the conversation that had just happened. The one where he had failed to bite the bullet. Let the moment pass. It was playing on a loop. And with each repetition he felt more foolish. This was atypical behaviour. Not big. Not clever. Not good enough. It was a professionally executed lie, surprisingly easy—masterful, in fact, if lacking a little in the imagination department. A perfect demonstration of the use of tactical truth economics.

He was going skiing for a week with a few guys from work for New Year, so there was an element of truth in there somewhere. He could even send her a postcard… He shook his head silently. By the time he got back from his ‘fortnight’ on the slopes he would make sure that he could give Lizzie what she deserved or be honest and face the consequences. Maybe this was the impetus he needed.

Lizzie was looking at him expectantly again. This time she had folded her arms and was tapping her toe in a comedy fashion. Again he apologised, and again he had no clue what she had been saying. With a bit of luck she’d dump him in a minute for failing to pay attention to her. At least then he could feel sorry for himself. Right now he was busy hating himself to his core.

‘Well, quite frankly, Matt, I’m beginning to take it a wee bit personally. I mean, it can hardly be a great sign if I’m boring you already. It’s true, I do have a tendency to gabble—especially when I’m a bit over-excited. Clare, my flatmate—you know, the one who owns the restaurant that I was telling you about earlier…?’

Matt nodded. ‘The restaurant in Notting Hill…’ See—he had been listening most of the time. Lizzie acknowledged his response with a nod, but barely drew breath.

‘Well, she’s always telling me off for going on and on, and I’m trying to retrain myself, I’m really trying, but it’s a long drawn-out process. It doesn’t help that I get paid to ramble for a living. See, I’m doing it again. Right, that’s it. I’m stopping. Right…now.’

She pretended to zip up her mouth, and this time Matt was listening and ready with something to say.

‘Sorry, Liz. Please don’t take it personally. I’ve just had a really tough couple of days and I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

Lizzie stared at Matt blankly. He stared back. Now what? He was sure he had said that last bit out loud.

‘Permission to speak?’

‘Granted.’ Matt laughed and took her arm. ‘You’re barking, do you know that?’ Thirty-two going on twelve, he thought to himself. A vast improvement on the people he usually met, most of whom were far too busy taking themselves incredibly seriously to see the funny side of anything.

‘I prefer eccentric. It conjures up fewer images of antiseptic bluey-grey linoleum corridors and men in white coats.’

‘Yup, more like monocles and dandruff…’

Lizzie poked his arm playfully.

‘Well, at least I don’t think up slogans for a living. I think that’s madder than what I do…at least I help people.’

‘I help them too. I help them remember which brand to buy. Imagine how stressful supermarket shopping would be and how long it would take if you had to weigh up the pros and cons of each item while you were standing there with your trolley before making a decision.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you’ve helped by brainwashing them into picking Ariel over Persil, Country Life over Anchor or vice versa?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Mmm…really helping. Shouldn’t be long before you find yourself on the New Year’s Honours List. Arise, Sir Matt— Lord of the Brand. Helper of the Decisions, Knight of the Supermarket Shopper… I can’t wait.’

Matt grabbed Lizzie’s arm and pretended to punch it amicably before linking it with his own.

They strolled back over the bridge very much together. It was truly a black and white Robert Doisneau photo moment. Had he been there with some film in his camera Lizzie felt sure that they would have adorned the walls of thousands of students in years to come. Immortalised arm in arm, the river behind them, eyes shining, in first-date heaven.

As they walked past the cinema Matt stopped at the ‘Showing Now’ poster selection. He didn’t want to head home just yet, but he didn’t want to have to do all the talking either. He checked the screening times with his watch. They were in luck.

‘Fancy an early film before we head back?’

‘Why not?’ Lizzie loved spontaneity, and she was in no hurry to say goodbye. Clare would be at work for ages yet, so there was no point in rushing home to report back. She’d only end up calling her mum, who would be bound to rush round for all the gossip before trying to set one date to meet Matt and another one for the wedding. Better not to invite the kiss of death into this relationship yet.

Lizzie panicked. What was she thinking? Relationship was far too strong a word. It was barely a first date, even if it did feel as if they had known each other for years.

They stood in silence reading the posters. Lizzie knew what she wanted to see. There was a romantic comedy that everyone else had been talking about for ages. You know the sort. Boy meets girl. She loves him. He hates her. He shags someone else and she pretends not to care before he realises that the first girl is the one he really loves by which time she, of course, has finally moved on, has shacked up with someone totally unsuitable and is trying to put him behind her. He pursues her until she finally succumbs to fate just before the final credits… Fate being that the two really good-looking, well-paid, A-list movie stars end up together. But there was a thriller on too. A stylish film, critically acclaimed, but not what Lizzie would have chosen for a Sunday afternoon. Still, she was sure that the man in the image business currently holding her hand would pick it.

‘Well, Liz, what do you think? I’m up for the romantic comedy if you are…or have you already seen it?’

For once Lizzie was speechless. He’d even referred to it as a romantic comedy and not as a ‘girlie film’.

‘I know the thriller’s supposed to be a cracker, but I’m not in the right mood now. Besides, I’ve always been a big fan of the everything-works-out-in-the-end genre…’ Matt’s conscience inserted a pause. He overrode it. ‘In fact I’ve learnt a lot from romantic comedies. Some of my best girlfriends have been picked up with lines that I’ve borrowed from Andrew McCarthy, Tom Cruise…even Tom Hanks… And girls love it even more when I quote Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan at them.’

Lizzie resisted the urge to propose there and then. A man who confessed to liking Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan vehicles was a rare find. Secretly she was impressed, but outwardly she played it down.

‘You smoothie, Matt Baker. Using “lines” to pick up girlfriends? But I suppose in the interests of you learning a few new ones I can probably force myself to sit through it. I’ve been meaning to see it for ages but never got round to it.’

‘Me too. It’s been out for weeks. We must be two of the only people who haven’t seen it yet. It’s a sign.’

‘A sign? It’s a sign? Don’t even try and go all spiritual on me. I can’t believe you just said that. The only sign is that neither of us go to the cinema enough.’

‘Lizzie Ford, a cynic…I’m not convinced. Secretly I think you love a good line. All women do!’

Lizzie smiled. Enigmatically or in a stupidly happy way? She wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

Between the trailers and the feature the cinema was momentarily plunged into total darkness, and to Lizzie’s delight Matt leant over and kissed her. She kissed him back and then, like teenagers, they snuggled up and watched the movie in silence. It was perfectly predictable, with a feel-good soundtrack to distract the viewer from the linear plot. Luckily the story-line was far from complex. Lizzie was only half watching and half wondering what might happen next…

As they turned into her road Lizzie looked at her watch for the first time since one o’clock. It was nearly seven.

‘Thanks, Lizzie. I’ve had a great afternoon.’

Had. Surely he wasn’t thinking of going home yet? Granted, they’d already spent six hours together, but it wasn’t as if either of them had Sunday night homework deadlines to meet. And besides, she’d tidied the flat especially.

‘Do you want to come in for a quick coffee before you head off?’ Was that too keen? After all he was only driving across the river, not embarking on a transglobe expedition. Lizzie wished she could remember what time Clare had said she’d be home. Not that it really mattered, but she didn’t want Matt to feel that this was a heavy ‘meet my best mate’ moment.

‘Well…’ Matt hesitated. ‘Only if it’s Nescafé.’

‘Kenco, I’m afraid.’

‘Hmm.’ He furrowed his brow in mock concern. ‘Well… I suppose I could make an exception on this occasion. Although I have to say I’m surprised at you. Everyone knows that Nescafé is the instant coffee of romantic comedy fans… I mean, their drinkers are always having close encounters of an intimate coffee breath nature…just look at their ad campaigns.’

‘My Kenco is the “really smooth” blend, though.’

‘But of course.’ Matt grinned.

‘And just because you work in clichés doesn’t mean you have to live in one.’

‘I’m just teasing. I said yes, didn’t I?’ He knew he should really be going, but he quite wanted to kiss her again before he left.

Lizzie smiled and rummaged in her bag for her door keys as Matt continued.

‘Don’t you think it’s strange that coffee is seen to be seductive? Personally, the aroma of instant coffee always makes me think of teachers in duffle coats standing around in wet playgrounds, their hands wrapped round those brown-tinted Pyrex coffee mugs.’

She knew exactly what he meant. The world according to Matt Baker was a familiar place. Lizzie could picture the scene now.

‘Not very romantic at all, in fact…’

‘I haven’t had a duffle coat for years,’ Lizzie added apropos of nothing as she unlocked the front door.

Matt’s train of thought hadn’t reached the next station yet. ‘Well, I think you’ll find that they drink the “primary and secondary” blend. I’ve heard good things about the “really smooth” option, though…’

Matt wandered into the kitchen while Lizzie was boiling the kettle and, having laughed a little too hard at the photo collage of Clare and Lizzie’s fashion and hairstyle retrospective in the clip frame on the wall, caught himself staring at her back as she stirred milk into their drinks. He stopped himself before she felt the intensity of his gaze and, sheepish at his behaviour, reverted to his preferred defence mechanism—humour. He didn’t have to look far for inspiration.

‘So which one of you is the smoker, then?’

Lizzie wheeled defensively, surprised at the line of questioning.

‘Neither of us. Why?’

Matt pointed at a box of Tampax which had been left lying on the kitchen table next to the box of matches she and Clare used to light their large candle collection.

Lizzie reddened in a very teenage ‘oooh-it’s-a-tampon’ fashion and distractedly shoved them into the utensil drawer out of sight. As old as she got, being blasé about Tampax in the presence of the opposite sex was still an effort. She must have missed the box during her earlier tidying frenzy. She and Clare didn’t even register things like tampons any more. They were no more unusual or scarce than Biros, and often turned up in just as many unexpected places.

She turned to offer an unnecessary apology but, seemingly unruffled by their sanitary tableware, Matt had taken their coffees over to the sofa and was now relaxing cross-legged, his head resting on the cushions, eyes closed. Lizzie sat down next to him and he opened his eyes and turned to face her. In perfect synchrony they both reached for their coffee, took a sip, and returned their mugs to the table.

Christmas was now in danger of becoming Lizzie’s favourite time of year. She stifled the urge she suddenly had to hum ‘White Christmas’ and instead allowed the silence, now laden with anticipation, to play havoc with her heart-strings.

Matt studied Lizzie’s face with real affection before leaning forward to kiss her. Their lips met for the third time in forty-eight hours and this time it was minutes before they prised themselves apart.

Lizzie was lost in another world. A world which was a hell of a lot more exciting than the last few months had been. As they fell back into the outsize cushions Lizzie relished the weight of his chest against hers. She could feel herself spiralling deliciously into a whirlwind of male musk and intensity.

As they started to shed a few layers Lizzie got the giggles. She felt like a Russian babushka doll. She’d been doing her utmost to be sultry, but so far, as Matt removed each layer from her top half, it was only to discover another one underneath. At her laugh Matt sat up and smiled sheepishly.

‘OK. What is this? Pass the parcel? How many layers are we talking, here?’

‘It’s all about layers in December. You’re nearly there now.’

‘Thank God,’ he muttered as he resumed his challenge.

It was only a few more moments before Lizzie was delighted to hear him murmur approvingly at her cleansed, toned, perfumed and moisturised chest and stomach. She mentally thanked her mother for her years of indoctrination in the there-is-no-such-thing-as-too-much-preparation approach to dates. She breathed in for good measure and shivered with sheer delight as his tongue explored the surface of her skin.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was all a bit soon. But, hey, he was off on holiday in a couple of days and why shouldn’t she give him something to remember her by? She knew his name. She had his mobile number. In Sex and the City the women had sex with totally random men all the time and didn’t seem to feel guilty. She was thirty-two, for goodness’ sake. She pushed her conscience to one side and indulged herself in the moment. As she watched Matt kissing her tummy she knew what was going to happen next. She decided to make the move to her bedroom just in case Clare came home early and didn’t fancy a floor show. From the way his hips were pushed up against her own, and the change in the fit of his jeans in the button fly area, she knew he wouldn’t say no.