Читать книгу Name and Address Withheld - Jane Sigaloff - Страница 8

Why is it that we always want what we can’t have? It doesn’t matter whether it’s that Prada bag, Nike’s latest offering to trainer culture, Jennifer Aniston’s hair, Jennifer Aniston’s husband, George Clooney or the senior school sweetheart; there are times in our lives when we think—no, we know—that life would be complete if only we had the item in question. By the same token it is a human failing that we rarely realise what we do have until it is no longer ours to keep. Both have happened to me more often than I would care to remember.

Mark was all I ever wanted between the ages of fifteen and sixteen. My school exercise books were littered with his name, hearts with our initials carved by my lust during double English and, most importantly, our percentage of compatibility which I once worked out to be eighty-four per cent. A miscalculation. I should have spent more time paying attention in maths. When he finally asked me out the week after my seventeenth birthday—because, I now fear, he had asked everyone else out already—I thought I was going to burst with pleasure. It was a match made in heaven—I had the soft-focus daydreams to prove it.

For five weeks it was the real hand-holding thing. My months of background research paid off and I had all the right answers to his questions and all the right cassettes in my collection. I was In Love. Then the object of my misplaced affection stole my virginity before chucking me publicly and unceremoniously just before the end of term. My life ended as quickly as it had begun. I wept and fasted, and wept and fasted some more. Then came the hunger and I ate like never before. My adolescence would certainly have been less traumatic without him, but I would have laughed in the face of anyone who’d tried to tell me at the time. Adult lesson # 1 learned; the hard way…

‘There you go, love. Have a nice evening.’

Lizzie looked up from the magazine. She’d been so busy checking her weekly column for mistakes that she’d momentarily been transported back to her teens. A fist of nerves settled in her stomach as she realised that she’d arrived at her destination.

Four hundred people were expected to celebrate Christmas and a successful first year in which City FM had been put on the radio map and, as the station controller Richard Drake liked to tell her, as their newest recruit she was an important part of that. Lizzie wished he was there to remind her just once more for the record as her self-confidence temporarily vanished and she fought an increasingly strong urge to melt into the Soho crowds and disappear. Just because it was a work do, it didn’t mean that it was supposed to feel like an assignment, and she couldn’t help feeling that anything referred to as a ‘do’ should always be a don’t. There was, of course, the develop-a-mysterious-24-hour-bug tactic, but from previous experience Lizzie knew that two painful hours at the office party were worth their weight in nights out on the beers for the rest of the year.

As the taxi pulled away from the kerb, having deposited its perfumed payload on the pavement, a familiar ringing noise caught her attention. Saved by the bell? She prayed it was an emergency. Nothing life-threatening, just party-threatening. Lizzie rummaged for her mobile, which for several rings eluded her grasp despite the smallness of her bag.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s nearly quarter to ten, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t you be paralytic by now?’

Lizzie smiled. It was Clare. Best friend, flatmate and chief party outfit adviser.

‘I’ve literally just got out of the cab.’

‘Well, hurry up and get yourself to that bar. It’s one thing being fashionably late, but if you leave it much longer no one will even remember you were there at all. Just remember you’re gorgeous, witty, intelligent, beautiful and sober…well, relatively…an inestimable advantage at this stage of the evening. You’ll be able to impress them all by still being capable of pronouncing words of more than one syllable. Leave your nerves in the cloakroom and get yourself a drink.’

‘Thanks. I will…’ A few ego-bolstering words of support and Lizzie’s attitude had done a U-turn. ‘And thanks for all your top fashion advice earlier. Thank God for you and your wardrobe.’

Way back, B.C. (before Clare), Lizzie had endured a couple of outfit faux pas. Now she was practically a D-list celebrity she couldn’t afford to rock any boats with her choice of partywear.

‘No problem. Couldn’t have you rocking up in pin-striped skintight stretch drainpipe jeans!’

‘Listen, you, that photo was taken in 1984. Anyone who was anyone had a pair. Probably even Madonna.’

Clare ignored her. Her job was done and, besides, she had a restaurant to run.

‘Lots of love…catch up with you in the morning for a debrief.’

Lizzie snapped her expensively compact mobile shut. Giving herself a sultry smile, she pulled her shoulders back, instantly adding breasts to her outfit, and despite the newness of her shoes managed to sashay the requisite twenty metres to the door retaining both her composure and the full use of both ankles.

‘Lizzie Ford.’

Sullenly the bouncer checked his list before slowly unhooking the rope that stood between her and the rest of the evening. While the stretch of red curtain tie-back cord at mid-calf level wouldn’t have stopped anything—with the exception, perhaps, of a stray sheep—from getting in if it really wanted to, it was all about the image of exclusivity. Judging by the relief Lizzie now felt at being on the right side, it was working.

She smiled amicably at a couple of semi-familiar faces as she swept—well, stepped—into the party, which was already in full swing. Parties had been much more fun when she could waltz up to people who knew nothing about her, might never see her again, and didn’t know where to find her. Now, with her own jingle and her own show, she had forfeited her right to anonymity.

Matt hated big work parties. Pressure to look good. Pressure to provide jocose and scintillating conversation even if the person you were talking to had nothing of interest to contribute. Pressure to network… It was no wonder that people ended up incredibly drunk, determined to start digging their own professional graves by discarding all tact and diplomacy and fraternising with people that they were normally—and often for good reason—intimidated by.

He spotted Lizzie the minute she walked into the busy bar. He knew who she was. Listener research showed that she was already one of their most popular presenters, and thanks to Lizzie Ford an agony aunt with sex appeal was no longer an oxymoron. The Agony and the Ecstasy was outstripping its rivals in the ratings, and she brought a unique blend of understanding, sympathy and the odd soft rock track to their airwaves. Rumour had it she was going to be a big star. Watching her work the room, he had no reason to doubt it.

What he really needed was a night in, a pint of Ribena, a balanced meal and a video. But instead he was pouring yet more beer and canapés down his iron-coated alimentary canal. To make matters worse the bloke opposite him had been boring him rigid for the last ten minutes.

Here was a graduate with high hopes who hadn’t yet had his enthusiasm dampened by a few years in the workplace, and Matt knew he should have been flattered by the attention. After all, he’d only wanted an insight into the ‘creative wizard’ that was Matt Baker. He’d never been called a wizard to his face before. Maybe it was time to invest in a pointy hat, or at least sew a couple of stars onto his Ted Baker shirt. Matt smiled to himself. Unfortunately this was interpreted by his co-conversationalist as a green light to continue. Matt was barely listening. His eyes were fixed but not focused.

Professionally it had been a good year. On the domestic front it was becoming easier and easier to forget that he had a wife. Five years down the line they shared a mortgage and a bathroom, but little else. He’d always known she craved success. Ambition was one of the things he’d found so attractive about her. A fiery determination, which he had no doubt would pay off, and a professional self-belief that could be incredibly intimidating whether you were her bank manager, her boss or just her husband. But now it felt as if he was irrelevant. Last season’s must-have accessory. Taking a swig of his beer, he willed his intoxication to move on to the wildly happy mad-dog phase. Alcoholic introspection was not conducive to the festive spirit.

Lizzie went through the motions and, her inhibitions soon buried at the bottom of a glass, worked her way round the room air-kissing, hand-shaking and nodding enthusiastically. Once she’d made contact with Richard Drake, done the small talk thing with the other big bosses, pretended to be interested in the station’s main advertisers and concentrated on saying the right things to the right people at the right time she made a beeline for her producer, Ben, and joined the rest of her production team—who were apparently intent on sweating away the remaining hours on the dance floor.

As the physical effects of her non-existent dinner, multiple G&T, high-heeled dancing evening started to kick in, to her relief she spotted a recently vacated leather sofa and, sinking into the cushions, still warm from their previous occupants, slipped her shoes to one side, flexing her aching arches.

The bar was packed with people in various states of alcoholic and narcotic distress. Several public displays of affection were taking place in what had earlier been considered the darker corners of the venue, but now, thanks to intermittent bursts of strobe lighting, their indiscretions were clearly visible, if a little disjointed, giving their liaisons a pop video feel. The thumping music was loud enough to create an atmosphere in that everyone almost had to shout to make themselves heard, and overall it was decadent enough to ensure that it would be described over e-mail on Monday as a great party. Those whose recollections were sketchy would probably go so far as to say it had been fantastic.

She was miles away when the drive-time DJ, Danny Vincent, slithered into her personal space, instantly activating her built-in quality control alarm by resting his arm along the couch behind her in a semi-territorial manner. He was reputedly as smooth as the voice that calmed many frayed tempers in traffic jams, and certainly at this too-close range Lizzie could see that his teeth were too white and too perfect to be his own and that his shiny designer satin jeans were at least one size too small.

‘So, what’s a beautiful, young, successful woman like you doing sitting alone in the corner?’

His voice was indeed a phenomenon. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. But it was the most interesting thing about him by a considerable margin. Lizzie wished she’d left before he’d gatecrashed her party.

‘Resting. People-watching. Taking a breather on my own.’ She pointedly left longer pauses than natural between the last three words to make her point. A cue for him to leave. But Danny was far too thick-skinned to notice.

‘But this is a party.’ He said it like ‘pardeee’. ‘A chance to meet new people, to road-test a few colleagues and get to know your new station family.’

Things were going from bad to worse. Lizzie was trapped in the corner with a station jock who was suggesting ‘road testing’ colleagues. Her stomach tensed involuntarily, but Danny was bankable talent with a long contract and way above her in the pecking order, so provided he kept his pecker to himself she would just have to be civil.

Twenty minutes later he’d barely paused for breath, peppering his egocentric monologue with innuendoes just to check Lizzie was listening and smiling in the right places. Lizzie couldn’t stand him, but, thanks to his body position, she couldn’t stand up either. He hadn’t even offered to buy her another drink, even though she’d made sure that she’d drained her glass dramatically three times in as many minutes. His eyes were glazed with self-love; hers with self-pity.

Lizzie started to pray to the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions while desperately looking for someone she knew to rescue her from drive-time hell. Not only was there no one familiar on the horizon, but as she gradually sank into a dark leather sofa abyss, her eyeline was currently at most people’s ribcages and rapidly falling to suspender level.

Matt was at the bar—again. As he picked his way back to his workmates he spotted Lizzie in the corner and, watching her as he distributed his round, he decided that her body language said, Help…Rescue me. Leaving his colleagues mid-sentence, he strode over to do the decent thing.

‘Lizzie Ford—Matt Baker. Pleased to meet you.’

His confidence was alcohol-assisted and, while she had never set eyes on him before, Lizzie stood up gratefully to shake his hand. Danny looked less than impressed at the interruption, especially as Matt obviously had no interest in talking to him or getting his autograph.

‘Matt?’

Lizzie smiled warmly and Matt grinned back, his tiredness forgotten. She really was very pretty. Her brown eyes seemed to radiate energy, and right now that was just what he needed.

Subconsciously he ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t, Lizzie noted, self-consciously long enough to suggest that he was growing it to prove that he still could, nor was it so short as to suggest that it had been shorn to disguise a rapidly receding hairline. Illuminated by stray rays from the dance floor, there were times when it almost took on a Ready-Brek glow. Divine intervention.

‘Yup…I’m a copywriter, responsible for those unforgettable slogans advertising City FM that you see on buses and billboards.’

Lizzie thought for a moment before starting to reel them off. ‘“Because it’s hot in the City”. “Tune in to City life”. “The City that cares…” Wow, they actually pay someone to come up with those! It must be a full-time job…’

‘OK, so they don’t really work out loud, at a party, but research has shown that…’

Matt tailed off mid-sentence. Lizzie was smiling mischievously and now he regretted having been so defensive. One day he’d have a career that made a difference; until then copywriting would have to do.

Danny, no longer the centre of attention, sloped off. The coast was clear.

‘Thanks so much for coming over. I thought I was stuck with him for the rest of the evening.’

Matt adopted his best deep Barry White voiceover tone and faked an American accent. ‘Danny Vincent…loving himself…on City FM.’

Lizzie laughed as she imagined the new jingle being played in at the intro to his show. ‘I’m not sure he’ll go for it…’

‘Hmm…maybe it needs a bit more work… Anyway, I spotted you from the bar, and I was getting the SOS vibe, so I thought I’d better respond to the international distress call before you gave up the will to live.’

‘I owe you one.’ Lizzie was pleased that the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions had obviously been at tea with the god of Good-Looking Specimens when he’d received her distress call. No wedding ring either. ‘Can I start by getting you a drink? I’m gasping—not that motormouth noticed!’

Motormouth? Had anyone used that expression in conversation since the late seventies? Lizzie wished she could be a little bit more articulate when it mattered. In an attempt to distract Matt from her retro turn of phrase she turned her empty glass upside down to demonstrate the urgency and Matt—apparently undeterred by the motormouth moment—raised the bottle of beer which he’d barely started and nodded.

‘Same again, please. Thanks.’

He really didn’t need another drink, but he didn’t want to go either. As far as he could remember from the press release he’d seen when she’d joined City, she wasn’t married and was a couple of years younger than him. Old enough, then, to remember the TV programmes and references to pop music that were wasted on the combat trouser-wearing members of his department…or cargo pants, as they seemed to be called these days.

As he watched his damsel, now distress-free, weave her way to the bar he checked his shirt buttons and flies automatically. All present and correct. Good. No reasons for her to stare at him unless she was interested in what he had to say. He, on the other hand, was overtly staring at her back when she suddenly turned unexpectedly, and quickly he jerked his head round and focused on something non-existent on the dance floor. He didn’t dare look back just in case she looked over and caught him staring again.

As Lizzie elbowed her way to the bar she glanced back at Matt, who was nodding his head in time to the beat, pretending to be absorbed by something happening on the dance floor in order to avoid the stigma of mateless party abandon. Very cute. She shoved a couple of drunken partygoers out of her way impatiently. She wanted to get back before he changed his mind and wandered off.

‘Here you go.’ Lizzie handed Matt two bottles of beer. ‘They were doing buy three, get one free, so I thought I’d join you. I’m sure we’ll get through two each.’

‘Thanks.’ Matt wished he hadn’t already had at least six already. How was he supposed to impress her if he was in danger of losing the ability to enunciate properly?

After a synchronised swig from their bottles they both started speaking at the same time.

‘So…’

‘So…’

‘You first…’

‘No, you…’

Another swig…

…and a smile.

He had very good teeth, she couldn’t help noticing. Her stepfather had been a dentist and had left a legacy of interest in incisors, canines and premolars for her to deal with. She’d always believed that clean nails and nice teeth were important indices of personal hygiene.

Matt, unaware that he was under observation, was off to a good start. He decided to break up the meaningful look competition and took charge.

‘Shall we find a table?’

‘We could stay on the sofa if you promise to protect me from Danny.’

‘Right.’ My pleasure, he thought. But thankfully for his credibility it remained unsaid.

As they sat down, Lizzie sighed with relief. ‘I’ve decided I hate office parties.’

‘Me too. Can’t stand them. You spend the whole evening pretending that everyone you work with is your best friend. The fact that you don’t have anything to say to them when you’re sober doesn’t seem to stand in your way…until the next day, when you realise that you’ve arranged to go to the cinema, to go on holiday with them or something equally unlikely—all because you drank too much the night before.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Or you spend the next working week trying to work out whether the member of senior management that you felt the need to be excruciatingly honest with remembers your conversation and is going to hold it against you.’ Words were tumbling from his mouth and it appeared that Matt was powerless to do anything about it. Alcohol had loosened his tongue. He closed his mouth in an attempt to reverse the process.

Lizzie giggled. He was right. ‘It’s even worse for me because, as an agony aunt, I’m somehow not supposed to be the person who takes her top off on the dance floor, who downs a pint the quickest or snogs people randomly. If you like, I’m the token parent at the party—and that, I must say, is one of the only disadvantages of my job.’

‘Probably saves you a lot of embarrassment in the long run.’

‘Maybe.’ Lizzie wasn’t interested in sensible conversation. She was flirting, obviously so subtly that Matt hadn’t noticed yet, but she was out of practice. Most people in advertising that she knew, including Clare’s ex-husband, were hooked on creating the right image, modelling themselves to fit whatever was considered to be of the moment. Matt, however, was a natural. He was charming without being smooth, boyish yet well worn, tall but not gangly and solid without being chunky. Lizzie wondered what the catch was. Maybe he wore briefs or Y-fronts?

‘So how does it feel to be on the up? This has been quite a year for you, hasn’t it?’

Oh, no. Now he’d thrown in a proper question while she’d been hypothesising about the state of his underwear drawer. The first test. And an answer that required a careful combination of articulacy and modesty—neither trait enhanced by a cocktail of gin, tonic and lager. Lizzie was bashful. This year had certainly marked a step in the right direction, but there were still plenty of boxes unchecked on her list of ambitions and, as far as City FM were concerned, she was still the new kid on the radio block.

‘It’s great. I’m loving doing the show…and my column…but it’s hardly brain surgery…’ Lizzie stopped herself. What exactly was the self-deprecation for? ‘So far so good. It’s quite a fresh approach, and the listeners seem to like it…radio awards here I come…’ Much better. Positive without being cocky. But now she was babbling so much that she had noticed Clare’s raised eyebrow even though she wasn’t even at this party. It was a side effect of beer. Probably something to do with the bubbles. She reined herself in. Clare would have been proud.

‘How about you?’ Masterfully done. The ball was back in his court now, and she was much less likely to bore him if he was the one doing the talking. She might have been trained to fill any silences on air, but she knew that silences in day-to-day conversation were not only natural but to be encouraged if you wanted to retain any close friends.

‘I’ve had a fantastic year professionally. My best ever. My slogans have even won a couple of awards.’ Matt silently chastised himself. Next he would be trying to impress her with his A-level results. What was the matter with him?

‘Really? So how did you get into copywriting?’ Another volley straight back. Lizzie was still trying her best to be flirtatious, but it didn’t seem to be working. She’d even bowed her head slightly, and had been trying to look at him out of the corner of her eye in what she had thought was a coy fashion. But what if he just thought she had a weak neck and a slight squint and was too polite to mention it? Seduction was bloody hard work. Matt clearly had no idea what she was up to.

‘Well, I had a one-liner for everything from a very early age.’

‘You must have been a precocious kid.’

‘How dare you?’ Matt put his hand on his hip in mock indignation before leaning closer to Lizzie in a pseudo-whisper. ‘But if the truth be known, I was—a bit.’ He smiled, amused that he was being so candid. In fact, he was really enjoying himself. ‘I was the youngest and my mother and father doted on me. Drama lessons. Music lessons. Tennis lessons. I had them all… But like most little boys I was happiest watching television. ITV was my channel of choice, and I always looked forward to the adverts—even though the best ones were always on at the cinema.’

‘Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…’ Lizzie, to her horror, had suddenly started singing the Pearl & Dean theme tune that had haunted the cinema trips of her youth. She was about ten seconds in before she realised what she was doing and stopped herself at once. Singing to a stranger in public. Certifiable behaviour. Lose ten points. It was too late. Matt had noticed and spontaneously finished off the tune for her.

He was thrilled. So Lizzie had been brainwashed by advertisers too. And what a relief to have met someone who was just comfortable with herself instead of being totally preoccupied with saying what she thought he wanted to hear.

‘I’d be that child singing jingles in the back of the car. I remember getting into trouble once for singing the telephone number of our local Ford dealer all the way to Devon, and I think my father was ready to strangle me with his bare hands when I finally moved on to the likes of the ever so catchy, ever so irritating “Transformers…robots in disguise” campaign… By then I was well into my teens.’

Lizzie smiled, genuinely entertained by the man beside her and desperately trying to put the Pearl & Dean moment behind her. Matt was very engaging and, while she knew it was pure cliché, his face really did light up when he spoke. She had better pull herself together before she allowed the moment to go all soft-focus around the edges. She decided that more questions were the best option. That way she could just look and listen.

‘So how did you get into it then?’

‘To my parents’ delight I left university with a degree in English…’

Which university? When? With what class of degree? Lizzie could feel the spirit of her mother tapping on her shoulder and chose to ignore it.

‘…but to their disappointment I had no real focus or motivation, and ironically I sort of fell into advertising by accident. Once I was there I was hooked. If you think about it, trends are always changing—and it’s my job not only to reflect what’s out there but to try to anticipate new ideas, or even fuse a couple to create fresh styles.’

He looked across. Lizzie seemed interested enough, but then again she made a living out of listening to other people. Matt decided to give her a ‘get out of jail free’ option just in case.

‘Promise you’ll just stop me when you get bored. Yawn, stand on my foot, stare at some bloke at the bar—that sort of thing. I don’t want to be a fate worse than Danny.’ But Matt knew that right now he had a lot to thank the king of slime-time for.

Lizzie glanced down at Matt’s legs. Relaxed-cut dark jeans. No stretch satin in sight. She looked up a little too quickly to be discreet and hoped Matt didn’t think she’d been staring at his lap. Their eyes locked.

‘It’s interesting. Really.’ Suddenly self-conscious, Lizzie looked away and pretended to rummage in her little bag for nothing in particular.

‘I guess I’m just trying to justify my existence. If only I was a heart surgeon and could gain instant respect. You know—just add boiling water and stir gently.’

‘Hmm?’

‘For instant respect…’

‘Oh—I get it.’ Lizzie did, but only a nanosecond after she’d said that she already had. ‘Anyway, justify away. Believe me, you’ll know when I’m bored…’

Matt hesitated. He wasn’t convinced.

‘…and I’ve still got a beer and a half to go.’

Lizzie was more than happy to let someone else do all the talking. It made a nice change.

‘Well, OK, then…if you’re sure you’re sure…’

‘I’m sure I’m sure.’

‘Remember, I did warn you…’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Lizzie was impressed that he’d even stopped to think about whether she was interested or not. Her recent experience had definitely indicated this was a dying trait.

‘Right…’

Matt’s whole intonation changed as he verbally rolled up his sleeves and prepared to address Lizzie as a student of his craft. He wasn’t being patronising. Just passionate. Lizzie was mesmerised, although if she was being honest she couldn’t only credit her interest to the topic under discussion.

‘If you just think about things in a different way you can see where we were at certain times in our lives, and where we are now, by what we eat, drink, wear and by the adverts that we see around us…’

He really was very desirable. Lizzie was glad that tonight had been a G-string occasion. She always felt at her most seductive and unnervingly saucy when she was wearing one. Irrationally so, really. Until her second or third drink she usually just felt as if her knickers had ridden up and got stuck between the cheeks of her bottom.

‘…most of it’s subliminal at the time, but looking back it’s all quite clear. Look at the minimalism of the late 1990s: less was more, everything was about stripping away the excesses, getting our autonomy and power back. Natural everything. Neutral plain colours. Cotton and cashmere, not nylon and polyester. In fact very little artificial anything—a reaction to the multicoloured, additive-laden 70s and 80s. Fashions change. Who in the late 1970s and 1980s would have thought that we’d be eating rocket salad…who even knew what rocket was…?’

Matt paused for effect and she snapped out of her daydream at once. Had he been talking about salad? Impossible. Bugger. Lizzie scolded herself. She really had to learn to pay attention when people strung more than two consecutive sentences together.

Not requiring a response to his rhetorical question, Matt continued unfazed, much to Lizzie’s relief. From now on she would treat everything he said as a listening comprehension.

‘You’d have dismissed it as faddish if anyone back then had suggested that we’d be drinking cranberry juice with vodka in bars—indeed, drinking cranberry juice in Britain at all, where cranberries have traditionally been teamed with turkey at this time of year. The world is becoming a smaller place. You only have to look in your kitchen cupboards: ginger, lemon grass, chilli, vanilla pods, couscous. But these new trends are only replacing the old. In the seventies it was frozen food. If you couldn’t freeze it, it wasn’t worth eating. In the late eighties it was microwaves and ultra-convenience. With our go-getting attitudes, the revolutions in micro-technology and generally higher standards of living why would we want to have spent any more than five or ten minutes cooking? In the nineties it was back to basics. Organic and fresh was best and cooking made a comeback, as did gardening. But fashions are left behind. They’re superseded by new choices and new theories on the way we should live our lives. Who now can even remember what disk cameras and Noodle Doodles looked like? Who in the late 1990s would have even have considered wearing a brown and powder-blue acrylic tank top—unless, of course, they were doing the whole Jarvis Cocker retro thing? But then maybe I’m just bitter because powder-blue isn’t my colour…it just doesn’t do anything for my skin tone…’

Matt feigned camp and Lizzie laughed. This time she had been listening and, while she could no longer claim objectivity, it certainly was a positive departure from discussing football teams, gym attendance, holidays and other people’s heartache.

‘So is what you’re saying that nothing happens by accident? We all choose to eat things, decorate our homes in a particular way, travel to certain places, because subliminally we’ve been told to?’

‘Precisely.’ Matt briefly wondered why it had taken him so long to say exactly that.

‘Isn’t that just a little bit frightening?’

‘I suppose a little. But we’re not all clones. Free will and independent spirit will always prevail—plus a natural rebellion against the norm, which will spin off new ideas for people like me… I mean look at this…’ Matt held up his bottle ‘“Ice” beer. Colder? Maybe. Smoother? Maybe. Better? Maybe. And “Light beer”. Less sugar and more alcohol? Or only because you wouldn’t get guys asking for a Diet Budweiser?

‘And to think there I was accusing you of just writing cheeseball slogans.’

Matt smiled, ‘Well, to be fair, nine times out of ten I’ll be poring over a computer screen as the client deadline approaches, desperately trying to come up with something innovative, witty, punchy and memorable. I’m not usually contributing to or capturing a moment in time. Shaping cultural history is for politicians and pop stars. And even they are just absorbing eclectic influences. It’s pretty much impossible to have a totally new idea.’

Lizzie concentrated on draining the last of her beer from the bottle in what she hoped was possibly an attractive fashion. Matt used the moment to round up.

‘Plus, I’ve been lucky. Doors have swung open at the right times and all that. Personally, it’s been a bit lonely, but I’m not sure that you can have everything. Something has to give… Oh, God…Lizzie…. are you OK?’

Lizzie nodded and blinked back a few tears as Matt reached over and gently rubbed her back. The dregs of her lager had frustratingly slipped down the wrong way and she’d been trying not to draw attention to it, but the more she had tried to disguise her discomfort the more she had felt her chest tightening. She’d been drowning in a mouthful. She coughed a few times, restoring a clear passage for air to reach her lungs, and did her best to smile and relax. Fucking hell. Thirty-two years old and she couldn’t even swallow properly.

‘Fine.’ She rasped her response and closed her mouth just in time to stop a stray burp escaping noisily. ‘Only choking.’ She smiled at her Christmas cracker level of humour and tried to ignore the fact that she could still feel his hand on her back—even though it was holding his beer bottle now.

Matt grinned. ‘I get the message. Lecture over.’ He quickly snuck in a question, just in case Lizzie was thinking about using her near-death experience as an excuse to move on. ‘What about you? How did you get into the whole agony aunt thing?’

Whenever Lizzie wasn’t looking directly at him, he stole a glance at the whole picture. Even without his beer goggles on she would’ve been very attractive.

‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a planned career. Sure, like most girls under sixteen I pored over the problem pages in magazines at my desk at breaktime and between lessons, but I would have died of embarrassment if I’d had to say clitoris out loud, let alone to a total stranger on the radio in front of more than a million people.’

Matt laughed.

Lizzie could feel herself blushing under her foundation. Clitoris. Out loud. In conversation. With a man. A man that she found attractive. Nothing like building up her feminine mystique. Maybe she should issue him with a map to her G-spot while she was at it. It could only save time later. Honestly. She could have punched herself with frustration. She moved on quickly in a totally transparent attempt to change the subject.

‘I did a degree in sociology but always wanted to get into journalism, and I started writing for a magazine when I left college. When I moved to Out Loud, problems became my thing. Then about nine months ago my editor there put me in touch with these guys and I developed some pilots for a new type of phone-in show. The rest, as they say, is history. I still do my page and a weekly column and I’m amazed at the number of letters, calls and e-mails I get every week. It’s not like I have a perfect relationship track record…far from it.’

Lizzie stopped herself. She didn’t want to go into her relationship history. Fortunately, despite the fact he was nodding assiduously, Matt seemed to have zoned out of the conversation.

So he hadn’t been hanging on her every word? Hmm. But then again who was she to talk? Thanks to his tactical positioning on the sofa, Matt could see that Danny had returned to the bar and was now hovering dangerously close by, no doubt hoping to launch himself at Lizzie again and resume where they had left off. But Matt wasn’t even going to let him try. When they’d sat down he’d promised to protect her and he was taking his new role as chief of security very seriously. It was an emergency, and so he suggested something he rarely enjoyed.

‘Let’s dance.’

Matt was up on his feet and Lizzie, designer heels forgotten, leapt up to join him. She loved dancing. It wasn’t her greatest talent, but she was certainly an enthusiastic participant whether it was garage, disco, salsa or overly energetic rock ’n’ roll. She’d watched The kids from Fame, Footloose and Dirty Dancing more times than she would care to admit, and as she’d aged had learnt to forget about being self-conscious and just allowed the rhythm to take over. There was something so very exhilarating about two people communicating through music. It didn’t have to be over the top stuff. Just a few side steps or symmetrical arm movements as groups of people mirrored each other to bring them together. She didn’t understand people who just stood at the side and watched.

Matt was inspired by Lizzie’s ebullience on the dance floor. He was no Patrick Swayze, but here in the semi-darkness he was enjoying what was usually the worst part of any evening for him. Thankfully the thumping dance music was soon replaced by songs with words and a hint of a tune, and when they were both hot and tired, to their relief, the slow numbers kicked in. Matt pulled Lizzie in for a couple of close ones before she could think to protest, and to his delight halfway through the second song she relaxed, resting her head on his shoulder. He breathed deeply in an attempt to get his heart-rate down. He was sure that Lizzie must be able to hear the pounding in his chest and didn’t want her to think that he was geriatrically unfit or that she had landed the over-excited teenage virgin at the school disco.

At one-thirty someone with a twisted sense of humour turned all the lights on, illuminating what, seconds earlier, had been a den of iniquity as brightly as an operating theatre. Fortunately Matt was insisting on staying with her until she found a cab and, despite her self-assured protestations of independence, Lizzie was delighted that he hadn’t just wandered off when the music stopped.

They walked all the way to Trafalgar Square and then along the Strand until they reached the taxi queue now snaking across the cobbles and out of the gates at Charing Cross Station. Good old Brits. Drunk as everyone was, the queue was perfect.

By the time they finally reached the front Matt had decided that he’d share her cab. Lizzie wasn’t sure whether this was chivalrous or lecherous. She certainly hadn’t got coffee in mind, or waxed her bikini line in the last few months…but then it seemed that he really was just being friendly. Had she really lost her ability to give out the it’s-all-right-if-you-kiss-me vibes? She looked across at her fellow passenger who was staring resolutely out of the window. She couldn’t exactly ask him. Lizzie crossed her legs and sat back in the seat, hoping that tight cornering on the journey would send them sliding across the leather banquettes into each other.

Matt didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he couldn’t have left her in the West End taxi-hunting on her own, and it had seemed silly to risk another twenty minutes in the cold when they could easily share hers. That was all he was doing. Right. But he hadn’t had such a relaxed evening in one-to-one female company for years, and now he was feeling a frisson of excitement that he’d almost forgotten existed. He released his grip on the handle above the door and slipped back into his seat. Just at that moment Lizzie slid into the side of him as the driver took a corner Formula One style. He put his arm around her shoulder to steady her. And left it there.

As Lizzie directed the driver to her door Matt knew that, while he was still sailing on the crest of a lager wave, he really wanted to kiss her goodnight, and even with his rusty dating dial he knew that she wouldn’t resist him. As the taxi slowed to a pant Matt gave the cabbie the postcode for his onward journey before sliding the interconnecting window closed and turning to face Lizzie who, to his amusement, was taking ages to gather her non-existent belongings together before opening the door.

Taking her hand, he leant forward to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek and, to his delight, Lizzie moved her mouth to meet his. Like a couple of love-struck teenagers they kissed. His synapses buzzed with the excitement that passed between them as he felt her lips touch his, just lingering enough to be meaningful. In a moment she was gone, and for a second he’d never wanted anything more than to still be with her.

Matt’s mind was a mess as the driver pulled away from the kerb.

‘Where next, mate? Well done. She was lovely.’

Lizzie had come down off her cloud by the time she’d unlocked the front door. She shouldn’t have kissed him. True, she’d had a much better evening than she could have imagined, but he was a work colleague…sort of…and she’d had a lot to drink. Alcohol had diluted her inhibitions and now, sobering up at home, the self-justification process was starting in earnest. But no one was going to be having meetings with the advertising people until well into the New Year, by which time Matt might have forgotten all about it.

About what, exactly? They’d had a couple of beers, chatted, danced, chatted, and then, for about ten seconds, they’d kissed each other goodnight. If she’d been eighteen years old she would’ve just put it down as a good night out, so why, fourteen years later, was she torturing herself? Lizzie hated her carefully camouflaged romantic core. It caused nothing but trouble. That was why she’d made the decision to bow out of the relationship arena and focus on her career instead. Professionally she berated herself. What if he’d been hoping for a kiss and tell with a B-list—make that E-list—agony aunt? But then there wasn’t exactly anything to kiss and tell about, was there? She was single, pissed, and at an office party. Nothing scandalous about that.

She wished that the gland responsible for providing her with this level of adrenaline would take a break. All these hypotheticals were in danger of giving her a headache. Life was all about taking opportunities and seizing the moment, and tonight that moment had been hers. In fact, if she was totally honest with herself, part of her wished she’d taken a bit more.

Lizzie performed her ablutions noisily, and even gargled a couple of times with some vintage Listerine that she found on a shelf, hoping that Clare would wake up for a debrief. Wide awake, Lizzie climbed into bed. How could she possibly sleep now?

Across London Matt looked out of his kitchen window as he poured himself another pint of water from the filter jug which she insisted was better for them. He was disconcertingly sober. For the first time in his life he had been unfaithful: to his wife, to himself and to Lizzie.

He should’ve said something. It might only have been a kiss, but in his mind it was already a whole lot more. His marriage might be dead, but why should she believe him? It was the oldest line in the book. Now it was rapidly approaching 3:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and he was about to creep into bed claiming to have lost all track of time at the party. Hopefully she wouldn’t wake up. She was certainly unlikely to have missed him. If she had, it would be the first time in months. He picked up his glass and left the kitchen, confused.