Name & Address Withheld (16 page)

Clare embraced her best friend, who was currently teetering on the brink of total adversity. Safe in the knowledge that she no longer had to cope alone, Lizzie dissolved into Clare’s shoulder.

‘Come on…there, there… Go on…have a good cry…’

‘He’s married.’

‘I gathered. The shit.’ Clare was livid.

‘He said that it’s been over for months. But I had no idea. I feel so stupid.’ Lizzie’s voice was cracked.

‘I know, sweetie. You weren’t to know. I can’t believe he even tried the “I’ll leave her” line. What an insult to your intelligence…’

Typically, Clare wasn’t trying to be objective. In her world men were guilty until proven innocent, and certainly not entitled to a fair trial. And Mr Matt had just sent himself to the electric chair.

‘Everyone knows that’s the oldest line in the book. If you look hard enough it’s probably even in the Bible, in one of the Old Testament stories—just been lost in the translation over the years or surreptitiously removed by a male editor.’

‘But I should have known…’

Lizzie was still sobbing. She knew that she really wasn’t handling this at all well. Still, everyone had to fall apart sometimes.

‘I really thought we had something so special…’ There was
a moment’s gap while Lizzie’s innate positivity did its best to push to the surface. ‘Maybe it will all work out. He said he loved me.’

Uncharitable as it sounded, Clare hoped that Lizzie wasn’t dribbling onto her new ‘dry clean only’ top. ‘Liz, don’t be so bloody ridiculous. He lied to you about having a wife, so why the fuck shouldn’t he lie about leaving her too?’

‘I’d like a chance to hear what he’s got to say. I just want to talk to him.’

‘But his wife might answer the phone.’ Clare instantly regretted her vituperative jibe. Lizzie was back to square one and it was her fault. Clare managed a more softly-softly approach and opted for the say less, hug more option until they’d got a cab home.

Lizzie was slumped on the sofa, staring, an untouched G&T tightly gripped in her hand. Clare sat down next to her and raised her glass. ‘A toast. Because all men are bastards and controlled by their dicks…’

Lizzie remained motionless. Clare willed her to lift her glass. Just a little. She’d even settle for a lifting of the corners—make that just one corner—of her mouth. But there was no activity from the shell of a person next to her. Not a twitch of a muscle. It was going to be a long night.

Clare took a sip and waited. She was halfway through an article in the
Radio Times
before Lizzie started speaking. Her gaze was now fixed on a point way ahead in the distance, a good few miles on the other side of the wall.

‘I know you’ll think this is ridiculous. But what if what he said was true? What if his marriage is a sham? If he is going to leave? What then?’

‘Liz, if you hadn’t made your silly joke earlier you can bet that you’d still be none the wiser. I’m sorry. Really I am. I know how disappointed you must be. I know you were excited and happy and…’

Lizzie’s face crumpled again as she recalled just how happy she’d been only hours earlier.

‘But I’m afraid that’s it. It’s got to be over. Where’s your
pride? You’re worth far more than he’s bargained for. Either he’s lying, and his marriage is fine, or he’s so weak that he can’t act on his feelings and do the decent thing—in which case you don’t want him anyway…’

Lizzie nodded in an attempt to convince herself. Of course Clare was right. But it didn’t make it any easier.

‘If it’s any consolation, his wife will be feeling worse than you are when he tells her.
If
he tells her, that is. Married men should have to have wedding rings tattooed onto their third fingers by law.’

‘He’s probably never worn a ring. Lots of men don’t these days. Some men just don’t like wearing jewellery.’

‘Some men just don’t like being faithful. It’s the thrill of the chase. It’s knowing that they’re not playing by the rules.’

‘But Matt’s not like that. He’s different.’ A lone tear rolled down Lizzie’s cheek. Neither Julia Roberts nor Meg Ryan could have produced a more poignant one.

Clare was becoming increasingly exasperated at Lizzie’s apparent inability to see the facts. Of course he wasn’t different. ‘Liz, go and get some sleep. I bet this will all look different in daylight.’

Lizzie didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out in between prolonged periods of snivelling into her fortuitously absorbent pillow.

When she finally woke, the morning after the night before, for a split second she felt happy—but then she remembered. She should have realised something was up. Things had been going too well. January was traditionally the worst month of the year for morale, men and money. Now it was living up to its reputation. She wished she could just hibernate for a couple of months and re-emerge when time had done its healing thing. She didn’t see why she had to be awake throughout the process.

Feelings aside, she knew she had to put a stop to it. She was supposed to help people with their problems, not cause more, and if she turned a blind eye she’d be endorsing a situation that she knew couldn’t work. She had to bury her impetuous nature and think about how seeing more of him could jeopardise
the real world around her. The one she had to live in every day. And if he’d lied so convincingly about something as big as this, logically how could she believe a word he said?

If she kept seeing him—well, that would make her a mistress. Unofficially she was one already. Certainly not something she had ever aspired to be. She didn’t want to put herself in the same bracket as those red-taloned women you saw on trashy documentaries, eulogising about the joys of being wined and dined, flown all over the world and bought expensive jewellery without having to tidy up. Lizzie wanted to come first. Lizzie wanted real love. Love with washing and ironing and cooking and maybe even children. Warts and all.

She had no idea what time it was when the phone broke into her reverie. Her curtains were still drawn and it sounded as if it was pouring with rain outside. Marvellous. Gloomy weather had arrived to cement her depression. Couldn’t just one thing go her way?

She thought about just leaving it ringing, but couldn’t—just in case whoever it was didn’t leave a message, which would be even worse than the phone not having rung at all.

‘Hello?’ It was listless, a traditional courtesy greeting but with no feeling.

There was silence at the other end.

‘Hello?’

This time she was greeted by an equally small, flat voice.

‘Liz? It’s me. I’m so so very, very sorry.’

Damn cordless phones. There wasn’t even anything to strangle herself with if things got worse.

Lizzie knew that she should have refused to speak to him, but she was pleased that he had called. Or at least at the moment she thought she was.

‘Liz…are you still there?’

‘Yup. What time is it?’

‘Eleven-fifteen…are you still in bed?’

Lizzie stretched out under the duvet to prove to herself that she was still a complete human being and not just a head on the pillow before springing back into the foetal position.

‘Mmm. Didn’t seem to be much point in getting up today.’

Lizzie knew she shouldn’t have said that. It exposed her. It told him she cared. But she did and, hey, it couldn’t get any worse than last night. In for a penny, in for a pound. If he was going to break her heart he might as well be allowed to stamp on it good and hard a few more times before leaving her to recover.

‘I should’ve told you that very first night in the taxi, but I really wanted to see you again. I was selfish. I was scared. Please, meet me for lunch. I’ve been going over everything again and again in my head. I’d rehearsed telling you about a hundred times but then last night I was caught off guard and none of it really came out right.’

Lizzie felt oddly calm listening to his voice. She wished it could be yesterday morning again, but things had changed irrevocably, hadn’t they? All these hypothetical questions and only answers she didn’t want to hear. It was just no good.

‘Matt, I’m sorry, but I don’t think lunch is a good idea. It’s got to be over. For lots of reasons.’

Clare would have patted her on the back, but Lizzie didn’t feel relieved, or that she had the upper hand. She just felt very sad. She sank another millimetre into her pillow even though she’d thought she was as low as she could go already.

‘Lizzie, I know you have to say that for your pride, for your self-esteem… I’ve treated you appallingly, and I know you’ll need time to deal with this, but I hope that eventually you might be able to forgive me…’

There was a pause. Matt was waiting for Lizzie to say something. Anything. But she couldn’t get the words out. In the absence of any input, Matt decided to continue. If she wasn’t going to meet him for lunch this might be the only chance he got to say it. On balance he knew that he deserved everything he was getting, and more.

‘You must’ve had letters from people like me in the past. Men who get stuck in a loveless marriage because it’s easier to stay there than to rock the boat. I know that doesn’t make me look very good, and I know I should have just left. She’s changed. She’s no longer the person I vowed to love and to honour and I am going to leave. I know you and I haven’t been
seeing each other for long, but I really believe we’re worth fighting for. When I didn’t tell you at the outset it was because somehow I just couldn’t, even though I wanted to. I didn’t want to risk what we had, what we could have… I’m just asking for another chance. I hope in time I’ll be able to convince you to forgive me.’

His speech had all the hallmarks of a classic romantic tragedy. She desperately wanted to believe him, but the more she thought about him being married to a person, to a real live woman with a name, a personality and a body, who shared half his bed and half his wardrobe, the harder it became. She wanted to know if they still slept together. If they did, was it good? Did she go skiing too? She wanted to know, and then she didn’t. Maybe she was only one of several mistresses—a veritable wifelet. He was right; she had read about this scenario so many times. She had dealt with it during phone-ins and she knew that it was a situation that could only end in tears. She might not have worn them on her sleeve, or rammed them down the throats of her readers, but she had morals and principles.

Matt was waiting for an answer.

He would have got one, only Lizzie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t risk the pain rising up and escaping noisily while he was listening. So much for control.

Meanwhile she was going through the whole spectrum of emotions. Upset. Angry. With him. With herself for not sensing anything earlier. Disappointed. Disbelieving. Exhausted. As far as a response went, all she could manage was a suppressed wail-cum-snort followed by a deeply unpleasant sniff.

‘Mmmmhmmm.’

It was pathetic. Lizzie wished she could be stronger; she would have loved to be brusque at this moment—offhand, even. But she couldn’t manage it.

‘Listen, Liz. I can’t bear to hear you so upset.’ What on earth had he done? The woman he loved in tears. His fault.

‘I’m fine…’ A pause for a big blink and a deep breath to try and convince herself that she was indeed fine.

‘Sure you are. If you’re fine, the Pope’s Jewish.’

‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll bounce back.’ Lizzie was sure that she would. Eventually. Probably some time after she’d bounced into a couple of bottles.

‘Look, you don’t have to handle this all by yourself. Please meet me. Just for lunch. No funny business. Just a chat. We’ll go somewhere quiet, I promise.’

‘Not today.’ No way could Lizzie contemplate lunch on a day when she had to go through the whole studio thing later and actually sit in a room with other human beings.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘OK…’

‘Great. I’ll call you in the morning with a plan. Thanks, Liz. I love you.’

Lizzie felt oddly comforted. She only hoped Clare would be out. She couldn’t possibly tell the woman who believed all mistresses should be burnt at the stake that she’d agreed to lunch. But surely one of the perks of getting older was the prerogative to make her own mistakes?

chapter 13

U
nbefuckinglievable. Who on earth would pay fifty pounds to go running, in winter, in a public park, in London, in their lunch hour, with someone fitter, therefore preventing the walking-most-of-the-way tactic? Yet that was what Gareth, personal trainer to the stars, had just suggested. His client list might resemble the contents page of
Hello!
magazine, but surely you could buy a flat stomach in the twenty-first century without having to sacrifice your knee joints and self-respect in the process?

It took Rachel a full hour of careful preening to look this good when she left the house every morning, and she wasn’t about to risk it all with hours of the day remaining. Will might have blagged her the introductory assessment, but that was as far as this particular whim was going. Yet, despite the ludicrous turn her day had taken only moments ago, Rachel was in high spirits.

The campaign was finally snowballing and she could almost see her name in lights—well, she could when she removed her designer shades. Her latest present to herself was just in time to shield her from those winter rays, late enough to already be
this summer’s hottest shape, but early enough to say ‘original’ as all the high street copycats were still a good month away. They were currently on the top of her head, assuming the role of designer halo-cum-alice-band.

All was still quiet on the personal front, but at least Valentine’s Day was round the corner and for the first time in years she’d decided to arrange a night out. She still hadn’t confessed to anyone that she’d consulted an agony aunt. In all honesty she’d probably be amazed for the rest of her life that she’d not only written a letter but sent it in to a magazine. The only upshot was her new e-mail buddy. Dear Lizzie had become a useful sounding board and a fresh breath of non-agency, non-advertising air. Their electronic note-passing did a good job of reminding her to make an effort on the days when it felt as if her personal life was slipping through her fingers. Better still, Lizzie had no agenda. She wasn’t angling for promotion or taking sides; she was a bona fide bullshit-free zone. If this was just Lizzie doing her job, she was amazingly good at it.