Name & Address Withheld (19 page)

‘But, Liz, look—getting back to why we’re here… You see, the thing—’

‘Matt.’ Lizzie interrupted him before he started to make sense. ‘This can’t work. You’re married. You’ve got a wife. For all I know you’ve got children too.’

‘No. Liz. No children. And a wife in name, yes, but we don’t do anything together any more.’

Anything? Lizzie wanted to ask when they’d last had sex. She wanted to know, and then she didn’t. You see. How could she have ever entertained—even fleetingly—the idea that this could all work out. No children, though. That was a relief. At least he wasn’t a ‘Daddy’ as well as a ‘Darling’.

‘But you’re somebody else’s husband and I assume your wife doesn’t know about us.’ Lizzie looked directly at Matt. He looked back blankly. She had her answer. ‘For all you
know she’s just waiting for a chance to try and work things out with you. For all I know you still sleep with her every night.’

‘Of course not. Do you really believe I’d do that?’

Right now Lizzie wasn’t sure what she believed. Matt gripped Lizzie’s hand tightly between his palms as he searched for the right thing to say next. Lizzie started speaking first.

‘I never had you down as the devious type…until Monday.’ She couldn’t compete with someone she didn’t know. And she wasn’t interested in competing, full stop. She deserved to be somebody’s one and only.

‘I’ll tell her. I’ll leave.’ Matt heard his voice. It sounded hollow. He wished he’d been honest from the start. He knew how it looked now. It was up to him to prove his worth, yet every time he set himself a challenge he seemed to fail miserably. It was time to get tough. To get a grip.

So he hadn’t told her yet. Interesting, Lizzie thought. A definite case of has cake, will eat it too if given the chance. Clare was being proved right yet again.

‘If you hadn’t met me you’d still be with her, wouldn’t you? What am I saying? You’re still with her now. What I mean is that you wouldn’t have left, wouldn’t be leaving…whatever…’

There was a long pause.

‘Probably not.’ Matt sighed. ‘I suppose I was resigned to my fate—thought that half a marriage was better than none. But then I met you and knew we should never have even got married. There were a couple of years when all our friends tied the knot and we just followed suit. It was never a case of not being able to live without each other. More like being used to living with each other. Romantic stuff.’

‘Come off it. You can live without anyone if you have to. You don’t go into any relationship expecting your partner to take responsibility for your happiness. You’re still the same person.’

‘You know what I mean, Liz. Sure, I was fond of her—yes, I even loved her. And I went into our marriage believing it was for ever. I don’t think you can do it any other way. But she’s changed. She cares about her job, about having enough money, the right clothes, about what other people think, but she doesn’t
care about me…not really…only what I can provide. I admit, I tried to make it work. I wanted us to sort things out. I was determined. I’m not a quitter. I know relationships aren’t always easy. My parents are only still together because they’ve worked bloody hard at their marriage in the past, but she’s never listened. She could never see things from my point of view or maybe she just didn’t want to. You know me much better than she does right now.’

‘I thought I knew you.’

‘You do know me. We’re both suffering. Why? Because we should be together. But now I’m scared that I’ve blown it all before we’ve really even had a chance to get started.’ Matt felt his throat constrict. Tears scratched at his eyes.

Lizzie watched him struggling to control his emotions. Did she only want him because she knew that she couldn’t have him? If only it was that simple. No, she actually believed that she really did love him. Damn. This was much harder than she’d thought it would be.

‘What if your wife loves you but is just too proud to admit it?’ Lizzie thought back to her earlier e-mail exchange with Rachel. ‘I’ve had letters in the past from people like that.’

‘Well, if she loves me she’s got a funny way of showing it. Come on, Liz, you must’ve seen and heard this all before, and from lots of different perspectives.’

‘I don’t want to be responsible for breaking up your marriage. If it’s over then leave. If it’s not over then stay. Don’t do any of this on a whim. If you decide to move on it’s got to be because it’s the right thing for you, and you should do it whether I’m around or not.’

‘What are you saying?’ An edge of panic crept into his voice.

‘Matt, you know how hard this is for me. But we’re not the only two people involved. I’m trying to think about how I would feel if I was your wife. No one said marriages maintained themselves, and you know I’d love for us to gallop off into the sunset together, but this is real life. You have a career. I have a career. You have a wife. I’ve got principles.’

‘I’ve got principles too. I’m not trying to trade my wife in
for a younger model…this is all wrong…I just want us to be together, Liz. Please…’

Lizzie thought she’d said a whole host of sensible things quite coherently and maturely and felt she deserved some sort of major recognition for having managed not to cry. Now Matt had beaten her to it. Silent tears were running down his cheeks. Sometimes she wished she’d trained herself to be totally unemotional. Her life would have been easier if she’d learned to worry less about other people and their feelings and just concentrated on looking after herself. Lizzie wanted desperately to reach out to him. To help. So she did. Her tone softened.

‘Hey, Matt.’

He looked up, relieved to hear that the controlled, more abrasive edge to her voice had gone.

‘Listen. This is so hard for me, on so many levels. You know how much I care about you. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t bear it. But I can’t do the whole mistress thing either.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Everywhere I’ve looked for the last thirty-six hours there’s been something about “the other woman”. Magazine covers are the worst—“My life as a mistress…” “Why three is better than two…” “Being a mistress ruined my life…” You know the type. I know they’re probably always there and I’m just noticing them more now, but I’m innocent. I was unsuspecting—naïve, maybe—yet I feel like a social outcast. I can’t live this way. I feel battered and bruised inside and out. It’s not fair.’

‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve been selfish but I really believed we could work.’

So did I, thought Putney’s latest pariah. So did I.

They barely ate. They talked about everything and anything except the things that really mattered.

As the taxi pulled up outside Lizzie’s flat, Matt reached for Lizzie and smothered her with a hug. He wasn’t sure what happened next but he didn’t want to let go.

Lizzie heard herself speaking before she could stop herself. ‘Why don’t you come in for coffee?’

Matt pulled back, surprised, but his hesitation was only momentary. He paid the taxi driver without a second thought and
followed an equally stunned Lizzie up the path. What on earth did she think she was doing? She didn’t even remember wrestling with the idea. It was as if her heart had bypassed her brain.

It was the first time that Lizzie had had sex in the full knowledge that she was a mistress—and she didn’t intend for it to become a habit.

Sometimes the best intentions are laid to rest.

chapter 15

D
eath to all things pink, red and heart-shaped. It was just another Tuesday in Lizzie’s world, but to rest of the human race it appeared to be much, much more. It was Valentine’s Day—although, observing the reddish tint that had descended over London during the last seven days, one would be forgiven for thinking that it was Valentine’s Week. Who on earth had picked mid-February as the moment when you’re supposed to declare your undying love? Not only is it one of the coldest, bleakest months of the year, but everyone is a little too dull in complexion, a couple of pounds heavier—for comfort and warmth—and still paying for the indulgences of Christmas on their credit cards.

As far as Lizzie was concerned it had always been a day for greetings card manufacturers and restaurant owners, who could charge the earth for one night only, but now it seemed that nothing was immune from the hearts-and-flowers marketing approach. Even the opticians in Putney were attempting to lure in new customers for eye tests with their catchy slogan ‘Don’t get hooked up with the wrong girl this Valentine’s!’

Smug marrieds said that they didn’t need a special day to
tell each other how they felt. The rest of the world waited for the postman, pretending that they didn’t care, and then rang or wrote to Lizzie in the evening. Good, then, that this year her studio night fell on the day when those people not at a table for two needed some common sense and a bit of perspective.

Lizzie was looking forward to being able to lend a hand. She’d already faxed her playlist to Ben. Soppy Phyllis Nelson ‘Move Closer’ soul numbers were out. George Michael wouldn’t be whispering carelessly or indeed at all on City FM tonight. Instead Prince was waiting in the wings, ready to tell London that they needed another lover like they needed a hole in their heads, Aretha Franklin would be demanding ‘Respect’, the Soup Dragons reminding listeners at home and in their cars that being ‘Free’ was no bad thing. ‘I Will Survive’ was on standby. While Lizzie thought it was over-used, she knew that it was an anthem of the sisterhood and that most women over the age of twenty-five had turned, pointed and waggled their fingers at each other during the chorus somewhere, some time.

But tonight wasn’t an ‘I hate men’ evening. While they might rarely admit to tuning in to a problem phone-in, the most recent ratings breakdown revealed that over forty per cent of Lizzie’s listeners had a penis, and there’d be plenty of guys who’d be just as gutted by their lack of postal attention.

Over at Union Jack’s, red was the colour and romance was the game. At a price, of course. Five courses, if you were being pedantic. And Clare was packing them in to the rafters. Candles had been bought in bulk for instant atmosphere, and to top it all Clare had demanded some last-minute research, leaving Lizzie to trawl the internet for romantic quotes to write on the bottom of the menu and chalk up on the specials blackboards around the restaurant—an at times nauseating task. Thanks to Lizzie, Clare was now in possession of wise words from everyone from Mae West to Miss Piggy.

Time had flown and frustratingly, in the real world, Lizzie was now running late. She’d been ignoring the new messages sing-songing their way into her inbox, postponing them for later. Only later had just run out. Her cab had arrived a good ten minutes ago and was idling impatiently across the road.

Lizzie highlighted the new arrivals and pressed ‘print’. That way she could glance through them in the car before she got to the studio, just in case there was anything she really should know about before going on air. While the printer rattled into life Lizzie rushed upstairs to grab her jacket. At least she didn’t have to do the whole getting ready, wash and blow-dry thing. One of the best things about being a radio presenter was not having to choose the right colours and the right neckline. She could have sat in the studio in a hessian sack if she’d found one to fit.

She stuffed the printouts into her bag as she dashed back to her study and logged off. In a whirlwind of papers, files, keys and scarves—well, one scarf, but it seemed to be getting in the way of everything—she finally made it into the taxi. She checked her watch. Shit. How could it possibly be 7:00 p.m. when it had been five-thirty-five for ages? She was supposed to be at the studio now for the production meeting. She jiggled her knee impatiently in the back just as, as if to spite her, the cab swung round the corner, instantly joining a traffic jam. Lizzie puffed audibly. The driver, until now blissfully monosyllabic, to her horror took it as a sign that she wanted to chat.

‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? Traffic in London is just getting worse and worse. Sure, sometimes you feel like punching the lights out of the van driver that has just cut in front of you, but it wouldn’t do any good—and besides, you always get there eventually.’

‘Mmm.’ Lizzie didn’t want the driver to think she was interested in talking about urban congestion in any sort of detail.

‘I mean, you can’t help thinking that one day London will literally grind to a halt. And if they keep selling new cars without taking away the old ones it’s going to happen sooner rather than later. Total gridlock… Anyway—Jesus, mate, call that driving? Sorry, love…but, God, sometimes you wonder where these people learnt to drive…I mean, look at that…’

‘I know.’ Lizzie wasn’t quite sure what she was endorsing and she didn’t really care. She needed to collect her thoughts,
or at least have time for a couple of thoughts of her own before her show started.

The driver wound down his window and leant out, beckoning madly. A freezing gust of air swirled into the back seat. If Lizzie breathed out she was sure her breath would be visible but she didn’t dare tell him to close it.

‘Go on, love. Go on. You could get a bleedin’ Range Rover through that gap.’

Slowly but surely the driver—unfortunately female—of the Range Rover—not bleeding as far as Lizzie could see—edged through the totally adequate space for her car and the traffic started moving again, slowly. He wound up the window and Lizzie removed her hands from under her armpits, where they were keeping warm.

‘I know I shouldn’t say anything, and I’m not saying all women are bad drivers or anything, but you do see it more and more these days. W. I.B.C.S.—that’s what I call it…’

‘W. I.B.C.S.?’ Lizzie really didn’t want to start a conversation, but she was sort of curious.

‘Women in Big Cars Syndrome. Their husbands should buy them superminis.’

Lizzie mentally buttoned her lip. It was either that or time for one of her lectures on the joys of womanhood. And he was a cab driver. Opinions set in stone. She only hoped that was the end of that little discourse. She could only keep her feminist gene latent for so long.