Name & Address Withheld (2 page)

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 oc
cupants, 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 test
ing’ 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 re
ceding 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.