Name & Address Withheld (20 page)

‘So I take it you’re in a hurry, then?’

‘Yup. Have to be at the studios by seven-forty-five at the absolute latest.’ Allowing her to race through, shout her apologies to the rest of the team and be in her chair with five minutes to go. He tactfully didn’t bring up waiting time at this juncture, and Lizzie was grateful for this smallest of mercies. She was sure that City FM didn’t pay through the nose for ‘executive cars’—basically vaccumed and waxed mini-cabs—so that their drivers could lecture the presenters on their punctuality, or indeed anything else.

‘I’ll get you there as fast as I can, my darling.’

The cab lurched off the main road and swung into a network
of side streets. Lizzie called Ben to blame the traffic and let him know that God willing she’d be in the studio long before the opening jingle, but had a quick word with Phil, her sound engineer, behind his back, about the first track and the feasibility of doing her opening link on her mobile just in case.

The alternative route seemed to be working. Lizzie located the already slightly dog-eared messages in her bag and started reading, holding the pages up just in case the driver was in any doubt that she was working and not to be disturbed.

Lizzie scanned them. One from Rachel, one from Susan Sharples, her editor at
Out Loud
, reminding her that her column was due to be on her desk by Thursday, a joke—in the loosest sense of the word—forwarded to the whole team by one of the girls at City FM, the punchline buried in amongst meaningless lists of who the message had been forwarded to, by and from, and one from Matt.

Lizzie smiled. So he might not have remembered to send her a card in a pink envelope, but at least she had heard from him on the fourteenth. She was sure that Valentine’s was the last thing that he wanted to celebrate. She decided to save his message for last and turned to Rachel’s instead.

L

Just a quickie. You’d be proud. I’m making an effort and it’s not work-related. Just nipped home pre Valentine’s-dinner-date-with-my-husband-haircut and have managed to beg, borrow and schmooze a table at that new place on the river by Tower Bridge. According to all the glossies and colour supplements it’s the place to be seen. Hope all’s well with you. Catch up soon. Must dash. Steve won’t wait for me, scissors poised, all afternoon!

R x

Lizzie smiled. Trust Rachel to book a meal, and book it in style. Image was everything in her world. Lizzie hoped that they had a good evening.

She settled back in her seat to read the one she’d been saving for last. At a glance it wasn’t exactly heart-shaped—still, a message was a message, and she was the other woman…what did she expect? Furtive wasn’t likely to be ostentatious. Although trust her to be the sort of mistress who wasn’t showered with Tiffany boxes at every opportunity.

Dearest Lizzie

Only me. Just to say Happy V. Day—not that I’m sure St Valentine would approve of our current status… According to my sources, he is the patron saint of young couples and happy marriages…oh, and of love, lovers and love lotteries, which is, I guess, where we come in. I know you think today is all a gimmick, but anybody who likes romantic comedies would be devastated not to receive at least one amorous missive on today of all days…

Lizzie couldn’t help but smile. He could read her like a book. She might not have known him for long, but Matt already knew her very well.

Just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, that I love you, and I promise I’ll sort this mess out just as soon as I can. I hope that one day you’ll be able to forgive me for putting us through this.

Lots of love, and speak to you soon, Matt xxxxx

PS Do not, I repeat do not, hit the reply button. I’m sending this one from her home terminal as she’s popped out.

The warm feeling vanished. Great. So he was e-mailing from the marital home—all set, it seemed, to spend the evening with his missus. At least Lizzie’s scarlet woman status fitted into the mid-Feb colour scheme, but what a nightmare for his wife: a bombshell about to hit as soon as it wasn’t the four
teenth or national love week, or whatever they were in at the moment.

Maybe she wouldn’t care. Maybe his wife was seeing someone else too. Lizzie could only hope. She almost wished he hadn’t bothered with an e-mail. Thanks to him, her rational streak seemed to have temporarily deserted her. There was probably stuff to be positive about—the fact that he had sent her a note had to count for something—but what she really wanted was a second opinion, or in actual fact Clare’s. But if she asked her it was highly likely that she’d be shot at point-blank range, probably using the silencer that Clare kept in her handbag for certifiable flatmates at times like this. She pushed her thoughts to the back of her mind. Right now she had to prepare for the airwaves.

According to the green luminous digital numbers of the in-car clock, it was already 19.28, but thanks to their creative route, and with a little bit of luck and a few green traffic lights, she was going to be there on time. Lizzie opened her folder and, using the rings to punch holes in the pages, added her e-mails to the back of the file. As she shuffled the pages something caught her eye. She froze.

A gasp escaped. A gasp that sounded remarkably like ‘fuck’. But this was one of the few moments that truly merited that sort of language—even from a woman. Unfortunately the noise had attracted the driver, who perked up at the prospect of more chat.

‘Everything all right, love? Should be there any minute. Told you I’d get you there on time. You can trust Tony. I know these roads like the back of my hand.’

Lizzie didn’t hear him.

It couldn’t be. Her heart hammered in her chest. She stared. She checked. She double-checked. She triple-checked.

At first she thought she was just being technically moronic—it wouldn’t have been the first time. But, no. There at the top of the printouts:

To: Lizzie Ford [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Identical to the header on the message from Matt.

The realisations came in waves. They hit her one at a time but in quick succession. In no time the barrage had become a tide. Lizzie could feel herself drowning.

Rachel was the wife neglecting her husband.

Matt was the husband that Rachel was so terrified of losing.

Rachel was the wife that Matt said he no longer loved.

Matt was the husband that Rachel had suspected of having an affair.

Rachel was married to Matt.

Matt was sleeping with Lizzie.

Somehow Lizzie got through her show. As she went from the last caller to the last song on automatic pilot, Lizzie wondered sado-masochistically what they were up to. By the time she left the studios she’d been torturing herself for at least an hour with thoughts of their moonlit stroll along the Thames. After an enormous comfort blanket of a takeaway—even though she’d learned in a slightly wider incarnation of herself a few years earlier that Chinese food after 11:00 p.m. was waistline suicide— Lizzie checked the messages again. The addresses were the same as they’d been four hours ago. The same. Period.

In bed, Lizzie read and re-read the words as she wrestled with her duvet. It was an impossible situation. Even Houdini would have been sweating at the challenge of getting out of this in one piece. Finally, at 3:43 a.m., she made a mental list of options; it was the middle of the night which explained why some of them were less plausible than others.

Option A - Invite Rachel and Matt over for dinner and tell them face to face.

Option B - Change name. Move to Australia. Join religious order.

Option C - Tell Matt the truth.

But Rachel had contacted her in confidence initially. Betraying her trust—totally unprofessional. Plus, if anyone found
out, she could end up losing her job at the magazine. Unless she swore Matt to secrecy. But could she trust him? She thought yes, but then again he had been married and not told her, so maybe no.

Option D - Tell Rachel the truth.

But how? And just because Matt had misbehaved that didn’t mean she had to follow suit. Playing dirty was not her style…and for all she knew Rachel was a karate black belt, mentally unstable, or knew a hit man.

Option E - Ask Clare what to do.

But probably not live to see the light of day once Clare found out she’d continued seeing Matt behind her back.

Option F - Write letters to Matt, Rachel and Clare explaining everything before choosing Option B.

Option G - Run away with Matt. Let dust and tabloid outrage settle before writing a book on subject, selling film rights and returning to do chat show circuit in five years’ time. But alienate friends and family in process.

There was no way out. She’d screwed up on every level. Her transgression was professional, personal and simply unbelievably unlucky. Lizzie felt sure that she would have been more likely to win the lottery than for this to have happened. If only she’d bought a ticket.

There was always Option H—The Pretty Woman plan. Disappear to LA under assumed identity, become hooker on Hollywood Boulevard and hope a Richard Gere character scooped her into his sports car, giving her lots of money to spend, falling in love with her and providing a penthouse for them to live happily ever after in.

What was it with her romantic core? It only caused trouble.
Deep down Lizzie knew that there was really only one option. She had to tell Matt it was over and get him and Rachel back together. For his sake, for Rachel, for Clare and for her career. That way there was a real chance that they could all be happy—well, happy enough—and Lizzie might get to keep her job and at least some vestige of her sanity.

It was starting to get light as Lizzie slipped into a fitful sleep, her subconscious content to let her rest, now safe in the knowledge that she knew what she had to do even if she had no real idea how she was going to go about it.

Lizzie had woken up with every intention of calling Matt to tell him it was over, but by ten-thirty she’d decided it would be more civilised to meet up for a chat. Plus that way she could see his face just to make sure that this all really did add up. But, as good as her advice got, she was never going to repair their marriage while she continued to provide the problem. At least she’d never met Rachel. Only a small mercy, perhaps, but something to hold onto all the same.

Lizzie fabricated a magazine meeting in Soho before suggesting they grab a coffee together. By three-fifteen she was in situ, Option F looking more attractive by the second. Matt breezed in while Lizzie was leafing through an abandoned tabloid at a table by the window.

‘Tall, skinny, wet latte to stay.’ Lizzie listened to him place his order and looked down at her more rudimentary cappuccino. She hadn’t quite got to grips with coffee jargon yet.

He drummed his fingers on the counter impatiently while waiting the few seconds for his drink. He couldn’t wait to see Lizzie’s face when he gave her his news. He would’ve been whistling if it wouldn’t have made him sound like a builder. He was at her side in moments and playfully kissed her hello.

Lizzie was trying to combine small talk with pseudo-off-hand-but-detailed questioning. Her combined lack of sleep and lunch started to take their toll, and the caffeine seemed to
be going straight to her bloodstream, causing an almost out of body experience. Matt for some inexplicable and almost irritating reason was overly chirpy. Maybe it was good that she was finding him annoying. Maybe the bubble had burst. She only hoped that his good mood had nothing to do with last night. Childishly she decided to test him.

‘Thanks for your e-mail. So, did you have a nice evening?’

‘Well, if you take away the fact that I’d obviously rather have been with you, it could have been worse, I suppose. We went out. She took me to that new place near Tower Bridge…’

So he could discern between fact and fiction. Lizzie was relieved.

‘The food wasn’t bad, but the atmosphere was pretty strained at first. I felt a bit of a fraud, to be honest. All I’ve been thinking about recently is how to get out of there, and I could tell she was making a huge effort. We don’t normally eat together at home, let alone go out…but it all got easier during the second bottle of wine…’

‘Oh.’

It was in the running for the smallest noise that Lizzie had ever made.

‘…huge effort…all got easier…’ They were the words that lingered for a few extra seconds before vanishing into the ether to be reunited with their counterparts. While she knew that she was supposed to be getting Matt and Rachel back together, Lizzie hadn’t really considered how she might feel if they did end up being happy.

‘Easier. Not fun. Well, not like we have fun. I suppose it was just better than I thought it would be. I thought it was going to be a hideous evening and it was quite bearable—but then I guess we have got years of old stories to fall back on…’

It came out wrong. He could see Lizzie’s face had fallen. He seemed to be stuck in a cul-de-sac of inarticulacy. It was incredibly frustrating.

‘Listen…what I mean—what I’m trying to say is—she was excited about going to this new restaurant. She always likes to check out the latest places before everyone else, and fortunately the food was a lot less bland than the conversation. I
can’t even remember the last time we ate out on our own together. She’s on a bit of a roll at work, which is great—it’s all she’s ever wanted—and wanted to talk all about it. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about her. How are you doing? How was your show last night?’

Matt gave Lizzie his best winning smile. He’d show her. It would all work out in the end.

‘Maybe you’re making a mistake? Maybe you should give it another go?’

OK, so his smile was only in the bronze medal position at the moment. He’d have to try harder.

‘Look, I care about her, like I’d care about a sister if I had one, but I’m in love with you.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘Listen, I spoke to a solicitor yesterday.’ This wasn’t how he’d envisaged telling her.

Lizzie paused momentarily as her heart skipped a beat. Maybe she was too late.