Name & Address Withheld (35 page)

Clare’s good resolutions deserted her for pastures new. She couldn’t believe how sentimental Lizzie was being, after everything he’d put her through.

If she was totally honest, Lizzie was disappointed and surprised that she hadn’t heard from Matt since the Kensington showdown. If he really did care about her as much as he’d said he did, it didn’t seem to make sense. Lizzie didn’t like to admit that his failure to get in touch might in any way be related to her own frankly dishonest behaviour. To the fact that on that same evening that Rachel’s world had been upended he’d discovered that Lizzie had been corresponding with his wife for some time. The fact that in some ways he’d probably left feeling as betrayed and confused as Rachel had. Lizzie wished she’d managed to find a moment to explain everything to him. But if he thought back to the times they’d had together as often as she did, surely he’d know that what they’d had was very special.

To Lizzie’s dismay it looked as if Clare was revving up for more.

‘Matt’s a no-win situation. Think back over the last couple of months. On a scale of one to ten, where one is miserable and ten is ecstatic, how would you rate them? Honestly—overall—not including any moments when you were in bed together.’

She was getting the message. Lizzie hesitated for a moment as she recalled the extent of the low moments.

‘The worst time in your adult life?’

‘Definitely.’

‘I rest my case. Put him behind you.’

Lizzie nodded.

‘I know you don’t believe me; I can see it in your eyes…’

Lizzie blushed. As far as her emotions went, a mistress of disguise she was not.

‘Believe it or not, I only want the best for you—but if you must persist with the whole happily-ever-after, bratpack ending thing please do yourself a favour and find someone who doesn’t have a wife. Even if you leave your job now and take up waitressing do you really think Rachel would forget to go to the papers if you started sleeping with Matt again? Matt, incidentally, being the man who you haven’t heard from in weeks… And besides, can’t you see? If you start waiting tables for a living then she’s won…’

Lizzie seemed to have temporarily mislaid her in-built self-preservation gene. Clare couldn’t see a solution where they could live happily ever after and, from an objective standpoint, she couldn’t help believing that, if it came to a choice, Lizzie’s career was far more important than a few months or even a few more years with Matt. If that made her hard and insensitive—well, maybe she was.

‘And maybe there’s more to Rachel’s U-turn than meets the eye.’ As soon as she heard the words spill out of her mouth Clare regretted it. Lizzie was terrier-like in her inability to let things go, and from the glint in her best friend’s eye she knew she was about to wish she hadn’t had that last glass of wine. Lizzie was on her case at once.

‘Clare Williamson. Spit it out.’

‘I just said maybe… Maybe she and Matt are getting on so well now that she doesn’t mind if you keep your job or not.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Clare had to admit it was a fairly far-fetched theory, but it was the only one that had sprung to mind in the heat of the moment. She decided to feign total ignorance. ‘How would I know anything?’

‘God knows. But you can’t just sit there and go all Jessica Fletcher on me and expect me to buy it. When do you ever say “more to it than meets the eye”?’

‘I’ve just started.’

‘Clare…’

That was it. One unit of alcohol too many coupled with a
general level of pride in what she had achieved on Lizzie’s behalf and it all came flooding out.

Lizzie just sat there, her mouth not quite open and not quite closed, as she tried to digest the latest chapter in her very own love triangle.

‘But, listen, I’m only telling you all this so you don’t make a career decision that you come to regret.’

Clare still wasn’t quite sure how her confession had come about and was deep in self-justification mode. Lizzie was oblivious to her protracted flannelling. Mentally she was miles away. Her Putney-based persona remained mute for a moment. When she did regain the power of speech her sentences were short and sporadic.

‘Cocaine. I don’t believe it. No wonder Matt thought she was moody.’

‘Hey, Liz. This mustn’t become public knowledge. I struck a deal, remember…’

Lizzie wasn’t really listening. All this discussion of Rachel’s darker side had led her subconscious to progress naturally to her husband. She wondered if Matt knew. There was absolutely no way she could tell him, but maybe someone else could. But who? Or maybe Clare really was right. Maybe it was time to move on.

Clare was now panicking fully at her indiscretion. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand?’

‘Yup.’

‘I mean it, Liz. I know you. Look at me. N-o-b-o-d-y.’

‘But what if Matt doesn’t know?’

‘You see. I know you. You mustn’t tell a soul. No one.
Personne. Nadie. Niemant.
Not even in confidence. Anyway, for all you know they freebase together.’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘Well, you don’t know that they don’t.’

Lizzie ignored Clare. She didn’t want to think of Matt and Rachel flinging themselves at each other or swinging from the ceiling rose during ardent coke-fuelled nights of passion. ‘Hardly Little Miss Squeaky Clean, is she? And to think she
had the balls to try and lecture me on ethics and moral codes. What a bloody cheek.’

‘Listen, Liz, I don’t think you’ve earned the right to gloat. You were sleeping with her husband while you were giving her advice on how to save her marriage, remember?’

‘Mmm.’

It was true. But gloating was much more fun.

‘Look, I only did what I had to. I didn’t want you to lose everything because of one mistake, but don’t even think for a minute that you’re off the hook as far as sleeping with a man that you knew was married goes.’

‘I know. I know…’

Lizzie’s mind was still struggling to come to terms with all the information. As she recapped the latest developments, the significance of what Clare had done while she’d been loafing about, picking her feet and watching
Countdown
under house arrest in Hampstead, hit her.

‘Well, I suppose I should be thanking you. Even if you were interfering behind my back.’ Lizzie beamed at Clare to demonstrate that she was just joking on this occasion. She didn’t want to run the risk of any misunderstandings. ‘There I was feeling sorry for myself, and you were masterminding my future… What can I say?’

Lizzie was visibly moved. All the effort made her feel very special. Not something she’d felt for quite some time.

Clare smiled and drained her glass to wash down the newly formed lump in her throat. She was enjoying the appreciation and relishing the feel-good moment of having done a good deed. On reflection, and finally out of the proverbial woods, it had been worth every angst-filled moment. Despite the panic of the last few minutes, it looked as if everything might just work out after all.

‘Would Miss Marple care for some more wine?’ Lizzie smiled at Clare as she filled her glass and emptied the bottle.

chapter 27

G
etting the bus had seemed such a great idea at the time. A chance to take in the bit of London that she was usually underground for—the romantic’s alternative to the claustrophobic, energy-sapping hot filth of the tube. But now the bus was practically stationary on Oxford Street, and time marched on irreverently as Lizzie stared powerlessly from the top deck. People strode past and disappeared into distant crowds while the double-decker crept along a paving stone at a time. She was trapped.

There was always the get-off-and-run-the-last-half-mile option, but her impractical shoes coupled with a generally non-existent level of fitness would guarantee a totally dishevelled arrival—if indeed she made it at all. Plus, from past experience, she knew that the second her foot hit the pavement the bus would accelerate into the distance, coating her with a black puff of pure carbon monoxide from its petticoat of dirt. So she sat tight and watched the second hand on her watch complete another circuit of the dial. Just on the off-chance that she might have persuaded herself that perhaps her watch had gained ten minutes since she’d left Putney, the Selfridges clock, just to her
left and at top deck eye-level, struck one. She was now officially late.

Perhaps getting the tube from Bond Street to Green Park would be quicker? Or hailing a cab? She doubted it. Rupert Street wasn’t far. Maybe a brisk fifteen-minute walk would be the best option. Fifteen minutes late was better than a coronary and a no-show. Anyway, fifteen minutes late was the norm for some people. She was just going to have to learn to go with the flow a little bit more. Susan was never on time anyway.

Despite her attempts at rationale, Lizzie could feel her pulse increasing. She gathered her things together and decided to break for the pavement.

Just as she got to her feet the bus lurched forward as it finally but assertively ground through the lower gears, and, having managed to regain her composure with the help of a fortuitously placed handrail, Lizzie opted to see how far they got before she made a decision.

As they finally rumbled into Regent Street she could almost see the finish line. She bent her knees slightly to help with the whole stop-start balance thing and willed the bus to speed up just a little bit for the final leg of her journey.

Against all the odds, Lizzie’s life had returned to a surprisingly high level of normality, and she’d thrown herself at her work with the enthusiasm and energy known only to those who have been given a reprieve. She added adultery to her list of specialist subjects, and as she read the contents of her postbag slowly came to realise that maybe she’d elevated Matt to pedestal level without him really having earned it. However great they had been together, it had always been a lie.

At the back of her mind she was still worried that Rachel had the upper hand. As far as Lizzie could see there was nothing to stop her leaking her story and twisting the truth to a few hack journalists at a later date, once her campaign was over. Lizzie couldn’t help feeling that maybe it was time to move into a different sphere of writing or broadcasting altogether, so she’d decided to seek advice from the woman who had been largely responsible for her present niche—Susan Sharples. She was the one who’d seen her potential as a new
breed of agony aunt and Lizzie respected her vision. Plus, Lizzie hoped, she wasn’t the sort of woman that you could shock easily. Bus permitting, she was on her way to Café Fish to confess all.

Lizzie finally gave up on London transport outside Hamleys and half-walked, half-jogged the final leg, arriving fashionably late at 1:17 p.m. Sophistication had deserted her. She might have looked quite smart when she’d left the house, all blow-dried and perfumed, but now her look was more distressed. Well, just stressed. Her cheeks had taken on the deep crimson hue that always characterised any exercise that Lizzie endured for more than a minute, and were now a beautiful contrast to the pale blue of her cardigan. And while the cashmere was doing wonders to soften her appearance it was failing miserably in its promise to be cool in summer.

Either way, Lizzie wished that she’d opted to wear a little top underneath. She didn’t think the crowd at the restaurant were ready for her slightly sweaty M&S bra lunchtime look. She flapped her arms a couple of times in an attempt to let convection take place and assist her under-arm protection—currently working on overtime and about to take issue with its union about having to work through its lunch-hour—before firmly pulling the push door while the welcome committee of waiters looked on in amusement.

If you’d looked closely, you would have observed her already rosy cheeks growing a little redder.

She puffed her name at the
maître d’
.

‘Ford, Lizzie. Table for two. Probably booked in the name of Sharples.’

He ran his perfectly manicured finger up and down the reservations list. Lizzie had seen their booking long before he found it, but knew better than to point it out to him. Besides, this was valuable getting-her-breath-back time. As he finally found her name Lizzie felt she had to apologise.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’

He ignored her, and in so doing instilled the confidence of a twelve-year-old in his slightly flustered client, before turning on his well-polished heel and leading Lizzie to a booth
where Susan was waiting, killing time—and a few brain cells—with a mobile phone call. It was the first time that Susan had beaten Lizzie to a venue, ever.

Susan, characteristically unfazed by anything, said her goodbyes and stood to greet Lizzie. After an exchange of mwah-mwah air kisses Lizzie was pleased to be sitting down. Her shins were now smarting from the jog in her slight heels—which, Lizzie had decided before leaving home, were more appropriate for their meeting than boots or trainers.

‘Lizzie. Darling. Are you OK? You look very, um, flushed.’ Susan turned to the waiter now hovering behind Lizzie to take the jacket that she’d just bundled up on the seat next to her and addressed him with some urgency. ‘A bottle of still mineral water, please. Two glasses. Ice and lemon.’ Her tone was a verbal click of her fingers and as she ordered she nodded towards Lizzie to indicate the priority treatment she felt they deserved. Lizzie unrolled her jacket and shook it out apologetically as she handed it to him. His duties complete, he vanished at once in search of water.

‘I’m fine. I was just running a bit late and thought I’d jog the last few metres.’

Susan looked at her in disbelief. Jogging was something that she only did in the presence of her personal trainer, and certainly not in kitten heels. ‘Well, let’s get the ordering out of the way and then we can get down to gossip.’

Lizzie wasn’t going to let her down on that front; she was sure of it.

They studied the menu, their silence only punctuated by the occasional self-absorbed mutter as they sounded out their options and tried to decide whether their palates would prefer buttered skate or seared scallops. They had successfully whittled the menu down to a couple of dishes, when a tall, dark French waiter joined them brandishing a little blackboard. His role: to throw their almost-made choices into disarray.