Name & Address Withheld (40 page)

Lizzie took the stairs two at a time and wished she could be just a little bit more organised. There was no fresh air in London at all, and the warm sticky humidity was responsible for the grimy film of sweat that had now formed an uncomfortable layer between her linen shirt and her skin as she battled the heat all the way back to Putney to pick up her production file. Grime permeated every pore. She was going to have to change.

She looked at her watch and wondered if she might be able to squeeze a two-minute shower in to the now non-existent time she had before she had to brave the London Underground again. Flinging her paper on the kitchen table, she rubbed her hand on her nose, coating it in newsprint. She’d gripped the
Evening Standard
like a baton since she’d bought it, but hadn’t even had the space to open it on the tube so, with the exception of a couple of the larger headlines which she’d managed to pick up over the shoulders of her fellow commuters, she was none the wiser as to what was happening out there. Current affairs would just have to wait.

She was pulling a skirt up over her not entirely dry legs when the doorbell rang. She checked her watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. She was turning into the white rabbit. Four forty-five. Intrigued as to who would ring their doorbell on a Tuesday afternoon, Lizzie half hopped to the entryphone as she attempted to slip her shoes on and button up her shirt over a clean strappy top while maintaining a constant velocity in the general direction of the intercom. She got to the screen without breaking a leg, although she seemed to have managed to start sweating again, but her discomfort was quickly forgotten as to her delight there appeared to be a florist on the doorstep.

She shouted hello before tying her hair up in order to allow convection to start cooling the nape of her neck. Flapping her arms in a chicken-like manner, to encourage air to circulate under her armpits, she arrived on the doorstep to relieve the delivery man of his bouquet. Like most girls, Lizzie didn’t believe that you could ever have too many stamens in your house, and even the most ardent feminists and all coping women were reduced to mush on receipt of a large bunch. Clare was a true believer in the uplifting power of the flower, and their flat had been truly petaltastic since she’d moved home.

Maybe they were from Ed? It was about time Clare was hotly pursued by an eligible male, but that would mean Clare had called him within forty-eight hours after all. What a fluke that she’d been home, and what a relief. The trouble with having Colin as a neighbour was that any flowers ever left with him were always arranged in a selection of vases and distributed throughout his flat—just so they could have a drink, of course—before Clare or Lizzie got there. It then somehow seemed petty to gather them all up and take them upstairs, even if they had been theirs in the first place.

Lizzie resisted the urge to kiss the Interflora man when he told her that the flowers were in fact for her. She might have been more tempted if he hadn’t had a moustache.

‘What a lovely surprise—and what a fantastic bouquet. Mmm.’ Lizzie stuck her nose in amongst the heads and breathed deeply. ‘They smell gorgeous.’

‘Sign here, madam.’

‘You can’t have too many—that’s what I say.’ She signed his chitty with a flourish. Her time deadline forgotten in the pollen of the moment, and elated by his delivery, Lizzie chatted at him. She was determined to coax a conversation out of him. What was it with people in London? Would it have killed him to say just a few words? Did you have to pay extra for friendly?

‘I can’t wait to get them upstairs and see who they’re from. I bet they’re gasping for a drink. It’s so hot today, don’t you think?’

The smile on his face was sardonic, to say the least. But Lizzie had done it. He was going to say something. The art of conversation might be rusty but she’d be damned if it was dead yet…not on her doorstep.

‘Well, I hope you’ve got enough vases in there. You girls are very popular.’

Lizzie laughed out loud. She wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t said anything particularly funny. But she was very over-excited. What a great job he had. Delivering happiness to women all over London.

He turned assertively, silently intimating the end of their exchange. As he ambled towards his van he was muttering so loudly that he was practically talking to himself. Great. He wouldn’t talk to his customers but he’d talk to himself. Lizzie refused to let it get to her. After all, she had an enormous bunch of flowers to arrange. As he walked up the path and closed the gate behind him she caught the end of what he was saying.

‘Daft cow. “Lovely surprise…” Yeah…good one. Like blimmin’ clockwork for the last six weeks. Poor geezer has even stopped bothering to leave a message on the card these days.’

As Lizzie carried the flowers upstairs to the kitchen she went over what she’d just overheard. Last six weeks? Either the heat had got to him or Clare was secretly sleeping with a man with an Interflora account… And Lizzie had thought she’d been buying flowers to cheer her up in her moment—well, moments, make that weeks—of need. Cheapskate!

Lizzie rushed to find the biggest vase they had and carefully fed a few weary stems to their spring-loaded, aggressive American-style swing bin to avail herself of the ideal receptacle. Half hurrying, she filled it from their over-zealous mixer tap, giving herself her second shower of the afternoon. She was well aware that flower arranging would be frowned upon as an excuse for her tardiness at City FM, but by the same token she couldn’t just leave them gasping for water on the worktop. She shook in a generous helping of the flower food that had come attached and stirred it vigorously with a knife that was handily lurking amongst the drying up. While she was waiting for the powder to dissolve she unpicked the mini envelope from the brown paper and opened it.

The card was blank.

Lizzie must have turned it over several times before conceding that there really was nothing on it except for the slightly naff print of a rose in the top left-hand corner and the florist’s stamp on the reverse. She checked the envelope in case there was another card lurking within. Nothing. She’d been cheated. She toyed with the idea of calling the shop in case the woman with the bubble writing and only rudimentary spelling skills had somehow forgotten to include the vital greeting bit, but she really didn’t have time. She could always pop in tomorrow on her way to the station.

Lizzie automatically went to pin the card on the kitchen noticeboard, next to her and Clare’s collection of yellowing wedding invites, expired coupons off new cereals and cleaning products, mini-cab numbers, assorted takeaway menus and postcards. As she took a pin from a remote area of the board a whole pile of papers floated towards the floor, dispersing far and wide in their moment of liberation on their journey to the tiles. Lizzie gathered them up as quickly as she could, and was assertively pinning them back while searching for an alternative and less crucial drawing pin from their collection when she caught sight of the writing on the half-hidden card that had accompanied the flowers Matt had sent her after their first night together.

Momentarily distracted from the task in hand, Lizzie in
dulgently, and a little wistfully, carefully freed it from its position. Over the months it had disappeared under several layers of junk mail. It was a little faded, but otherwise intact. Bar, of course, half a dozen pin holes where layers had been added on top. It was also, Lizzie noted, identical to the blank card in her hand. The same pink rose in the corner and the same florist’s address on the back. Could they be?

Lizzie picked up the bouquet and cut through the string holding the flowers together before shoving the stems roughly into the water. In Lizzie’s imagination she could almost hear them sigh with relief as they took a long cool drink. Aesthetics could wait. Right now she had a call to make and a meeting to attend. Time was ticking confidently towards an inflexible deadline, and so she took the executive decision not to risk the jackpot of the tube and called a cab before leaving a message on Ben’s voicemail. She was on her way. In just a minute.

For once Clare answered her mobile almost immediately. Lizzie was relieved. She needed a good dose of Williamson cynicism and fast.

‘Clare. Thank God.’ Lizzie was now running so late that she was practically out of breath. It didn’t really make sense, but right now very little about the last half an hour did.

Clare sounded concerned at her best friend’s agitation. ‘Liz? Are you OK? Is something the matter? What are you doing at home? Shouldn’t you be at City?’

Lizzie was fine. Except for a serious case of stomach churning which she was sure wasn’t fatal, and a bit of a bad hair day which hadn’t been helped by London Underground, the humidity, her shower or their mixer tap. All she needed Clare to do was shoot her latest madcap theory down in flames so she could get to work.

‘Cab’s on its way. Muppet that I am, I flipping well left my file on the kitchen table this morning, didn’t I? Running seriously late now.’ Lizzie looked at her watch. Yup, they’d all be waiting, slagging off self-important-presenters-who-just-thought-they-could-waltz-in-whenever-they-felt-like-it. She
hated being late. ‘Listen. I’m sorry to disturb you but something strange has just happened.’

‘What?’

‘Well, flowers have been delivered for me. At first I thought they might be for you, from Ed or someone, but they weren’t. Anyway, there’s nothing on the card.’

‘No message?’

Clare, it seemed, was being dense—on purpose.

‘Exactly.’

‘Anonymous flowers?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder who they’re from?’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘Oh, by the way, I’m seeing Ed tonight.’

‘Anyway, I sort of had this mad idea— What? Ed?’ Lizzie stopped herself for a moment. ‘What—really?’ Lizzie was temporarily blown off-course by this pseudo-offhand delivery of what at any other less self-centred moment would have been a very juicy bit of gossip. Typical Clare. Just throw in that rather significant detail when Lizzie was barely paying attention. ‘Are you going on a date, Miss Williamson?’

‘Hardly. Just a bit of dinner.’

‘Bit of a busman’s holiday for you, then.’

‘Well…’

‘Did you call him?’

‘Of course not…’

Of course not. What was Lizzie thinking?

‘I told you before. He called a few times and then he popped into Union Jack’s the other day. Said he was passing.’

‘Passing Notting Hill…from Fulham?’

‘Well…’

‘Clare, don’t be so naïve. I think you’ll find that Mr Wallace has a bit of a thing for you. How exciting. Just what you need.’

‘Well… Look, it’s probably nothing. Just a bit of dinner.’

‘Whatever.’ Lizzie was beginning to get annoyed. If Clare just chilled out a fraction she might even her enjoy herself.

Clare was beginning to wish she hadn’t said anything now.
She wanted the spotlight switched off, but there was only one way to get Lizzie off the subject and that was to return her good self to the centre of the conversation.

‘So—a secret admirer. How exciting for you… Any ideas? Had any over-attentive cab drivers lately?’

‘Well—and let me finish before you tell me to get a life—but, well, I was just pinning the card on the noticeboard, as I always do, and in the process a whole lot of stuff fell off… Anyway, underneath I spotted the card from the flowers that Matt sent me in December…and…well…the card’s identical and the flowers are from the same florist…’ Lizzie was beginning to realise quite how ludicrous this was all sounding now the words had left the confines of her over-active mind. She wished she hadn’t rung Clare. This moment wasn’t going to help her credibility at all.

‘So…?’

Clare the pragmatist was in town. Probably no bad thing as far as Lizzie’s sanity went. She really had a vivid imagination.

‘They came from the same florist. That’s all. It must be our nearest Interflora-affiliated one. They obviously only have one naff card design to choose from. Conspiracy theory over.’

Clare was right—as usual. Lizzie was a little disappointed—as usual.

‘Maybe you’re suffering with a touch of heatstroke, what with all this rushing around.’

Lizzie was on the verge of conceding defeat and handing herself over to social services when she remembered the cryptically certifiable delivery man. ‘But hang on. The guy that delivered them said something about us having flowers delivered once a week…“like clockwork”, I think was what he actually said. For the last six weeks.’

‘Well…’ Clare’s telephone manner changed instantly. Hesitancy crept into her usually dogmatic tones. Lizzie detected the transformation at once.

‘Well what?’

‘Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.’ She’d made a good recovery, but something still didn’t ring true.

‘Clare…?’

‘What?’

‘Come on. You’ve gone all defensive on me.’

‘Have not.’

‘You have.’

‘Haven’t.’

This wasn’t going anywhere. Clare and Lizzie were currently espousing the we-are-seven-and-a-half-years-old approach to discussion. The sort that only ended in hair-pulling, scratching or pinching. Lizzie decided to break the deadlock before it got out of hand.

‘I know you, Clare, and I can tell when you’re being all funny with me.’

‘Well…the thing is… No… I can’t… Wait there. I’ll come home.’

‘For God’s sake…just spit it out, will you? I can’t hang around. I’ve got a live radio show starting in under two hours and a production meeting ten minutes ago, and I’m not doing either until you stop playing silly buggers with me.’

Clare took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to hate this…promise you won’t hate me?’ Clare was sounding quite anxious. Not something that Lizzie had realised Clare knew how to sound.

‘Of course I won’t hate you. Well…?’

Clare exhaled audibly before beginning a confession at break-neck speed. ‘You’vebeensentflowerseveryweekforthelastsixweeksandI’vebeeninterceptingthemandgivingtheoddbunchtoColinandspreadingtherestrounthehouseinvariousvasesandpretendingthey’refromme.’

‘Why on earth…?’ But Lizzie already knew. She wasn’t sure whether to jump for joy or burst into tears. Her mind was racing and she was struggling to keep up.