‘He’s probably never worn a ring. Lots of men don’t these days. Some men just don’t like wearing jewellery.’
‘Some men just don’t like being faithful. It’s the thrill of the chase. It’s knowing that they’re not playing by the rules.’
‘But Matt’s not like that. He’s different.’ A lone tear rolled down Lizzie’s cheek. Neither Julia Roberts nor Meg Ryan could have produced a more poignant one.
Clare was becoming increasingly exasperated at Lizzie’s apparent inability to see the facts. Of course he wasn’t different. ‘Liz, go and get some sleep. I bet this will all look different in daylight.’
Lizzie didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out in between prolonged periods of snivelling into her fortuitously absorbent pillow.
When she finally woke, the morning after the night before, for a split second she felt happy—but then she remembered. She should have realised something was up. Things had been going too well. January was traditionally the worst month of the year for morale, men and money. Now it was living up to its reputation. She wished she could just hibernate for a couple of months and re-emerge when time had done its healing thing. She didn’t see why she had to be awake throughout the process.
Feelings aside, she knew she had to put a stop to it. She was supposed to help people with their problems, not cause more, and if she turned a blind eye she’d be endorsing a situation that she knew couldn’t work. She had to bury her impetuous nature and think about how seeing more of him could jeopardise the real world around her. The one she had to live in every day. And if he’d lied so convincingly about something as big as this, logically how could she believe a word he said?
If she kept seeing him—well, that would make her a mistress. Unofficially she was one already. Certainly not something she had ever aspired to be. She didn’t want to put herself in the same bracket as those red-taloned women you saw on trashy documentaries, eulogising about the joys of being wined and dined, flown all over the world and bought expensive jewellery without having to tidy up. Lizzie wanted to come first. Lizzie wanted real love. Love with washing and ironing and cooking and maybe even children. Warts and all.
She had no idea what time it was when the phone broke into her reverie. Her curtains were still drawn and it sounded as if it was pouring with rain outside. Marvellous. Gloomy weather had arrived to cement her depression. Couldn’t just one thing go her way?
She thought about just leaving it ringing, but couldn’t—just in case whoever it was didn’t leave a message, which would be even worse than the phone not having rung at all.
‘Hello?’ It was listless, a traditional courtesy greeting but with no feeling.
There was silence at the other end.
‘Hello?’
This time she was greeted by an equally small, flat voice.
‘Liz? It’s me. I’m so so very, very sorry.’
Damn cordless phones. There wasn’t even anything to strangle herself with if things got worse.
Lizzie knew that she should have refused to speak to him, but she was pleased that he had called. Or at least at the moment she thought she was.
‘Liz…are you still there?’
‘Yup. What time is it?’
‘Eleven-fifteen…are you still in bed?’
Lizzie stretched out under the duvet to prove to herself that she was still a complete human being and not just a head on the pillow before springing back into the foetal position.
‘Mmm. Didn’t seem to be much point in getting up today.’
Lizzie knew she shouldn’t have said that. It exposed her. It told him she cared. But she did and, hey, it couldn’t get any worse than last night. In for a penny, in for a pound. If he was going to break her heart he might as well be allowed to stamp on it good and hard a few more times before leaving her to recover.
‘I should’ve told you that very first night in the taxi, but I really wanted to see you again. I was selfish. I was scared. Please, meet me for lunch. I’ve been going over everything again and again in my head. I’d rehearsed telling you about a hundred times but then last night I was caught off guard and none of it really came out right.’
Lizzie felt oddly calm listening to his voice. She wished it could be yesterday morning again, but things had changed irrevocably, hadn’t they? All these hypothetical questions and only answers she didn’t want to hear. It was just no good.
‘Matt, I’m sorry, but I don’t think lunch is a good idea. It’s got to be over. For lots of reasons.’
Clare would have patted her on the back, but Lizzie didn’t feel relieved, or that she had the upper hand. She just felt very sad. She sank another millimetre into her pillow even though she’d thought she was as low as she could go already.
‘Lizzie, I know you have to say that for your pride, for your self-esteem… I’ve treated you appallingly, and I know you’ll need time to deal with this, but I hope that eventually you might be able to forgive me…’
There was a pause. Matt was waiting for Lizzie to say something. Anything. But she couldn’t get the words out. In the absence of any input, Matt decided to continue. If she wasn’t going to meet him for lunch this might be the only chance he got to say it. On balance he knew that he deserved everything he was getting, and more.
‘You must’ve had letters from people like me in the past. Men who get stuck in a loveless marriage because it’s easier to stay there than to rock the boat. I know that doesn’t make me look very good, and I know I should have just left. She’s changed. She’s no longer the person I vowed to love and to honour and I am going to leave. I know you and I haven’t been seeing each other for long, but I really believe we’re worth fighting for. When I didn’t tell you at the outset it was because somehow I just couldn’t, even though I wanted to. I didn’t want to risk what we had, what we could have… I’m just asking for another chance. I hope in time I’ll be able to convince you to forgive me.’
His speech had all the hallmarks of a classic romantic tragedy. She desperately wanted to believe him, but the more she thought about him being married to a person, to a real live woman with a name, a personality and a body, who shared half his bed and half his wardrobe, the harder it became. She wanted to know if they still slept together. If they did, was it good? Did she go skiing too? She wanted to know, and then she didn’t. Maybe she was only one of several mistresses—a veritable wifelet. He was right; she had read about this scenario so many times. She had dealt with it during phone-ins and she knew that it was a situation that could only end in tears. She might not have worn them on her sleeve, or rammed them down the throats of her readers, but she had morals and principles.
Matt was waiting for an answer.
He would have got one, only Lizzie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t risk the pain rising up and escaping noisily while he was listening. So much for control.
Meanwhile she was going through the whole spectrum of emotions. Upset. Angry. With him. With herself for not sensing anything earlier. Disappointed. Disbelieving. Exhausted. As far as a response went, all she could manage was a suppressed wail-cum-snort followed by a deeply unpleasant sniff.
‘Mmmmhmmm.’
It was pathetic. Lizzie wished she could be stronger; she would have loved to be brusque at this moment—offhand, even. But she couldn’t manage it.
‘Listen, Liz. I can’t bear to hear you so upset.’ What on earth had he done? The woman he loved in tears. His fault.
‘I’m fine…’ A pause for a big blink and a deep breath to try and convince herself that she was indeed fine.
‘Sure you are. If you’re fine, the Pope’s Jewish.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll bounce back.’ Lizzie was sure that she would. Eventually. Probably some time after she’d bounced into a couple of bottles.
‘Look, you don’t have to handle this all by yourself. Please meet me. Just for lunch. No funny business. Just a chat. We’ll go somewhere quiet, I promise.’
‘Not today.’ No way
could Lizzie contemplate lunch on a day when she had to go through the whole studio thing later and actually sit in a room with other human beings.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘OK…’
‘Great. I’ll call you in the morning with a plan. Thanks, Liz. I love you.’
Lizzie felt oddly comforted. She only hoped Clare would be out. She couldn’t possibly tell the woman who believed all mistresses should be burnt at the stake that she’d agreed to lunch. But surely one of the perks of getting older was the prerogative to make her own mistakes?
chapter 13
Unbefuckinglievable. Who on earth would pay fifty pounds to go running, in winter, in a public park, in London, in their lunch hour, with someone fitter, therefore preventing the walking-most-of-the-way tactic? Yet that was what Gareth, personal trainer to the stars, had just suggested. His client list might resemble the contents page of Hello! magazine, but surely you could buy a flat stomach in the twenty-first century without having to sacrifice your knee joints and self-respect in the process?
It took Rachel a full hour of careful preening to look this good when she left the house every morning, and she wasn’t about to risk it all with hours of the day remaining. Will might have blagged her the introductory assessment, but that was as far as this particular whim was going. Yet, despite the ludicrous turn her day had taken only moments ago, Rachel was in high spirits.
The campaign was finally snowballing and she could almost see her name in lights—well, she could when she removed her designer shades. Her latest present to herself was just in time to shield her from those winter rays, late enough to already be this summer’s hottest shape, but early enough to say ‘original’ as all the high street copycats were still a good month away. They were currently on the top of her head, assuming the role of designer halo-cum-alice-band.
All was still quiet on the personal front, but at least Valentine’s Day was round the corner and for the first time in years she’d decided to arrange a night out. She still hadn’t confessed to anyone that she’d consulted an agony aunt. In all honesty she’d probably be amazed for the rest of her life that she’d not only written a letter but sent it in to a magazine. The only upshot was her new e-mail buddy. Dear Lizzie had become a useful sounding board and a fresh breath of non-agency, non-advertising air. Their electronic note-passing did a good job of reminding her to make an effort on the days when it felt as if her personal life was slipping through her fingers. Better still, Lizzie had no agenda. She wasn’t angling for promotion or taking sides; she was a bona fide bullshit-free zone. If this was just Lizzie doing her job, she was amazingly good at it.
Rachel was indulging in a quick game of Solitaire on her computer when the whirlwind of energy and creativity that was making her life a whole lot more bearable at the moment burst through the door.
‘Morning, Rach.’
Will bounced on to her sofa and slurped at the froth on his cappuccino while waiting for a suitable break in her concentration. Fortunately his most recent attempt to give up smoking still seemed to be in full swing, and Rachel was spared a lingering blue cloud of smoke in her office. Through the strategic positioning of office furniture Rachel had ensured that no one else could see her computer screen, so Will was currently unaware that the delay was due to a pressing tactical decision: should she move the King of Spades to the presently empty column or deal more cards and see whether the King of Hearts or King of Diamonds might still be in the pack? What she really needed was a red king.
‘I’ll be with you in a second.’
She’d perfected pretending to be engrossed in her work when people came into her office and had stopped feeling guilty about what some people might consider to be wasting time. Advertising might never have returned to the excesses of the eighties but it was still keeping its end up, and she didn’t have to be sitting at her desk typing all day to be working hard. While the legwork was done by her talented and incredibly enthusiastic team, Rachel had time to do the whole lunch, drinking club, award ceremony bit. She’d found she could troubleshoot problems just as effectively whether she was in her office or on Bond Street.
Will was becoming increasingly impatient and more than a little fidgety—not unrelated to the fact that he didn’t have a cigarette in his hand to play with. Once he’d scooped the residual froth out of his paper cup and eaten it from his finger he watched Rachel. He felt slightly guilty about distracting her, but he did have some exciting news.
‘Sorry to disturb you…’
‘No, no, it’s fine. That’s what I’m here for. Go ahead.’
She finally looked up. Will was beaming.
‘We’ve got her…’
Rachel wondered whether there was another quick move she could do. The Ace of Clubs must be under there somewhere. She suddenly realised that Will had already stopped talking. Damn. She minimised the game on her screen, stood up assertively and walked over to the couch to join him.
‘Sorry—you were saying?’
‘We’ve got her. She’s said yes to being filmed and—wait for this—she’s even given us permission to use the archive which, even if I say so myself, is bloody miraculous but makes our lives a hell of a lot easier.’
‘Her…?’
Rachel struggled with her short-term memory. In the absence of any recollection she feigned coolness. She didn’t want to portray a level of excitement that outweighed the level of his achievement and therefore make herself look stupid.
Will wished that Rachel would just swallow her pride and give him the credit he deserved. Communicating positive feedback wasn’t her forte. A couple of weeks ago she’d made him feel like young creative of the moment, yet today—nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. She was just so up and down these days. Women. Exasperation and frustration crept into his tone.
‘Indigo Jackson. As per our meeting last week. It was touch and go. Her agent wasn’t sure at first, but a bit of intensive schmoozing later and she’s up for it.’
Will was annoyed. What was the point in him putting his life on hold night after night if Rachel wasn’t even paying attention?
Rachel tried and failed to put a human interest story to the name. Who the hell was Indigo Jackson? She sounded like something off a rock chick’s paint colour chart. But Will was looking a little pissed off at her less than euphoric reaction to his morning’s work. She’d just have to trust him on this one. In Will’s eyes Indigo was obviously worth a champagne toast at the very least.
‘Great. Fab to have her on board.’
Great? Will thought it was more like fucking amazing. He had just secured an exclusive with the widow of a no longer living legend who had killed himself in search of the perfect high, so depriving future generations of his lyrics and innovative melodies, to talk about the pressures her husband had felt and his regrets at getting in too deep, and all Rachel could manage was ‘great’. It was irritating him enough to instantly make his nicotine patch redundant. If ever there was a time he had wanted a cigarette or three it was now.
He wondered what would happen if he got Elvis out of his coffin and on board to talk about his final years… A ‘well done’, perhaps? A ‘good work Will’? He knew the client and the senior partners at the agency were thrilled with the way things were shaping up. Rachel was soaking up all the compliments at the moment, and he knew she could gush with the best of them when she wanted to. What did he have to do to impress her?
‘Really, Will, that’s great. If you could e-mail me a few cuts and a biog on her when you get back to your desk that would be perfect. Now, who else are we still waiting on?’
Rachel knew that it was thanks to Will, his persuasive charm and his tireless ambition, that they now had several generations of football players, a well-known TV actress and a handful of ageing rock stars signed up to talk about how and why they had beaten their habits, and now this Indigo woman. If Will said she was good news then she was sure she was. Erudite and gifted, he’d cut some powerful montages of archive
footage and present-day soundbites to some perfectly chosen and memorable phrases of music, and he’d ensured that she now had the appropriate CDs in her collection and the odd factoid at her fingertips to wow clients with in meetings.
Last week he’d discovered that the guy who’d been tipped as the next baron of the information superhighway, and a sure entry into next year’s Rich List, had marvellously—from their point of view—lost five years of his life to heroin addiction but against all the odds had fought back from rock bottom. Human interest tales of rags to riches never failed to sell, and Rachel was in the process of signing him an exclusive with a Sunday tabloid to tie in with the launch of the campaign.
‘All we need now is a supermodel and a member of the Royal family—or, more realistically, someone who has shagged a member of the Royal family—who’s dabbled in drugs in the past and I think our wish list will be complete.’
Will was encouraged to see Rachel at least had the decency to smile as she asked the impossible. He knew his brief only too well, but she wasn’t the one on the phone talking to agents and sending faxes all day. The fashion world was a fiercely closed shop, and trying to get any of their own to dish the dirt on the more sordid aspects of the industry was proving impossible. There were plenty of rumours but nothing concrete to go on. Sure, they’d rooted out a disaffected few, but they just sounded bitter and you suspected that, had their careers gone better, they wouldn’t have been remotely interested in taking part. Besides, as far as Rachel was concerned it was either an A-list name or no name at all.
‘I know it’s tough. But a model would be great. An exposé on the so-called glamour. Everyone knows it’s going on.’
‘“Everyone” might do, but no one’s telling me anything.’ Will tried not to lose his cool. Rachel sensed she was dancing close to the edge.
‘I appreciate the effort. I know it’s not easy out there—just keep going. You never know who might say yes if you don’t try…’
Name & Address Withheld Page 13