But, Will thought to himself, I know who’s going to say no.
‘I’m getting a really good vibe about this. You’re doing great. You should be very proud of yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ Now she’d paid him a direct compliment Will had no idea what to do with it. ‘I’d better get back to the phone. I’ll e-mail you that biog later this afternoon.’
‘No problem.’ Rachel couldn’t remember exactly which biog, but she was confident she’d learn lots from Will’s impeccable research when it did arrive. Violet, Indigo—whoever she was—would certainly seem a lot more familiar when she’d read a potted history. Sometimes she missed her days at Will’s level. Frenetic, sparky, all-consuming and totally invigorating. So what if the pay had never even been enough to cover alcohol, let alone anything less frivolous? There’d been genuine camaraderie lower down the pecking order. The higher you got, the more the pecking became stabbing, and you became more and more paranoid as you had to watch your back as your increased salary became harder to justify when things weren’t going award-winningly.
Rachel owed Will big time. His Midas touch meant they’d be more than fulfilling their brief and reaching out to the age group who were most influenced by the ‘glamour’ of the drug culture without patronising them. Maybe it was time for a team night out to boost morale.
Rachel wanted this to be a great campaign on every level. Watch out Richard Branson, Ms Nice Guy, queen of motivational leadership, was just waiting in the wings—and she didn’t see why she had to wear a sweatshirt or grow a beard in order to be approachable. With this success she would be unstoppable—plus, with a bit of time and the right preparation, she was sure Mr Rachel wouldn’t be able to resist her. It was going to be a fantastic year; she could feel it.
Rachel celebrated Will’s departure from her office by finishing off her game of Solitaire with unprecedented speed and focus. As she watched the victory cascade of cards through to the end she made an executive decision to pop out. Her head swimming with profile articles and acceptance speeches, she knew that an hour in the shops would work the playfulness out of her system—plus there was already a whole ‘next-season’ thing happening in the retail world. Her new positivity about life was about to be reflected in her wardrobe, and maybe she’d even pick up a little something for Will while she was out. They had Indigo Jackson. See, she had been listening. Rachel found herself smiling. Will made her feel good about herself. He could help her all the way to the top.
chapter 14
It might have been less than twenty-four hours since they’d spoken, but Lizzie had eaten lasagne two meals running, polished off an entire packet of Angel Delight and done more staring into space than Patrick Moore. From the moment she’d opened her eyes early on Wednesday morning frustratingly she’d been wide awake, and so, at a time of day usually reserved for families getting up to go on cheap package holidays, she’d washed, dressed and headed to her study.
She hadn’t logged on since Saturday, and decided to make a start by going through her inbox in an attempt to break herself in gently. Reading messages didn’t involve mental agility and proved a useful way of tricking her mind into concentrating on something other than the time, the phone, and the possible outcomes of her currently disastrous personal life. There were twenty-three new items for her to read. Once she’d deleted the junk messages trying to sell her tights, flights and promising her lots of luck and money if only she forwarded it to three girls, six boys and a partridge in a pear tree, she’d whittled it down to fifteen.
Three were from the woman formerly known as Name and Address Withheld. She and Rachel might have struck up a slightly unorthodox correspondence, but Lizzie found their almost daily asides a useful stress-reliever. It wasn’t about professional advice any more, it was—for want of a better word—a friendship. If you could be friends with someone you had never met or spoken to out loud. It was like passing notes. Quick time-outs from their lives. And, in terms of ambitious women trying to make the system work for them, they had a lot in common. The last one had been sent at 22:12 yesterday evening. She really did work late.
Everything OK? You’re probably just snowed under—believe me I know the feeling—but I’ve had nothing from you in three days, and now it’s February—don’t understand where this year is going. Ever hectic at this end. Before you nag, rang Eurostar—well, got secretary to ring Eurostar—yesterday, which is a step in right direction. So get thinking of those romantic restaurants.
R x
Lizzie hit ‘reply’. It was great having a pen-friend who only knew what you’d selected to tell her about yourself. Faceless sounding boards were the way forward. A bit like confession, only not quite as spiritual. Perfect for your average non-practising, half-Jewish agnostic.
R
Worry not. I’m still here. Feeling slightly sorry for myself as my newish relationship (had been looking quite positive) seems to have taken a turn for the worse. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but failed to see this one coming. Still, enough of the whingeing—we agony aunts have to develop thick skins and stress-free personal lives and carry on regardless. Hope your campaign is coming together well. Can’t wait to see the ads. When do they start?
L x
Lizzie steered clear of the specifics of her personal crisis. This was work—well, sort of—and she was paid to solve problems, not share them. She pressed ‘send’. It was still only 06:36.
By nine, Lizzie had answered all her e-mailed letters, printed off hard copies for the files and was just starting on a bit of snail mail whilst tossing a few column ideas around at the back of her mind. Despite herself she was feeling a bit chirpier. Her concern was becoming increasingly detached from her reality, as if she was hoping that the having a wife revelation might have been a terrible nightmare brought on by a late-night cheeseburger before bed.
09:17. A message pinged into her inbox. Note-passing was officially underway.
Sorry to hear you’ve had shitty couple of days, but good to know that you’re not immune to the odd personal crisis. Makes the rest of us feel less like failures. Look at it as research. Now you know what the rest of us go through. Fucking impressed (and frankly a bit intimidated) to see you awake and working at 06:36. What’s the secret? I’m still waiting for my second coffee to kick in.
Work hectic. No danger of a completed ad hitting the cinema, a billboard or the TV for quite a while yet. Own personal crisis still unfolding. No need for you to put your professional hat on, but getting it out of my system always helps. Seem to be growing further apart by the hour. Becoming convinced he’s having an affair. I know there are some people out there who spend their whole marriages forgiving and forgetting, but I couldn’t deal with that. An open marriage to me is about as attractive an option as base jumping. So I’m not quite the modern woman that I think I am, but there’s plenty of personal baggage that goes with it and you don’t need more than a couple of spare brain cells to work out it’s all related.
I was only twelve, but I can still remember the day my mum found out that my dad had been having an affair. They stayed together (for better, for worse, for me, etc. etc.) until he died, but she’s never really got over the betrayal and I’ve always promised myself that I would never let history repeat itself. At least we haven’t got any children to worry about, but my biggest fear is that now I think I might have actually driven him away. And the million-dollar question is: could I ever forgive him? Answers on a postcard. Suppose I’d better get on with my day.
R x
Children. What if Matt had children? What if he was someone’s dad as well as someone’s husband? Lizzie added it to her mental list of questions—none of them light and fluffy—which she was saving for lunchtime and clicked on ‘reply’.
Sorry to hear things aren’t running as smoothly as you’d hoped. My advice—personal and professional—is to stop putting it off and start talking to him. Stop worrying about failing. If you really love him and want to make things work then you
need to tell him to his face. If it’s a case of mixed messages, harsh as it may seem, you are both to blame—and if making your marriage work is the most important thing to you both, then you’ll be able to weather this storm. Think of the long-term bigger picture and throw guilt and pride out of the window. Only you two know what you’ve had in the past, whether you can get it back, and whether it is worth fighting for. Hold that head up and go for it. Fingers Crossed. Happy Wednesday!
L x
She got a response right away.
L
Don’t mince those words! Thanks, though. Right, as always.
R x
Clare popped her head round the door at 10:28 with a mug of tea and a saucer piled high with chocolate biscuits. In her eyes dire emotional situations called for emergency rations, and yesterday Clare had compassionately filled the cupboards with all Lizzie’s favourite foods. She needn’t have worried. Lizzie’s appetite was usually the last thing to go. Although Clare had failed to notice that the one packet was lasting an eternity—more than half a day was a lifetime in biscuit terms—it was not a good sign.
‘Sleep out of fashion these days?’ Clare was doing her best not to mention anything that might provoke tears. To be frank it didn’t leave her with many subjects to choose from.
‘Just woke up really early and thought I’d make the most of the morning, seeing as I did nothing yesterday except stare into space and watch black and white films. Sometimes I think life would be simpler if it was in black and white…’ She was off on a whimsical train of thought. It seemed, though, that Clare wasn’t interested in anything but the most direct and practical this morning.
‘Oh, and doing your show last night wasn’t work, was it? Honestly, Liz, sometimes you’re your own worst enemy. You put more pressure on yourself than anyone else ever will.’
True, Lizzie had pulled herself together for her radio show, but actually focusing on something other than herself had been a relief.
‘Maybe… Thanks for the tea.’
‘No problem. Look, I’m heading off in a minute—I’ve got a few things to do before the lunch rush. If I were you I’d let the answer-phone screen your calls. After all, you don’t want any nasty surprises.’
Lizzie smiled weakly. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to him. Onwards and upwards, hey?’
It was fighting talk with no fight. Lizzie wished Clare would hurry up and go before Matt called to finalise their arrangements. She’d decided not to mention it just in case Clare decided to lock her in the airing cupboard to prevent her from going. She could always tell her that Matt had dropped in unannounced and dragged her out if she needed to talk to her about it later. Still, fight or no fight, Clare was pleased with the apparent change in Lizzie’s attitude.
‘That’s my girl. I know it’s hard, Liz, but it’s the only way.’
‘Mmm.’ Lizzie was pretending to be deeply absorbed by a letter from her postbag. It felt very wrong to be deceiving the closest thing she had to a sister, but maybe he wouldn’t even call and then she wouldn’t be lying to Clare anyway and could probably get off on a technicality. Lizzie was suddenly aware of the fact that Clare was now just standing in the doorway, staring at her.
‘Clare?’
‘Yes, Liz.’
‘Please stop feeling sorry for me. I don’t think I can bear it.’
‘Don’t be daft. Just thinking how brave you’re being. I know it’s been tough for you…’
Been tough? Clare really had no idea what she was going through, did she? A mere day and a half into her crisis, it was getting tougher every hour. Lizzie didn’t have the energy to have a whole conversation right now, so nodded in a ‘thank-you-now-piss-off-with-your-tea-and-sympathy-so-I-can-geton-with-agonising-over-what-to-do-next’ manner. The message wasn’t conveyed. Lizzie obviously had a bit of work to do on her meaningful nods. Clare was still chatting.
‘Listen, I was thinking—one of the girls at work does Reiki massages. She’s fully qualified and everything. Why don’t I see if she could pop over and give you one here? My treat. I’m sure we can spare her for a couple of hours this afternoon.’
‘Thanks, but…’ Lizzie didn’t quite know how to put this without sounding ungrateful and spoilt, but the last thing she wanted was someone dropping in this afternoon. She had to nip Clare’s latest scheme in the bud or run the real risk of being found out. ‘How well do you know me?’
‘Very well?’
Clare was tentative. She wasn’t sure what the right answer was. Lizzie obviously had one in mind, and she didn’t want to get it wrong when she was patently teetering on an emotional tightrope this morning.
To Clare’s relief Lizzie nodded. ‘Yes. Sometimes better than I know myself…in which case you should know what I think of alternative therapies…’ It was meant to be sarcastic bordering on the amusing but out loud it just sounded rude. ‘Reiki…whatever next? Shovelly… Trowelly… Spadey…? Clare, you of all people shouldn’t be taken in by this Eastern channelling of energy, I’ll lay my hands on you for forty quid bollocks.’
Clare decided to overlook Lizzie’s lack of gratitude in light of everything going on.
‘So I take it that I shouldn’t send her over?’
‘No, thanks. I appreciate the concern but I’ll be fine. I’d rather you bought me forty pounds’ worth of white toast and chocolate spread than a massage.’ Lizzie smiled to demonstrate to Clare that she appreciated the gesture even if everything that came out of her mouth was acid-coated at the moment. It was the best she could do.
Clare swallowed her slightly dented pride and administered a maternal peck to the top of Lizzie’s head. Clare knew she’d probably burst into tears the minute the front door closed behind her, and irritatingly all she could do was make sure Lizzie knew that she was there for her. ‘Look after yourself. You know where I am if you need me…and ten out of ten for washing your hair this morning. No wonder you’re feeling more human today. Lots of love.’
Lizzie heard the front door close and gave it ten minutes before she took the saucer of biscuits back to the tin for recycling. Just because she was confused and depressed didn’t mean she wanted to be fat too.
Eerily the phone rang only seconds later as if Matt had sensed Clare’s recent departure. True to his word he’d booked lunch somewhere quiet in Richmond, and was coming to collect her en route.
They were quiet in the taxi. It was as if they were saving heavy conversation for the table and small talk at this point would somehow have been hypocritical. Lizzie checked her bag and was relieved to discover that she’d had the foresight to bring her sunglasses. It wasn’t exactly sunny, but it wasn’t raining either, and she was sure that they’d prove useful when leaving the restaurant.
Meeting up to talk to Matt had appealed to the drama queen in her. Now, at their table tucked away in the corner, she was wondering whether this had been such a good idea. Matt looked tired. His eyes were dull, his face haggard and drawn. His skin was—well, grey. He reached across the table and took Lizzie’s hands in his.
‘I am so sorry. You’ve really got no idea how sorry. I’d do anything to turn back the clock and to have told you at the beginning. That was the original plan.’
But, Lizzie wondered, if he had told her, would she still have gone out with him? It was a tough one. Probably not. But then she’d never have known what she was missing. Part of her could understand why he’d found it so hard to bring it up but, she reminded herself sternly, he’d tricked her, he’d lied, and that was unacceptable however flatteringly you tried to pitch it.
‘When did it all get so complicated?’ Her voice trembled as she started to speak and she swallowed in an attempt to steady it. ‘I wish I was a child again, when the most stressful thing about life was whether it was hair-wash night or not.’
Matt smiled. Lizzie was incredible. Trying to retain her sense of humour when he had given her every reason to trade it in for a machete. She looked pale and resigned, but underneath the shadows she was
still Lizzie. ‘Thanks so much for agreeing to meet. I just wanted a chance to set the record straight. To tell you how I feel. To try and explain. I had the best intentions…’
The blood was visibly draining from Lizzie’s face, and if her eyes had been any wider they would have met in the middle. She snatched her hand back and ran it through her hair distractedly. Matt was confused. He hadn’t really said anything yet. Suddenly she leapt to her feet, a pseudo but instant smile now plastered across her face. Matt turned to follow her gaze.
Small world alert. Friends on the horizon. Lousy timing. One beautiful young Elizabeth Hurley body double and an older well-dressed woman with something familiar about her.
‘Darling! It is—you see…’ She turned to her companion. ‘What a coincidence. I thought it was you, but Alex was trying to tell me that you’d be hard at work, not lunching in Surrey. But I just knew. Is that a new jumper? Very nice. The colour really suits you.’
Lizzie glared at her mother as she advanced towards her. This was definitely not a moment for her to grab the scruff of her daughter’s neck and inspect the label. Lizzie leant forward and gave her a kiss. It seemed to be enough to distract her.
‘Working hard?’ Did Alex look mischievous or was Lizzie just feeling ridiculously guilty? Had she whipped her hand away in time?
‘Mum, Alex…what a surprise!’
Matt breathed in. Lizzie’s mother. And the legendary Alex. He’d heard plenty about her. And, surprisingly, on first appearances she did live up to her reputation. Her physique didn’t suggest that she’d ever been anywhere near an obstetrician. Matt didn’t really know where to look. He had no idea how much they did or didn’t know. He was going to have to follow Lizzie’s lead.
‘Working lunch?’ Annie Ford was almost rubbing her hands together with the excitement of the moment.
‘Something like that. Are you two having lunch here too?’ Lizzie prayed very hard that they were running late for a very important appointment. They had to be going. They just had to.
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