Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  However many times she told herself not to be silly, Clare was disappointed that Lizzie hadn’t felt she could open up to her after everything they’d been through together. Instead she’d erected an invisible wall, and it hurt every time Clare ran into it. She’d been careful not to crowd her, to give her enough of her precious space, and done her utmost not to interfere, but they were best friends for God’s sake. If Lizzie was suffering then so was Clare.

  Bruised ego and over-sensitivity aside, she had to admit that objectively Lizzie was doing OK. But Clare was beginning to resent the fact that her job almost always prevented her from physically being there for Lizzie. What if Lizzie needed a spontaneous heart-to-heart at the kettle? Or over a cup of tea and toasted muffin? She was an expert in outwardly keeping it together in a crisis. The sort of person that Clare would happily have followed into the trenches. But no one was invincible. Maybe this time she’d fallen apart and Clare had been too busy at the restaurant to notice.

  By the middle of the afternoon Clare had wound herself up enough to organise someone to cover for her. This morning Lizzie had announced she was having a quiet evening in and Clare was going home to join her. Nostalgic for a girls’ night in, she stopped off at the florist, followed by the off-licence for wine and ice-cream. She was back in the best-friend business.

  To Clare’s relief the front door wasn’t double-locked. On the tube she’d had visions of Lizzie trading in the remote control for a night out, leaving her to wallow in calories and concern on her own.

  ‘Hey, babe, I’m home.’

  Clare popped her head round the door to Lizzie’s study, only to find it empty. More like deserted. The computer was off and there was no tell-tale half-started cup of tepid tea on the desk. She wasn’t prostrate on the sofa upstairs either.

  ‘Liz—Liz…’

  She increased her volume.

  ‘Lizzie?’

  Surely she wasn’t in bed? It was only five-thirty—a little late for an afternoon nap and very early for even the earliest of nights. Maybe she’d developed one of her migraines? Clare felt guilty. She should have been taking more notice. For all she knew this was the time of day when Lizzie was mid-nervous breakdown.

  Clare flicked the kettle switch and was just making a cup of tea to take upstairs in her new role as Florence Nightingale when Lizzie appeared at her side in a white waffle bathrobe and slippers, looking a little dishevelled but not altogether pale and pathetic. Maybe she had a fever? Clare was no nurse, but Lizzie looked a little flushed and very tired. Poor girl. She really was suffering.

  ‘You’re home…’

  A good sign, Clare thought. Lizzie was clearly still capable of stating the obvious.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Lizzie sounded concerned and, if Clare was being over-analytical, a little confused. Maybe she’d been drinking?

  ‘God, yes, fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just well…I was thinking about things this afternoon and I’ve decided that I haven’t been looking after you properly.’

  ‘I thought you were working late tonight?’

  ‘I was, but I got someone in to cover for me. I thought I’d come home early and we could spend the evening together. I’m just sorry that I’ve been so busy recently. You’ve been having a crisis and I’ve been at work.’

  Clare walked over and gave Lizzie a hug. It was like hugging a tree trunk—a thin tree trunk—more of a sapling, in actual fact—resplendent in white waffle but wooden, that was the point. However she tried to dress it up, the fact was that Lizzie didn’t hug her back. At all. Clare was determined not to take it personally. After all, they had years of friendship behind them. She wasn’t going to get hung up about one flipping hug. Maybe she was the one having the nervous breakdown and Lizzie was fine.

  ‘You shouldn’t have got up. Go back up to bed. I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a minute. I thought we could do duvets on the sofa and get a pizza delivered if you feel up to it. I’ve bought ice-cream.’

  All of a sudden Lizzie looked paler and greyer. Maybe the pizza wasn’t such a good idea.

  ‘Or we can just chat, or…whatever you like. You choose. You really haven’t been yourself lately.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s been a weird few weeks. Pizza would be lovely…’

  Lizzie felt terrible. Clare was going for mate-of-the-year, yet any second now she’d discover that her best friend had been lying to her and, while Lizzie had tried to convince herself that she hadn’t actually lied per se, because Clare hadn’t asked her a direct question about what was happening, now, standing a few feet from her best buddy, she was feeling very small and very dishonest indeed. She only hoped that Matt had been listening from the landing and seen fit to hide himself somewhere. Although, thinking about it, there definitely wasn’t any space in her wardrobe, or under her bed, and the laundry basket would only have just about been big enough to provide a suitable hideaway for Paddington Bear.

  ‘Great. Now, why don’t you go and rest? I’ll come and wake you when I’ve finished faffing down here and we can argue over toppings. I’ll even let you have pineapple on half of it if you want.’ It was an overwhelming gesture of love and compromise. Clare hated pineapple.

  ‘Really, no—I’m fine down here. It’s nice to see you…’ Lizzie spotted the gerberas in the sink. ‘Oh, Clare, you’ve bought me flowers. You shouldn’t have…’ Lizzie wished she hadn’t. She was feeling more guilt-ridden by the second. ‘How are things at work?’

  Lizzie perched on the sofa and sipped at her mug of tea. Clare totally ignored her question.

  ‘Well, at least let me go and get your duvet so you can snuggle up down here.’

  ‘No, no. Don’t worry. I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all. It’ll take me ten seconds.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine,’ Lizzie snapped.

  And when Clare got over the initial shock she was suspicious. She changed tack and put her sympathy to one side. It hadn’t got her anywhere so far.

  ‘Elizabeth Ford, there’s no need to bite my head off. Listen, you’re a grown-up, and you pay good money to live here, and no one—certainly not me—is going to bring you your duvet or force you to go back to bed if you don’t want to. But I know you well enough to know that something’s up. And, while I can’t make you tell me anything, I think I deserve a little bit of honesty. I’m worried. You’ve got a lot on your plate and I’m only trying to help, but if you’d rather battle on by yourself then that’s fine.’

  The way Clare spat the last sentence out, Lizzie knew that it wasn’t fine at all.

  Now she’d pissed Clare off and soon Matt wasn’t going to be too fond of her either. The master plan was backfiring. Tears sprang to her eyes. Clare’s expression instantly softened.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Sorry. I haven’t been altogether up front with you recently. I didn’t think I needed to tell you because I thought it wouldn’t be necessary, I thought I could deal with everything on my own, but obviously I can’t.’ Lizzie wiped her tears on her sleeve.

  Clare felt herself tense with concern. Her hunch had been vindicated. There was something going on.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘The reason I don’t want you to go upstairs is because there’s someone up there.’

  ‘Upstairs…’

  Suddenly she understood. Clare was slightly taken aback, but if Lizzie needed to have sex to get over her recent setback then who was she to stand in her way? As she got used to the idea her mood transformed. The jammy so and so. She should have guessed—the rebound reaction was certainly well tried and tested. Clare wondered what he was like. She giggled as she tried to picture the current occupant of Lizzie’s bed. It all made sense now. Did Lizzie honestly think she was so judgmental? If anything she was a little envious. Sometimes she wished she could be a little less uptight about the whole meaningless sex thing. But the last time she’d had a one-night stand was last century.
Intimacy scared her. It could only upset the even keel which had taken her over a year to establish. Clare Williamson had become a self-protection guru.

  ‘Good on you, Liz. Well—who is he and where did you find him?’

  Clare smiled encouragingly at Lizzie, who couldn’t have been looking any more grave if she’d tried. It was only sex, for heaven’s sake, not nuclear war. And this was the sort of excitement that Clare was only too happy to enjoy vicariously.

  ‘Actually, you know him already.’

  Clare racked her brains for eligible young and not so young men. Then she moved onto the not so eligible category. It couldn’t be Colin from downstairs. He was definitely one hundred per cent gay. She stared at Lizzie, hoping for something in her expression to give her a clue. But as Lizzie refused to meet her gaze Clare’s concern turned to anger. Anger was shortly followed by fury. The changes of mood seemed beyond her control. Before she knew it she was shouting. Loudly.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it? You’re still fucking Matt.’

  Lizzie recoiled at the undiluted aggression now coming from Clare. And only a minute ago she’d been standing there claiming that she wanted to help.

  ‘How could you, Liz? He’s married. He’s got a wife. After everything I’ve been through. All the tears I cried on your shoulder. I can’t believe you…and to think that I came home early because I was worried about you… Jesus, Liz. What the fuck are you playing at?’

  Lizzie didn’t think she’d ever seen Clare so furious and upset all at once. Instinctively she tried to calm things down.

  ‘I’m sorry, Clare…’

  ‘Well, obviously not that fucking sorry. I can’t believe you. How the fuck did you get to be an agony aunt in the first place? You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself.’

  ‘I wanted to tell you, but… Look…it’s over now. I should’ve listened to you earlier. You were right; it can never work out…’

  Lizzie wondered if Clare was actually listening. Her eyes were dancing with rage and disappointment.

  ‘Really, this afternoon was the last time. I know I’ve been stupid, but I can’t help it. I love him and I suppose I was hoping for a miracle.’

  ‘Screw up your life. See if I fucking care.’

  Clare couldn’t listen any more. Everything was muted by the sound of blood rushing furiously in her ears. She stormed past Lizzie, up the stairs and into her room. Her door slammed. Lizzie wanted to follow her, but first she had to usher Matt out of the war zone.

  He was dressed and sitting on her bed quietly. From his shell-shocked and timid demeanour Lizzie imagined he’d heard every syllable.

  ‘Oops.’ It was English understatement at its most masterful.

  Lizzie sat down next to him. She was shaking. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’

  ‘I’d better go.’

  Lizzie couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead she spoke directly to his shoulder. ‘I don’t think this is going to work any more. Go back to Rachel. Give it your best shot. Maybe there’s still a chance. You don’t need all this extra hassle…and neither do I.’

  Matt looked at Lizzie incredulously. ‘You’re upset. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I do know. I just should have said it a lot earlier.’

  ‘But you just told Clare that you loved me.’

  ‘God, I was stupid to see you again once I knew… Anyway if you were eavesdropping properly you’ll also know that I told her that this afternoon was the last time.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ Matt gave Lizzie a kiss and then did a good job of getting the hell out of the flat.

  The front lock had barely clicked shut when Lizzie knocked on Clare’s door. There was no answer. But Lizzie knew she was in there. She just started talking.

  ‘Clare. Please. Let me explain. I couldn’t tell you because I knew how you’d react. I wanted to. I can’t bear it when we fight.’

  ‘Well, you should have thought about that before you opted to be the other woman.’

  Clare’s voice was cold and controlled. On balance, Lizzie thought she preferred the hysterical shouting and swearing stage.

  ‘It’s complicated. More complicated than you know. I know I’ve got to end it. I have ended it. But it’s like we can’t keep away from each other. I know it doesn’t make sense, and it’s been hell trying to deal with it all by myself.’

  ‘It hasn’t been great being the one who’s left out either, believe me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Clare. Please, let’s get that pizza. Let’s talk.’

  ‘You’ve left it a bit late, don’t you think? If you want time on your own, you’ve got it. As much as you bloody well like. Get him to invent a business trip. Then you two can shag all day, every day and run around the flat with no clothes on while his wife sits at home. Don’t worry. I realise there isn’t room in your love triangle for anyone else…’

  Clare finally opened the door to her room and to Lizzie’s horror she could see that she had been crying. Worse still, she had packed a bag.

  ‘If I hadn’t come home early today you wouldn’t have told me, would you? No, of course you wouldn’t. Why not? Because you knew how I would take it. Badly. You of all people. You know how gutted I was when I found out that Joe had been unfaithful. I know you were lured in unsuspectingly at the beginning, and I was here for you, but for the last few weeks you’ve been totally selfish. You’ve hurt me, you’ll hurt his wife, you’ll hurt him, you’ll hurt yourself. It’s a no-win situation for a mistress…’

  Mistress. The word resounded for a second as Clare paused for breath mid-tirade. Labels, in Lizzie’s opinion, were for clothes. And this was the ultimate in unfashionable brands.

  ‘Do you know what hurts the most?’

  Clare paused for a split second. Lizzie waited. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Whatever she said at this point was bound to be wrong.

  ‘That you knew all that. You knew exactly what you were doing and yet you still carried on. Day after day after day. Look, I know I’m probably overreacting, but I need some time to calm down and I can’t do it here. I’m going home. You blew me away with this one. I’m sorry, Liz, but I’m really disappointed in you.’

  Frozen to the spot, she listened to Clare walking down the stairs, her feet heavy with disgust. The door slammed. Lizzie was alone. All alone. In every sense of the word. She slumped to the floor and sobbed.

  chapter 17

  When the doorbell rang eleven days after that fateful Wednesday Lizzie was in full tracksuit-bottomed despair and currently running the experiment on her hair that she had so often wondered about. Apparently if you left it for long enough it sort of washed itself. She was still waiting. And when Lizzie saw Matt standing forlornly on the doorstep she wished she hadn’t let herself go quite so much. Then again, she knew she had to send him away, however hard it felt. She’d managed to ignore the faceless phone messages and e-mails, but this was much harder. Matt followed her up the stairs in silence, and as they sat down opposite each other in the sitting room he was the first to speak.

  ‘How are you?’

  She looked terrible. She knew she did. But she also knew that she had to be strong. Matt was worried.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I wish I was…’

  Lizzie was doing a very good impression of a bloodhound. Her nose was indulging itself in the faintest trace of the familiar aftershave that had followed him up the stairs. Drawing on every milligram of will-power, she resisted the now almost compulsive urge she had to bound over to the chair and dissolve into his chest. Her head was aching with the effort.

  ‘I love you, Lizzie. I can’t stop thinking about you. Even more now than before.’ It was true. Matt felt as if he was wading knee-deep through mud on a daily basis. He’d never felt like this before. His self-diagnosis: lovesick with a hint of self-loathing. Prognosis: apparently terminal. He didn’t know what to do.
He was running on instinct.

  Lizzie was torn. In all her years of unfulfilled dating—and there had been many—the only people who’d been this keen on her had been the ones that she wasn’t really interested in at all. Perhaps she had stumbled unsuspectingly into the plot of a Shakespearean tale of unrequited love, a West End musical, or even an opera. She’d seen it all before. Boy meets girl, circumstances—convention, religion, family feud, skin colour, class—dictate that they can’t be together, so they agonise to close friends, children and wild animals of the forest, before moping—and singing—for about an hour and then, after the interval, just when they think they can’t cope any more, something happens.

  Heartache had always been big business. But there was no happy ending in sight. Not in Putney. Not today.

  ‘You only think you love me. We both know it’s the thing you can’t have that you always want the most.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s changed?’ Here he was, finally face to face with Lizzie, and she remained as steely as she’d been when he’d seen her last. She couldn’t really mean it, but he didn’t know how to prove it. And the only person in the world that he could confide in was sitting opposite him, her arms firmly folded.

  ‘Me…’ Even at this intensely painful time Lizzie could see the funny side of this statement. A few more chocolate biscuits and a velour tracksuit and Waynetta Slob would have a serious rival vying for her place on the three-piece suite. ‘Matt, you tricked me. I’ve never been interested in being the other woman. Ever. I want to be the only woman. The one. The one you can’t live without. The one you have to tear yourself away from in the morning and the one you want to come home to at night. I can’t deal with being plan B, the one in reserve, second best.’

  ‘Liz, it was an accident—’

  Matt interrupted himself. He’d done it again. As soon as his mouth had closed behind the third syllable he’d known it was a mistake. He started again. Second time lucky.