Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  ‘What drivel, Liz. You’re being pathetic and you know it.’

  Lizzie reluctantly took the proffered handset from Clare and then promptly gave it back. ‘Please. I just don’t know where to start. Anyway, sending me to stay with her was your idea not mine.’

  And so Clare rang Annie.

  Annie Ford didn’t come to the flat very often. Lizzie hadn’t given her mother a key to try and discourage spontaneous visits and general snooping, but when she did visit she certainly made the most of it. In anticipation Clare had embarked on a mammoth fold-and-put-away-athon and wiped all the surfaces down. Thanks to her industry Annie’s self-guided tour-cum-nose-around-and-run-a-finger-along-the-shelves wasn’t going to take very long.

  Clare went down to answer the door. Lizzie was currently staring into her wardrobe and wondering what to pack. What did you take into the emotional and professional wilderness? She didn’t seem to have a white floaty kaftan number anywhere, even though she could have sworn she’d bought something similar from Oasis a couple of years ago in the whole Moroccan boho look that had never really been designed for her. Oh, well. It was going to have to be jeans. She was going to have to do her retreat in denim. But then she spotted her white waffle dressing gown, perfect for a crisis, and threw it into her bag to join the mounting collection of items that each had their individual merits but didn’t really go with each other. A comfort blanket of a T-shirt went in next.

  ‘I got here as soon as I could. We always play Bridge on Thursday afternoons and I couldn’t let the girls down. You know how it is.’

  Clare wasn’t sure that she did know how it was. She wasn’t an afficionado herself, but as far as she could remember Bridge was a card game and Lizzie was a daughter. But, to be fair, she supposed it wasn’t a life or death situation—and maybe when she got to Annie’s age and lived on her own she’d be set in her ways too. She liked her regular appointments. She needed to feel needed. Luckily for Annie, needy was Lizzie’s new middle name.

  ‘How is she?’ Annie was worried. Clare had given her very little information over the phone.

  ‘She’s been better. She just needs a bit of TLC, an alcohol-free environment and some time to think.’

  ‘What on earth has happened? And why do I always feel that I’m the last person to know? We used to be so close, you know, we were best friends…’

  Clare smiled. Somehow she doubted it. Closer than most, yes, but best friends…? Annie had always liked to think that despite the dysfunction all around her she had raised the perfect family.

  ‘Now she never tells me anything… Is it a man thing or a work thing? And what about her show tonight? Oh, God, she hasn’t been sacked, has she?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘Of course not. She’s fantastic at her job; you know that.’

  Annie at least had the decency to look apologetic. ‘Of course. Of course I do. But she can’t just let everyone down at the last minute.’

  ‘Don’t worry, the station are getting cover for her. She’s really in no fit state…’

  Annie tut-tutted. No wonder Lizzie had a complex about getting a stand-in.

  ‘Look, I’ll let her fill you in. She’s very upset, though, so please go easy on her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Despite Annie’s reassurance to the contrary, Clare knew that she would employ her entire repertoire of extortion tactics as soon as she was on her own with Lizzie.

  Lizzie had pulled herself together for her mother. She was incredibly pale, and there wasn’t enough Optrex in the world to make her eyes sparkle, but she was doing her very best and Clare was proud of her.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ As Annie hugged Lizzie the familiar scents of Imperial Leather and Chanel N° 5 washed over her, and Lizzie felt herself relax. She hated to admit it but it was a relief to know that she was going to be looked after for the next few days. She was only too ready to opt out of being a grown-up for a while.

  ‘Hello, darling. You’ve gone and got yourself into a right pickle again, haven’t you?’

  Lizzie’s projected idyll of the next few days shattered. Pickle. She was a single woman in her thirties with a huge fucking crisis on her hands. She was not, however, in, next to, or remotely close to…a pickle. Maybe Hampstead was a spectacularly bad idea. She stole a glance at Clare, who was struggling to control the corners of her mouth which were definitely upturned in light of the whole pickle moment.

  Annie stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘You’ve always been a one. Jonathan was so easy. Look at him now. Lovely wife, wonderful children, and you—well, you’ve done fantastically well at work, but you’ve never really managed to settle. You need some stability. But you probably get it from your father. He was difficult to live with. Always wanted everything on his own terms…’

  Lizzie could feel herself prickling. All she wanted was a bit of innocuous everything-will-be-all-right-if-you-just-eat-this-biscuit-and-drink-this-cup-of-tea. But then she realised she’d picked the wrong mother for that.

  ‘Has this whole thing got anything to do with that chap who sent you flowers at Christmas time? Or that dishy guy from the agency Alex and I caught you having lunch with in Richmond?’

  Trust her mother, now in her sixties, to still have a photographic memory.

  Clare’s eyebrows shot skywards. She didn’t know anything about man number two. Lizzie decided to clear it up straight away. No more secrets.

  ‘It has everything to do with him. It was the same guy.’

  ‘But he had a different…’ Annie spoke slowly and then stopped herself triumphantly when she worked it out for herself. ‘Ahhh…I see…’

  She wasn’t exactly Agatha Christie. A name-change was hardly the most cunning of disguises, but it had done the trick. Masterful.

  A quick glance across to Clare and Lizzie was thrilled to note that on this occasion she looked relieved rather than disapproving. They were definitely making progress. Annie, encouraged by her moment of detection, hadn’t finished yet. Her opinions were always valued—well, she’d always thought so.

  ‘You’re still looking for the one, aren’t you? I blame those books you used to read as a child. You know—the ones about doctors and nurses and true love.’

  ‘Mum. Stop it. Sorry I can’t be more like good old Jonathan and Alex. And I’m sorry I remind you of Dad. I know how much of a disappointment I must be for you. No husband, no children, and a career where I get to say masturbate and orgasm on the radio…’

  Annie looked decidedly unflustered. If Lizzie was going to try and provoke a reaction she was going to have to try a lot harder than that.

  ‘Anyway, just for your information, this time I thought I had met the perfect man. It wasn’t my fault that he was married and didn’t tell me. Besides, it’s not like you and Dad got it fantastically right, is it? You of all people should know about the realities of relationships.’

  Her mother paused for a moment before replying. Just long enough to make a point. To let her daughter know that the invisible mark had been overstepped. Lizzie knew her last comment had been a bit underhand, but she didn’t need her mother making her feel useless. She’d managed to do that all by herself.

  ‘Mum, it’s not as simple as it first appears. I promise I’ll fill you in with as much detail as you want when we get home. Even I can’t believe how complicated it’s all become.’

  Clare nodded supportively and beamed at Annie, hoping to melt her approach just a fraction.

  ‘OK, darling, I’m only trying to help. You know how much I love you.’

  Sometimes, Lizzie thought to herself. Sometimes.

  ‘Let’s get going. Why don’t we get an Indian takeaway tonight and you can fill me in? I think I’ve even got some of that beer in bottles that you like.’

  Lizzie didn’t like to ruin the moment by asking her how old they were. Annie had a well-intentioned habit of filling her cupboards with things that Lizzie had once mentioned that she ‘quite liked’ and had been buying Hob Nobs religiously since the
day Lizzie had once stated a preference for them when she was at university. She took a bottle of red wine from the rack in the kitchen and stuffed it into her bag. Just in case.

  Clare piled Lizzie’s bags into the car and promised to bring anything she’d forgotten when she popped in to visit. Her mother just stopped short of fastening her seat belt for her. Talk about undermining her sense of self. For the second time in ten minutes Lizzie wondered how on earth Clare had talked her into this.

  Clare waved them off before returning to the flat, and would have rolled her sleeves up if she hadn’t been wearing a T-shirt. She had a plan of sorts. Well, at least a starting point. She went into Lizzie’s study and turned on the computer.

  chapter 23

  ‘Won’t be a minute, mate.’

  Matt wrestled with his keys before flinging the front door open and legging it up to the bedroom in search of his trainers. Tennis after work. Who was he kidding? He hadn’t watched a game since Boris Becker had won his first Wimbledon and he hadn’t wielded a racket for at least five years. He’d just have to wing it and pray his body remembered what hand-eye co-ordination was all about.

  But tonight wasn’t about skill. According to reliable sources, James was soon going to have a spare room. Ritualistic humiliation on an astro-turf court was a small price to pay for an exit route. Matt was hatching a long-overdue plan. Whatever happened next, things had to change.

  Now, standing in the bedroom—their bedroom—in the unfamiliar and soulless early-evening silence, he felt a momentary pang of something. Hunger? He consulted his watch. Probably. He loved this house, but in the last few months it had ceased to feel like home.

  Since last night Rachel had been treating him worse than ever. He couldn’t blame her for that. But amazingly, despite the subsequent showdown, she still wasn’t listening. He’d apologised, then tried to explain, told her the truth. She said she wasn’t interested in what she dismissed as his opinion and that it would all be fine in a few months. She refused to get the message. Said that he deserved to suffer. But as usual she was missing the point. He’d been suffering for months. Rachel wasn’t the only injured party. This wasn’t just about her.

  Over the past few weeks he’d spent countless hours trying to see things from Lizzie’s point of view. At best he’d been a naïve, indecisive, two-timing, dithering male. At worst he’d been devious and calculating. It was time for him to take control. He should have done this months ago.

  A sliver of hope was enough to power him for now. He’d sent Lizzie flowers to pave the way, but he hadn’t called. After everything she’d been through it was time to show her that he meant what he’d said. Actions speaking louder than words and all that jazz. He didn’t want to imitate the perennial Nick Hornby anti-hero, the too nice boy who got it wrong or left it too late; he wanted the happy ending. He wanted emotional completeness. And right now he wanted his left Nike… He glimpsed a lace protruding from under a pile of clothes by the window and, rummaging to the bottom, found the missing trainer.

  He hoped James was feeling compassionate.

  Maybe Lizzie had been right. Maybe Rachel wasn’t the perfect wife that Clare had presumed her to be. Anyway, she couldn’t just sit around—and Lizzie was currently in as fit a state to help herself as your average suicide bomber. It was time for Clare to take matters into her own hands. Not in some mad vigilante sawn-off-shotgun-drive-by-shooting manner but in the old-fashioned way, by talking.

  Her detective work had paid off. She’d located all Rachel’s contact numbers from the autosignature at the bottom of her e-mails, but there was one immediate psychological hurdle. From the lengthy disclaimer that preceded every message sent by Rachel Clare now knew that she worked at CDH. Not high on her list of places to swing by, the D being for Dexter—Joe Dexter—chief love rat and ex-husband—the latter, a piece of life’s baggage collection which still sounded like something she was far too young to have. But if Clare wanted to see Rachel she’d have to go back to a building filled with ghosts from a previous life. She’d definitely hated him then, but if she was honest she was mellowing in her approach. However, forgiveness in absentia was one thing. Face to face was another.

  She dug out her best black trouser suit for the occasion and at 4:30 p.m. on Friday afternoon she swept into the eerily familiar reception area. She was hoping to catch Rachel off her guard, but first she had to get the full attention of the receptionist.

  ‘Clare Dexter…my God it is you. How the devil are you? Long time no see.’

  A familiar voice, still steeped with plum. Clare wheeled. Ed Wallace. One of Joe’s better-looking, more genuine friends.

  ‘Ed? God. A blast from the past. I didn’t know you worked here.’

  A blast from the past? Had she really said that? Aloud? Next she’d be adding ‘jolly good wheeze’ to her vernacular. She must be nervous if she was allowing her Enid Blyton back-catalogue of well-loved idioms to run riot. She was seriously in danger of being fifty years out of date—quite an achievement when you were only thirty-three years old.

  ‘I don’t. I think Joe would quite like to get me on board, but until he makes me an offer I can’t refuse I’m just visiting.’

  ‘That makes two of us. I’ve just popped in to see Rachel Baker.’ Please don’t ask me what about. Please don’t ask me what about. Clare was saved from having to fabricate a reason for her meeting. Ed didn’t seem at all interested in why she was in the building.

  ‘So what are you up to these days? You’re looking gorgeous. Black really suits you. Very sophisticated.’

  Ed had always been a smoothie. Who didn’t look good in black? But a compliment never went amiss.

  ‘I’m still doing the restaurant thing.’

  ‘Fantastic. That place worked out, did it? Great… Whereabouts was it again? Sorry—you know what I’m like…memory not my forte. Sometimes I struggle to remember where I live at the end of the day. Please don’t take it personally.’

  ‘I won’t. It’s in Notting Hill.’

  ‘You trendy young thing.’

  ‘Not so young and not so trendy these days, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s it called again? God, I’m hopeless. Good job I’ve never got married. I’d probably have trouble remembering her name.’

  ‘Why do you think so many couples call each other darling?’

  ‘Ha! Good point. I’d never thought about it like that.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s called Union Jack’s.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it…’

  ‘Probably from me…’

  ‘No. No. Oh, ye of little faith… Just give me a minute. British food with a twist and the odd celebbo hanging out there?’

  Clare smiled and nodded. The power of celebrity never ceased to amaze her. Why was it that if people had been on television or in a magazine they were instantly more interesting?

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So what on earth brings you to CDH on a Friday evening? Hot date?’ For some reason Clare blushed. Nothing could be further from the truth. ‘Does JD know you’re here?’

  JD was what Joe had been called at college. Ed had endured three years at London University with him and so had earned the right to call him by his initials.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Such a shame, you know.’

  ‘Ed…’

  ‘I know, I know—none of my business. I just thought that you two… I mean, he’ll never…’

  ‘This is your first official warning, Mr Wallace.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘It’s a long time ago now. In two months we’ll have been divorced for two years.’

  ‘Is it really? Unbelievable.’

  A silence. Awkward? Reflective? Just a natural break? It was hard to tell.

  Clare had always liked Ed. He was just one of the many casualties of her divorce, when people who had been ‘their’ friends had all regrouped into the ‘mine and yours’ camps post decree nisi. A shame. Ed could always be counted o
n to be hugely entertaining. Usually at his own expense.

  ‘So, have you got to dash off right now or have you got time for a quick beer for old times’ sake? I’ve got to be at some hideous leaving party later, but I don’t have to leave for an hour or so.’

  Clare looked at her watch. 4:35. She could spare half an hour. ‘That would be lovely.’ She really meant it. Ed Wallace was good for the soul. And a sip of Dutch, French, Australian or even Russian courage wouldn’t go amiss.

  After the standard What are you up to? and Where are you living? lines of questioning, and tongues loosened by an inter-beer round of vodka and tonic, they moved onto mutual acquaintances. Luckily Ed, like most blokes she knew, was only too happy to volunteer all the information he had on everyone she asked about.

  Fortunately, Clare mused, men have never really grasped the tactics necessary for a good gossip. Ed hadn’t saved up any ammunition to exchange for more confidential info from Clare later. But thanks to his candour Clare now knew that Joe was still not in a serious relationship and strangely she was pleased. To bolster her ego further, in an equally only-makes-sense-if-you’re-female way, Ed harped on a bit more about the fact that everyone had thought that Joe would never find anyone as special as Clare again—although he couldn’t be sure whether anyone had bothered to tell Joe that was what they’d thought at the time, or just tacitly bought him a few beers to help him deal with putting it all behind him.

  Ed grilled Clare about her love life and Clare did her utmost to make it sound a little less than non-existent. She knew that any information would be relayed to Joe and so adopted the enigmatic smile, less is more approach, disclosing nothing, which Ed fortunately and predictably took to mean everything. Ed lapped it all up as Clare ordered another round and started to make her excuses. Five-fifteen. She couldn’t afford to miss Rachel.

  Ed, it seemed, had another twenty questions.

  ‘So you’re here to see Charlie’s Angel. Business or pleasure? I didn’t realise you knew her.’