Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  ‘And maybe there’s more to Rachel’s U-turn than meets the eye.’ As soon as she heard the words spill out of her mouth Clare regretted it. Lizzie was terrier-like in her inability to let things go, and from the glint in her best friend’s eye she knew she was about to wish she hadn’t had that last glass of wine. Lizzie was on her case at once.

  ‘Clare Williamson. Spit it out.’

  ‘I just said maybe… Maybe she and Matt are getting on so well now that she doesn’t mind if you keep your job or not.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Clare had to admit it was a fairly far-fetched theory, but it was the only one that had sprung to mind in the heat of the moment. She decided to feign total ignorance. ‘How would I know anything?’

  ‘God knows. But you can’t just sit there and go all Jessica Fletcher on me and expect me to buy it. When do you ever say “more to it than meets the eye”?’

  ‘I’ve just started.’

  ‘Clare…’

  That was it. One unit of alcohol too many coupled with a general level of pride in what she had achieved on Lizzie’s behalf and it all came flooding out.

  Lizzie just sat there, her mouth not quite open and not quite closed, as she tried to digest the latest chapter in her very own love triangle.

  ‘But, listen, I’m only telling you all this so you don’t make a career decision that you come to regret.’

  Clare still wasn’t quite sure how her confession had come about and was deep in self-justification mode. Lizzie was oblivious to her protracted flannelling. Mentally she was miles away. Her Putney-based persona remained mute for a moment. When she did regain the power of speech her sentences were short and sporadic.

  ‘Cocaine. I don’t believe it. No wonder Matt thought she was moody.’

  ‘Hey, Liz. This mustn’t become public knowledge. I struck a deal, remember…’

  Lizzie wasn’t really listening. All this discussion of Rachel’s darker side had led her subconscious to progress naturally to her husband. She wondered if Matt knew. There was absolutely no way she could tell him, but maybe someone else could. But who? Or maybe Clare really was right. Maybe it was time to move on.

  Clare was now panicking fully at her indiscretion. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I mean it, Liz. I know you. Look at me. N-o-b-o-d-y.’

  ‘But what if Matt doesn’t know?’

  ‘You see. I know you. You mustn’t tell a soul. No one. Personne. Nadie. Niemant. Not even in confidence. Anyway, for all you know they freebase together.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Well, you don’t know that they don’t.’

  Lizzie ignored Clare. She didn’t want to think of Matt and Rachel flinging themselves at each other or swinging from the ceiling rose during ardent coke-fuelled nights of passion. ‘Hardly Little Miss Squeaky Clean, is she? And to think she had the balls to try and lecture me on ethics and moral codes. What a bloody cheek.’

  ‘Listen, Liz, I don’t think you’ve earned the right to gloat. You were sleeping with her husband while you were giving her advice on how to save her marriage, remember?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  It was true. But gloating was much more fun.

  ‘Look, I only did what I had to. I didn’t want you to lose everything because of one mistake, but don’t even think for a minute that you’re off the hook as far as sleeping with a man that you knew was married goes.’

  ‘I know. I know…’

  Lizzie’s mind was still struggling to come to terms with all the information. As she recapped the latest developments, the significance of what Clare had done while she’d been loafing about, picking her feet and watching Countdown under house arrest in Hampstead, hit her.

  ‘Well, I suppose I should be thanking you. Even if you were interfering behind my back.’ Lizzie beamed at Clare to demonstrate that she was just joking on this occasion. She didn’t want to run the risk of any misunderstandings. ‘There I was feeling sorry for myself, and you were masterminding my future… What can I say?’

  Lizzie was visibly moved. All the effort made her feel very special. Not something she’d felt for quite some time.

  Clare smiled and drained her glass to wash down the newly formed lump in her throat. She was enjoying the appreciation and relishing the feel-good moment of having done a good deed. On reflection, and finally out of the proverbial woods, it had been worth every angst-filled moment. Despite the panic of the last few minutes, it looked as if everything might just work out after all.

  ‘Would Miss Marple care for some more wine?’ Lizzie smiled at Clare as she filled her glass and emptied the bottle.

  chapter 27

  Getting the bus had seemed such a great idea at the time. A chance to take in the bit of London that she was usually underground for—the romantic’s alternative to the claustrophobic, energy-sapping hot filth of the tube. But now the bus was practically stationary on Oxford Street, and time marched on irreverently as Lizzie stared powerlessly from the top deck. People strode past and disappeared into distant crowds while the double-decker crept along a paving stone at a time. She was trapped.

  There was always the get-off-and-run-the-last-half-mile option, but her impractical shoes coupled with a generally non-existent level of fitness would guarantee a totally dishevelled arrival—if indeed she made it at all. Plus, from past experience, she knew that the second her foot hit the pavement the bus would accelerate into the distance, coating her with a black puff of pure carbon monoxide from its petticoat of dirt. So she sat tight and watched the second hand on her watch complete another circuit of the dial. Just on the off-chance that she might have persuaded herself that perhaps her watch had gained ten minutes since she’d left Putney, the Selfridges clock, just to her left and at top deck eye-level, struck one. She was now officially late.

  Perhaps getting the tube from Bond Street to Green Park would be quicker? Or hailing a cab? She doubted it. Rupert Street wasn’t far. Maybe a brisk fifteen-minute walk would be the best option. Fifteen minutes late was better than a coronary and a no-show. Anyway, fifteen minutes late was the norm for some people. She was just going to have to learn to go with the flow a little bit more. Susan was never on time anyway.

  Despite her attempts at rationale, Lizzie could feel her pulse increasing. She gathered her things together and decided to break for the pavement.

  Just as she got to her feet the bus lurched forward as it finally but assertively ground through the lower gears, and, having managed to regain her composure with the help of a fortuitously placed handrail, Lizzie opted to see how far they got before she made a decision.

  As they finally rumbled into Regent Street she could almost see the finish line. She bent her knees slightly to help with the whole stop-start balance thing and willed the bus to speed up just a little bit for the final leg of her journey.

  Against all the odds, Lizzie’s life had returned to a surprisingly high level of normality, and she’d thrown herself at her work with the enthusiasm and energy known only to those who have been given a reprieve. She added adultery to her list of specialist subjects, and as she read the contents of her postbag slowly came to realise that maybe she’d elevated Matt to pedestal level without him really having earned it. However great they had been together, it had always been a lie.

  At the back of her mind she was still worried that Rachel had the upper hand. As far as Lizzie could see there was nothing to stop her leaking her story and twisting the truth to a few hack journalists at a later date, once her campaign was over. Lizzie couldn’t help feeling that maybe it was time to move into a different sphere of writing or broadcasting altogether, so she’d decided to seek advice from the woman who had been largely responsible for her present niche—Susan Sharples. She was the one who’d seen her potential as a new breed of agony aunt and Lizzie respected her vision. Plus, Lizzie hoped, she wasn’t the sort of woman that you could shock easily. Bus permitting, she was
on her way to Café Fish to confess all.

  Lizzie finally gave up on London transport outside Hamleys and half-walked, half-jogged the final leg, arriving fashionably late at 1:17 p.m. Sophistication had deserted her. She might have looked quite smart when she’d left the house, all blow-dried and perfumed, but now her look was more distressed. Well, just stressed. Her cheeks had taken on the deep crimson hue that always characterised any exercise that Lizzie endured for more than a minute, and were now a beautiful contrast to the pale blue of her cardigan. And while the cashmere was doing wonders to soften her appearance it was failing miserably in its promise to be cool in summer.

  Either way, Lizzie wished that she’d opted to wear a little top underneath. She didn’t think the crowd at the restaurant were ready for her slightly sweaty M&S bra lunchtime look. She flapped her arms a couple of times in an attempt to let convection take place and assist her under-arm protection—currently working on overtime and about to take issue with its union about having to work through its lunch-hour—before firmly pulling the push door while the welcome committee of waiters looked on in amusement.

  If you’d looked closely, you would have observed her already rosy cheeks growing a little redder.

  She puffed her name at the maître d’.

  ‘Ford, Lizzie. Table for two. Probably booked in the name of Sharples.’

  He ran his perfectly manicured finger up and down the reservations list. Lizzie had seen their booking long before he found it, but knew better than to point it out to him. Besides, this was valuable getting-her-breath-back time. As he finally found her name Lizzie felt she had to apologise.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late.’

  He ignored her, and in so doing instilled the confidence of a twelve-year-old in his slightly flustered client, before turning on his well-polished heel and leading Lizzie to a booth where Susan was waiting, killing time—and a few brain cells—with a mobile phone call. It was the first time that Susan had beaten Lizzie to a venue, ever.

  Susan, characteristically unfazed by anything, said her goodbyes and stood to greet Lizzie. After an exchange of mwah-mwah air kisses Lizzie was pleased to be sitting down. Her shins were now smarting from the jog in her slight heels—which, Lizzie had decided before leaving home, were more appropriate for their meeting than boots or trainers.

  ‘Lizzie. Darling. Are you OK? You look very, um, flushed.’ Susan turned to the waiter now hovering behind Lizzie to take the jacket that she’d just bundled up on the seat next to her and addressed him with some urgency. ‘A bottle of still mineral water, please. Two glasses. Ice and lemon.’ Her tone was a verbal click of her fingers and as she ordered she nodded towards Lizzie to indicate the priority treatment she felt they deserved. Lizzie unrolled her jacket and shook it out apologetically as she handed it to him. His duties complete, he vanished at once in search of water.

  ‘I’m fine. I was just running a bit late and thought I’d jog the last few metres.’

  Susan looked at her in disbelief. Jogging was something that she only did in the presence of her personal trainer, and certainly not in kitten heels. ‘Well, let’s get the ordering out of the way and then we can get down to gossip.’

  Lizzie wasn’t going to let her down on that front; she was sure of it.

  They studied the menu, their silence only punctuated by the occasional self-absorbed mutter as they sounded out their options and tried to decide whether their palates would prefer buttered skate or seared scallops. They had successfully whittled the menu down to a couple of dishes, when a tall, dark French waiter joined them brandishing a little blackboard. His role: to throw their almost-made choices into disarray.

  ‘Good alfternoon, ladies. May I draw your attention to zer specials of tooday?’

  Without looking at each other, Lizzie and Susan both sat up a little straighter to give the monsieur their undivided attention.

  ‘We haf for you a deleecious deesh of wild sea bass. Gently pan-fried with a delicate sawce of the mushroom and spinach, served with a bake of potato, cheese and shallot.’

  Lizzie and Susan were both salivating, although from the amount of hair flicking and direct eye contact going on opposite Lizzie it appeared that Susan was as taken with the waiter as she was at the prospect of sea bass. He must be almost half her age.

  ‘Or, if you fancy something cold…’

  Did he look at Lizzie then, or was she just feeling self-conscious? Thanks to the recently poured mineral water she had actually stopped sweating now.

  ‘…today we have a dressed lobster with a salad of mixed herb leafes and a light limon dressing.’

  ‘I think I’m just going to have to go for the wild sea bass.’ Susan lingered just a little too long over the ‘wild’, and almost created a small breeze in the W1 area with the rapid fluttering of her eyelashes. Lizzie had to sip her water to prevent a snigger escaping. Susan was shameless…and a thoroughly entertaining lunch companion. Waiter aside, however, Lizzie had to admit that it did sound good—even if she was sure there was no such thing as tame sea bass and the ‘wild’ was probably pure marketing.

  ‘I’ll have the same, please.’

  ‘He was rather nice,’ Susan whispered just a little too loudly to be discreet. ‘I love this place. Full of young red-blooded Frenchmen. In my prime I was always a sucker for a bit of a foreign accent…beats the Croydon twang hands-down every time!’

  Lizzie had never seen the attraction of surly Gallic men—nor their Croydon counterparts—but laughed and nodded conspiratorially with her editor, whom she imagined had once been a bit of a man-eater. Luckily for the young waiter, it seemed she had moved on to fish. Susan took the initiative.

  ‘So how are you, Lizzie? We haven’t had a proper chat in ages…’

  By ‘proper chat’ she meant a good gossip. Lizzie could feel a new wave of totally non-exercise-related heat sweeping across the surface of her skin underneath her cardigan.

  ‘Still happy at Out Loud?’

  ‘Oh, very. You know I love my job.’

  ‘Well, you’re very good at it, and the readers love you, so we love you too.’

  ‘Thanks. How’s circulation?’

  ‘Levelled off a bit in the last couple of months, but overall still increasing. No mean feat when you look at the new titles out there now.’

  ‘That’s good…’ Lizzie wasn’t really listening. She was actually rehearsing her next sentence in her head. And there was only a slight pause before she decided that the sooner she got her hidden agenda off her chest, the sooner she could relax and actually enjoy the complimentary croutons and fish pãté. She took a sip of water and cleared her throat before continuing. ‘Actually, Susan, I wanted to ask your advice about something.’

  ‘Really?’ Susan leant forward, her chin practically resting on Lizzie’s side of the table with the anticipation of a potentially juicy titbit. ‘Personal or professional?’

  ‘Professional…although it was my personal life that got me into this mess in the first place.’

  Susan remained motionless, determined not to miss a syllable.

  ‘Well…’ Lizzie took a deep breath ‘…I wanted to talk to you about my options. About the possibility of me moving away from the agony aunting side of things and maybe doing something a little less emotional—something a little less hands-on with people.’

  Susan leant back against the wall of the booth, her brow furrowed. Concern and confusion tinged her usually radiant complexion. ‘Why make the break?’ Her tone was perplexed. ‘People love you; you’re a real natural. And why now, just when you’ve got your broadcast career up and running? It doesn’t make any business sense. From what I hear, The Agony and the Ecstasy is outstripping all its rivals.’

  ‘I know. I know it all sounds strange. It’s just that…well…people might not love me quite so much if a certain bit of gossip gets to them.’

  ‘Tell Auntie Susan…I promise I’ll be honest. I bet it’s not as bad as you think. It never is.’

 
Lizzie looked at her fork before making a potted confession at break-neck speed, finishing with Rachel’s ultimatum at the Blue launch. Tempting as it was to include Clare’s revelation, Lizzie knew better than to tell Susan. It would have been as discreet as projecting the information onto the side of the House of Commons. When she finally looked up, expecting disapproval from her editor at the very least, Susan was beaming at her, apparently unruffled. If anything, she looked amused.

  ‘I wondered when you were going to tell me…’

  Lizzie stared at her lunch companion. Rachel had promised she wasn’t going to say anything. She knew it had been too good to be true. Unless, of course, Clare had been interfering again. Secretly she was becoming a little bit annoyed at Clare’s repeated intervention on her behalf. She knew she was being ungrateful, but she had to learn to deal with her own fuck-ups.

  ‘When did she tell you?’ Lizzie carefully left the ‘she’ non-specific, so she could work out for herself whether it was ‘she’ Clare, or ‘she’ Rachel.

  ‘You’re not going to like this, but I overheard your little spat at the Blue launch.’

  ‘At the Blue launch…?’ Lizzie’s heart nearly stopped dead mid-beat. ‘You were at the… What? You weren’t…? God…’

  It took a couple of goes for Lizzie to regain her composure. Susan waited patiently for Lizzie to put an intelligible question together.

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  Lizzie could feel herself blushing again. Her capillaries were working on overtime. ‘Well…I…well…Robyn…she told me to go. Apparently the editor…um…what was her name? Oh, anyway, well, the editor…’

  ‘Melissa Matthews?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Melissa Matthews…’ Lizzie was concentrating so hard that she failed to acknowledge the fact that Susan seemed to know exactly who Melissa Matthews was ‘…was interested in meeting me. As it happened I never got to meet her anyway.’

  Susan was smiling. ‘It isn’t the first time Melissa’s wanted something that I already had.’