Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  Lizzie looked at her boss quizzically.

  ‘Well, she thinks you’re fantastic—perfect for Blue, just what they need, etc., etc., and then, of course, there is the as yet unavenged fact that I went and married the man she’d always lusted after.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d been married.’ Lizzie had always seen Susan as the archetypal vixen. Self-assured, hard to get, but worth the wait. The woman men always looked back on and reminisced about as the one that got away.

  ‘Oh, it didn’t last very long and I was quite young. I’m not sure that I really loved him, you know. Everyone else did, but once the thrill of the chase was over and we’d got back from our honeymoon in the British Virgin Islands he was actually quite dull—’

  Lizzie interrupted her. ‘I take it that you don’t have to be a British Virgin when you arrive there?’

  Susan laughed. ‘I’d never have been allowed off the plane! I’d never thought about it like that before…’

  Lizzie was full of misplaced admiration for Susan. She wasn’t exactly a guru of how to live your life—unless, of course, you were aiming to live it as selfishly as possible. But in terms of anecdotes and far-flung stories she was excellent value. Guaranteed to have been there, done that, bought and given away the T-shirt long before anyone else had even heard of it.

  ‘Anyway, where was I? Yes, so you see Melissa and I go back a long way. She’s heading up the team at Blue and invited me along partly to thank me for all the tips I’ve given her over the years and largely, I’m sure, to gloat a little and show off at its launch. We’ve managed to flout convention and keep it very much a friendly rivalry.’

  ‘Did she ever get married?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she got her man in the end…’ Her eyes were shining. ‘Shame he turned out to prefer men after all the effort she put in. We should have known. He’d always had suspiciously good taste in clothes—oh, and in women, of course…’ Susan couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across her face.

  Lizzie was amazed. Susan had been at the launch. And if she and Melissa were friends then she probably knew that Melissa had been talking to Robyn about contracts. But how on earth had she overheard her and Rachel? And if she’d been listening in how many others had been close enough to the Ladies’ to be privy to the whole thing?

  ‘No wonder you didn’t want to meet that Rachel woman for dinner. It was that same one who rang me a couple of weeks earlier, wasn’t it?’

  Lizzie nodded. She wasn’t coming out of this very well. Unless, of course, her objective was to tell her boss as many lies as possible—in which case she must be on the leader board for Deceitful Employee of the Year.

  ‘She sounded quite a character. Feisty. Who’d have thought it? My very own Ask Lizzie a mistress.’

  Lizzie looked devastated. Susan didn’t even look cross.

  ‘So where were you? Did you hear everything?’ Lizzie just had to know.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Susan at least had the decency to look sheepish at this point. ‘I hate to admit it. It’s so uncouth, and dreadfully seedy, but I was in the toilets the whole time. Behind a locked door…in a stall… It would have been pretty difficult not to listen. I would have left, but there didn’t seem to be an appropriate moment so I thought I’d be better off staying put.’

  Lizzie’s head slipped into her hands. At least Susan hadn’t decided to make a break for the basins. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to cope with her presence if she’d known about it.

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t just post me my P45 the next morning.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m actually a little bit disappointed that you haven’t come to see me sooner about it all. I’m hardly going to sack you because you fell in love with the wrong man. It’s not like I’m perfect, is it, darling?’

  ‘But he was…sorry, I should say, he is…married to someone who had written to me asking for advice.’

  ‘But I bet he wasn’t wearing a label saying “married man” when you met him, was he? They never do. Bloody unfair, if you ask me.’

  Lizzie pulled herself into the upright position as she realised Susan was on her side. ‘So you’re not cross, then?’

  ‘Cross? What for?’

  ‘Well, I could bring the magazine into disrepute if this gets out.’

  Susan laughed again. Lizzie wasn’t sure how she felt about the fact that she was providing her editor with such an entertaining lunch break.

  ‘I very much doubt it. Just think Marje Proops. She was a mistress for years, and after the news broke everyone still valued her advice. Plus, a few column inches in a few choice publications might get us a few more readers. I employed you as an agony aunt, not as a saint. You’re human. Don’t underestimate how important that is to your readers. Some employees have to go on courses to gain qualifications, just see your training on this occasion as a little bit more hands-on!’

  Lizzie couldn’t help but feel that Susan was being a little bit flippant about the whole thing. Fancy dismissing her affair as vocational. The bottom line was that it wasn’t funny. Well, not that funny. Well, OK, quite funny if one of the people involved wasn’t you. But Lizzie seemed to have temporarily misplaced her sense of humour. She was sure she’d had it there earlier.

  ‘But Rachel has threatened to end my career if I so much as speak to Matt again…’

  ‘Calm down, will you?’ Susan shook her head disapprovingly. ‘You really are very uptight about all of this, aren’t you? Maybe I’ll get Bridget to give you a massage later on—she’s a fully qualified aromatherapist, you know—or maybe you should try doing a bit of yoga…it’s done wonders for my quality of life. Pilates is another one. It’s just amazing how the way you breathe can change your posture and your outlook. It really toned me up, you know. But if you want to see definition that Ashtanga power yoga is what you need. It’s the business. Just look at Madonna.’

  There wasn’t a fad that Susan hadn’t embraced like a long-lost relative.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Lizzie tried her best to act cool.

  ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes…you being a mistress…’

  Lizzie flinched inwardly. She still couldn’t quite deal with ‘mistress’ being used as an adjective to describe her. It made her sound so calculating. As if she’d deliberately gone out there in search of a married man, determined to ride roughshod over some unsuspecting little wife, her actions dictated by her raw and potent sexual magnetism. The stereotype was all-prevailing and totally detached from the reality of what had happened.

  ‘Well— 1) He didn’t tell you he was married when you first met him. 2) You’re not with him any more. You tried to do the right thing when plenty of people would have been less considerate and much more selfish. 3) You genuinely fell for him. It’s not like you deliberately set out to sabotage her marriage. Your readers—and the same will apply to your listeners, I’m sure—would rather take advice from someone human but flawed than some sanctimonious do-gooder who wouldn’t know great sex or physical attraction if it got into bed next to them.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Lizzie was feeling much better already. She wished now that she’d told Susan weeks ago. It might have saved her a few sleepless nights.

  ‘I know so. First-hand experience is always the most educational… Maybe we should make this a bit of a feature…’

  ‘Susan…’ Lizzie knew what was coming next. Susan had a very commercial handle on everything. ‘I don’t want to become the “me and my love triangle” side show, OK?’

  ‘OK. Although, now you come to mention it, it does have a bit of a ring to it.’ Susan was just seeing how far she could push her.

  ‘Susan…’ Lizzie’s voice was loaded with warning tones.

  ‘Come on, now—give me a bit of credit, will you? All I was going to say is, how about you write about all this for the magazine and come clean? You don’t have to name any names, but I bet you’d get a lot of sympathy…’

  ‘And a few letter bombs?’

  Susan ignored her
interjection and carried on regardless. ‘That way you pre-empt any future “scoops” by the tabloids, and Rachel is left high and dry and without any ammunition.’

  Lizzie could see that Susan had a point. A very good point. Susan was right; she was going to have to learn to lighten up a bit. What was done was done. Time to move on. And if she could use all this to her advantage then what was the harm in that?

  ‘Not a bad idea.’ She had to concede that Susan, on this occasion, had made a not entirely unreasonable suggestion.

  ‘Why—I thank you.’ Susan dipped her head and took a mock bow before an imaginary crowd. ‘I only wish you’d come and spoken to me earlier. I bet you’ve been worrying yourself silly.’

  Lizzie half-shrugged, half-nodded. ‘Well, the way I saw it, and the way Rachel had pitched it, I thought I was going to have to give up everything I’ve worked for—but I was hardly about to come running to you with my job in my hand. I needed some time to think.’

  They were momentarily interrupted by the arrival of their wild sea bass, and Lizzie busied herself with water-pouring while Susan flirted shamelessly. She was poised to take her first mouthful when Susan refocused her attention on her.

  ‘So now, of course, what I really want to know, darling—and what I’ve been dying to ask ever since the launch—is was he worth it? I want all the details. You dark horse, you…’

  ‘Well…’ Lizzie put down her knife and fork. It was going to be a long lunch.

  chapter 28

  ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it—and guess what? You’re on the cover…’ Clare’s voice, a crescendo of excitement, swirled up the stairwell.

  Lizzie’s heart stopped mid-beat before starting again about three times faster than normal. Cover-girl? No way.

  ‘Prepare for sales to be up this week. Harri has got a pile on the counter by the till and he’s telling absolutely everyone in there that you only live round the corner…’

  Harri was one of life’s unsung heroes. His tiny shop was a neighbourhood cornucopia and thanks to his cash and carry card and dedicated opening hours they’d survived many potentially ruinous dinner party crises as he’d bailed them out with emergency supplies of everything from turmeric to tights to tonic water. Lizzie blushed at the thought of him reading all the details of her personal crisis. The total strangers didn’t worry her. It was everyone else she had to be able to look in the eye.

  ‘…saw Colin in there. He sends you a kiss and asked me to give you this.’

  Clare produced a Toblerone from her jacket pocket.

  ‘He said to tell you that they don’t make chocolate love triangles but this is as close as he could get…’ Clare giggled.

  By the sounds of it there was almost a street party atmosphere down at the shop. Lizzie was glad she’d sent Clare instead of going herself when woken early by a bout of publication-date insomnia.

  Clare practically pirouetted into the kitchen with her ‘hot off the press’ copy, and Lizzie, hot on her heels, grabbed it from her. There she was in colour. Glossy A4 colour. Susan had a nerve. She’d never said anything about front covers at lunch; nor when she’d rung to thank Lizzie for the first draft of her article; nor when she’d asked if they could have a new photo done to publish alongside it. No wonder she hadn’t biked round an advance copy this week. Shifting print deadlines, my arse. Lizzie looked at the kitchen clock. Too early. She could wait.

  She didn’t dare say anything out loud for fear of inciting serious allegations of vanity, but Lizzie had to admit that she wasn’t looking too bad. She knew that on her way back from the brink of despair, the fleeting appearance of her cheekbones in a photo wasn’t supposed to even register, and, granted, the woman on the front didn’t really resemble the flannel pyjama girl in the kitchen right now, but Arabella was a marvellous make-up artist. Without spots and bags, and with a lot of blow-drying, she could apparently look the part.

  Her mother was always complaining that she didn’t have a decent up-to-date photograph of Lizzie. Now everyone who knew her could buy one. The only problem was, she’d sort of been hoping that Rachel and Matt might not see the article, but this whole cover dimension was going to make that pretty impossible. Obviously she hadn’t mentioned them by name, and she’d been careful not to identify them by association, but all of a sudden the sense that Susan had made over lunch was deserting her.

  ‘I can’t wait to read it, Liz.’ Clare was hovering at Lizzie’s elbow, keen to reclaim her purchase, impatiently shifting her weight from mule to mule, dying to see the article.

  Lizzie, it appeared, wasn’t quite ready to hand it back yet.

  ‘Yeah right. I dare say you could have written it yourself.’

  If anyone knew the situation inside out it was Clare. Lizzie just hoped that she felt the article was appropriate. Lizzie needed her on side. She was nervous. Her private life was about to hit the public domain and, as confident as Susan had been, Lizzie was sure that she’d underestimated the repercussions. For one thing, she wasn’t going to be able to go into a newsagent or a branch of WH Smith for at least eight days without a disguise.

  Lizzie stared at the magazine in her hand. And there it was, about two thirds of the way down on the right-hand side, half printed over her shoulder.

  MY AGONY AND MY ECSTASY

  CONFESSIONS OF AN AGONY AUNT

  Lizzie thumbed past countless adverts, scattering a broad selection of flyers and offers on the floor in the process. Finally she found page 154 and started to read. Clare gave up waiting and busied herself with tea and toast duties, annoyed that she hadn’t thought to buy two copies or stopped to read it on the way home.

  Apparently absorbed by her all too familiar words, Clare watched Lizzie walk over to the table and sit down on automatic pilot. Lizzie could feel the pit of her stomach tighten. Reading it all again was a bit like picking a scab. Impossible to stop once you’ve started but something she knew she’d end up regretting.

  I’ve always lived my life by the rules—well, by most of them. OK, I might have bought my first alcoholic drink in a pub when I was fifteen, I might have parked across a driveway or on a double yellow line in an emergency, and I might have even smoked a joint or two at university, but I’d never purposely done anything to hurt anybody. I regret to inform you that unwittingly I just have. I hurt three people. Four including me. Badly.

  Emotional pain is much worse than any other kind. You can’t treat it with sutures, with Savlon or with any of the modern medicine that, fed on a television diet of Casualty and ER, we think we understand. We’re not talking de-fib, myocardial infarctions, pulmonary embolisms, lacerations, enlarged livers or any of the other conditions that we are alerted to on our weekly dose of danger. We’re talking heartache and heartbreak. Charging up the paddles won’t help. There is only one cure known to man. Time.

  We will all recover. No blood was shed. Plenty of tears and a couple of pounds (there had to be one upside), but none of the red sticky stuff. But in order to move on we all need to learn to forgive and not allow ourselves to be consumed by bitter grudges. The parties involved will all have to accept their own imperfections alongside my own.

  The biggest lesson I’ve relearnt this year is one of the oldest. It is, of course, that nobody’s perfect. There are times in all our lives when our selective memories see fit to inform us that we are unassailable, above reproach. But no. Not me, not you, not anyone. I’d always thought that I had good judgement, and then I met a man—my own Mr Perfect-for-now. I was ready to stare cynics in the eye and undo their years of research in one fell swoop. I was invincible. I had a ticket to ride on the love train. And then, without any warning, it careered off the rails and crashed. There was definitely a signal problem.

  For the first six weeks of our relationship I was totally unaware of one detail. He had a wife. When the truth did finally surface, he told me that he was married in name only. I wanted to believe him, and so for a few weeks I joined the ranks of all those alleged heartless bitches, tho
se red-taloned, calculating, materialistic husband-stealers. But was it all long nails, negligées, turquoise Tiffany boxes and steamy dates in European cities? Was it glamour? Was it excitement? Or was it disappointment, guilt, heartburn, rejection, betrayal and dissatisfaction? I think you’re probably beginning to get the picture.

  I fell in love with the wrong man, and yet by the time I found out I was in up to my neck. Head over heels. It was new. We were perfect for each other—or so I thought. Workaholics with a shared passion for romantic comedies and my duvet. I should have known better. How many good-looking guys in their mid-thirties come with hand luggage only? Did I smell a rat? Not even the one I was sleeping with…yet my perfect date had become my worst nightmare.

  ‘Tea?’ Clare tried to break into Lizzie’s consciousness, but the question ricocheted straight back. She might as well have been invisible. Clare cleared her throat noisily. Still nothing. Lizzie skipped forward to the final paragraph; she’d seen enough.

  …there’ll be wives out there baying for my blood. There’ll be mistresses too, desperate to explain the attitude you need to have to make it in life as ‘the other woman’, but I’m coming clean to you now because I want you to know…and to know from me. Now I just want to be able to move on. I don’t want to have unwittingly created a legacy that’ll come back to haunt me, and if there’s anything to be learnt from all of this I guess it’s not to judge a situation, however it might first appear, until you have all the facts. Whatever labels you want to give us, we were just two people caught up in a whirlwind of intensity. There was chemistry, there were promises, there was even love. But there was no winner. Love did not conquer all. Real life got in the way…

  There was a deathly silence at the breakfast table. Matt had only popped out to get milk, but the familiar face staring at him from the magazine racks had been hard to miss and even harder to ignore. At first he’d been surprised—angry, even—that Lizzie had sold out, but once the shock had passed it didn’t seem that unreasonable. It was perfect spin. After all, she was in the business of talking about problems, and he’d forfeited the right to pass judgement a long time ago.