Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  Having stared at a two-dimensional Lizzie all the way home, he couldn’t wait to read all about it. Rachel, on the other hand, seemed to be having a sense of humour failure. He’d patently managed to do the wrong thing—again. But surely if he’d seen the magazine and not said anything he’d have been accused of keeping it from her? Plus, as Matt had just tried to explain, no one would or could know who Lizzie was writing about.

  Mistake of the morning number two. Rachel had immediately accused him of taking Lizzie’s side over hers. He didn’t understand—if anyone came out of all of this badly it was him, the two-timer. But maybe she would see that when she had finished absorbing every syllable. She hadn’t made a sound since she’d snatched the magazine from him. She was usually an incredibly speedy reader. He could only presume that she was committing a few key phrases to memory.

  He stared through her, waiting for her to finish. He wasn’t in love with her, and she knew it. Five years down the line, she was just reluctant to give in, to be ‘beaten’. It wasn’t about love for her, only a question of lifestyle, of appearances. He hoped she was ready for a new look.

  Back at Oxford Road, Clare had read the whole article and was still talking to her—a tacit thumbs-up. Lizzie was relieved. She’d had enough tension to last her a millennium. She pretended to read the rest of the magazine as she waited for the inevitable but it wasn’t until nearly eleven that the phone rang for the first time that morning.

  ‘Darling.’

  She’d been beginning to worry. The newsagents must have been open for at least four hours by now, and she’d hoped her mother was going to be sympathetic. Confessions à deux on the sofa were one thing, but an article that her friends could read was a different ballgame altogether. She just wanted everything back to normal, when the most stressful things involved missing buses and trains, running out of milk, paying credit card bills—that sort of thing.

  ‘Are you OK? Have you seen the article? Of course you have…silly me. What am I saying?’

  From the general babble she figured she wasn’t about to get the ‘letting me and yourself down’ lecture. She felt her spirits lift a little.

  ‘Well, well… My daughter, the mistress…who’d have thought it? You look beautiful on the cover. So beautiful. Don’t worry about keeping your copy pristine; I just had to buy a couple of spares. I’ll keep one safe for your children. I’m so proud of you.’

  If Lizzie wasn’t mistaken her mother was sounding quite emotional. She decided not to ruin the moment by pointing out that sleeping with someone else’s husband wasn’t especially laudable. As for the ‘keeping a copy safe for her children’ moment, it was best ignored.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. I’m fine.’

  ‘Well done, darling…’ Lizzie noted her mother had reverted to full stiff-upper-lip-matter-of-fact mode. She knew only too well that underneath there was a ton of carefully concealed emotion. She had to have inherited it from somewhere. ‘Very brave of you. And very poignant. Although I wish you’d come to me about all of this straight away when it first happened, instead of bottling it all up and waiting for Clare to send you home. That’s what I’m here for. I don’t like to interfere most of the time, but I have lived a life or two myself—and besides, I am your mother.’

  ‘Exactly… I guess I just thought you might not be thrilled.’ And, call her conventional, but Lizzie still felt a little uncomfortable discussing her sex life with her mother.

  Luckily Annie couldn’t reprimand and listen at the same time. She’d already moved on. ‘Is everything all right between you and Clare? I didn’t realise you two had fallen out in the first place. Honestly, darling, I’d really rather have heard it all from you instead of having to read about the details in an article. You are a funny one. I mean, thank God I got my hands on a copy straight away before someone rang me about it. Could you imagine the embarrassment if I hadn’t seen it first?’

  ‘Sorry. It was a very difficult time for me.’ Lizzie interrupted her mother. Irritation was beginning to creep in from somewhere.

  ‘I can see that. Well, I think this article can only do you good…although heaven knows what the Monday Bridge girls will think about all of this…’

  It had to feature somewhere. Her life might be in tatters but surely Lizzie should have thought twice before risking Annie’s standing in the Hampstead Bridge circles.

  ‘And I didn’t know you were going to be on the cover…’

  ‘Neither did I until this morning.’

  ‘This’ll be the talk of the village. Goodness knows what they’ll all say.’

  Lizzie’s mother still referred to Hampstead as a village. It was all about perception.

  ‘They’ll probably excommunicate you.’

  Lizzie couldn’t help but smile as she imagined an army of sixty-year-olds refusing her entry to coffee mornings and leaving her to sit alone at a green baize card table in the corner.

  ‘You may well laugh.’

  ‘To be honest, Mum, I doubt that Out Loud has a big circulation among the over-sixties…’

  A silence.

  ‘Mum…?’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so…and it probably doesn’t in most places…but over the months I’ve probably—well, I might have just possibly…’

  ‘Browbeaten the entire female sixty-something population of NW3 into reading the magazine?’

  Honestly, Lizzie thought, sometimes Annie was her own worst enemy. Maybe this would teach her—highly unlikely…but just maybe…

  ‘It’s only because I care, darling. I know the industry is all about circulation figures, and I must say quite a few of them have become a little bit hooked.’

  Marvellous. Lizzie was glad that she’d only just discovered that her mother’s friends were becoming addicted to reading her, at times, frank advice. Having a sexagenarian following might just have inhibited her style a fraction. Her street cred was shrinking rapidly.

  ‘I know, Mum. Thanks. So, I haven’t let you down?’ She had to ask. Her mother was only too aware of the surprising chink of insecurity in her daughter’s otherwise self-sufficient armour.

  Her tone softened. ‘Of course not. It’ll take more than a two-timing husband to bring you down in anybody’s estimation, you’ll see…’

  Relief washed over Lizzie. At times like this her family was the business.

  ‘I wonder whether he’s seen it yet?’

  The million-dollar question.

  Matt was sitting on a bench by the station. Rachel had finally gone to work, taking Out Loud with her, and so Matt had bought another copy en route to the tube. Over an hour later he was still there. There hadn’t been a day since that magazine launch that he hadn’t wondered how she was. And then the killer blow. In unassuming size eight Arial font. She had loved him. Up to her neck.

  He wanted to call. He knew he couldn’t. On the face of it things were just the same. He was still married. Still living with Rachel. Not for long, though. He had to move fast. You didn’t just fall out of love with people, did you? In Hollywood’s celluloid world people didn’t—true love always won in the end—but in London?

  It appeared that more people read Out Loud than Lizzie had previously thought.

  The City FM switchboard was flooded for the entire three hours of her show, and only two of the eighteen callers who actually made it on air were baying for her blood. Susan had been right. Infidelity was flavour of the month. Confessions poured in. The stereotype needed tweaking. Mistresses were apparently one a penny and came in all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life. No one, it appeared, was safe from a willing adulterer.

  Everyone wanted a piece of her. Robyn was playing the weekend supplements off against each other while juggling request faxes from several talk shows. Lizzie just waited for her to call with a short list.

  Her postbag swelled to new dimensions and the overwhelming emotion coming through the letters wasn’t bitterness, hostility or revenge but relief. A lot knew their mistakes. Just not what to do about
them. They were not alone.

  chapter 29

  ‘Look, we can’t just go on pretending that everything’s OK. I’m leaving…’ Matt spoke earnestly to the bathroom mirror as he heard the front door click.

  ‘Matt?’ Rachel was confused. The front door wasn’t double-locked, but it was very early for him to be back. ‘Are you home?’

  She’d had a shit day. No one had appreciated her at work, and since Lizzie’s article things with Matt were definitely more than strained. She suspected there was no way back from this particular precipice, but she couldn’t bring herself to jump either. Total inertia had set in—if you could be treading on eggshells and in a state of inertia all at the same time.

  ‘Up here…’ Matt didn’t know why he was telling her. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to join him in the bathroom. ‘I’ll be down in a sec…’

  Too late. By the time he’d nervously had one last pee he’d heard the bang of the wardrobe door. He took a deep breath as he flushed and felt his lungs fill with perhaps the most important oxygen mixture of his life. He walked into the bedroom. It felt like a moment. A proper, adult fucking scary moment. His head suddenly pulsed with an emergency supply of adrenaline.

  ‘How was your day? Mine was crap…’ She hadn’t let him get a syllable to the surface. Rachel, naked from the waist up, was rummaging in her chest of drawers for something comfy. The items discarded in her search for perfect casual attire were strewn on the bed.

  ‘Oh, not bad…’ Matt was determined not to get side-tracked. He had to keep himself focused.

  ‘Fucking art directors… Think the whole world needs them when quite frankly they’re all shit…’ Rachel wasn’t listening, just off-loading as she pulled on a T-shirt. Matt noticed that her nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric. He didn’t feel arousal, nor affection. He walked over to her. At the incisiveness of his move Rachel stopped faffing for a few moments. This was it. His chance.

  ‘Rach…’ Matt hesitated for a second.

  ‘Yeah…? What? What? Come on—out with it.’ Rachel felt dread inching along her spine as she sensed the inevitable. A thousand years ago there would have been a sign—an omen, a portent, a river of blood, a comet—something…something more substantial than just a shitty day. Actually, come to think of it, faced with wardrobe ennui that morning she’d picked something new-old to wear, and her trousers hadn’t felt as if they’d fitted all day. She should have known something was wrong.

  ‘I’m leaving. It’s not working and I can’t keep pretending that it is any more.’ Relief surged through his veins. He’d done it. Said it. Out loud. He only hoped Rachel had been listening. Her emotional control was tip top.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where are you going to go, for goodness’ sake?’ Rachel’s fear metamorphosed to incredulity. How could he leave her? She was the sort of person who did leaving, not him. His loyalty was one of the things she’d found so incredible when they’d first started dating. He was the ultimate ‘for better for worse’ candidate.

  ‘James has got a spare room. I’ve packed a bag and I’m really going. Tonight. I know you thought I’d never leave, but it’s time.’

  Rachel felt sick. He’d actually made a proper plan. Atypical behaviour. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen this coming—of course she had. But foolishly she’d just hoped it would all blow over.

  ‘You’re out of your mind.’ Instinctively she went on the offensive.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re just having a mid-life crisis..’

  Why did she always have to try and undermine him? ‘Don’t try that I-know-what-you’re-really-thinking bollocks. I’m fine and there’s nothing mid-life about this. Just accept it—we’re over. I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks, but you just won’t listen to me.’

  ‘You’ll regret this. If you go now there’s no second chance. No kissing and making up when your testosterone levels return to normal.’

  ‘I don’t want a second chance. We’ve given it about eight chances already…and it’s not what I want or what you want. Admit it. Go on. Fucking admit it. Please, Rach. For Christ’s sake. You must live in some perfect dream world. We haven’t had a healthy marriage for ages.’

  Rachel paused for a moment as she recoiled at the poise of his attack. ‘But…you’ll never meet someone else like me.’

  ‘Don’t you get it, Rach? I don’t want to.’

  ‘Is this still about her? I can’t believe it. A flash of blonde hair and a longer than average inside leg measurement and you men turn to putty. It’s pathetic. She knows more about male inadequacies than you ever will. She’s an agony aunt, not an oil heiress. She probably doesn’t earn that much either.’

  Matt felt his hackles rise. How could he ever have married this in the first place? ‘I’m not seeing her.’

  ‘Not now, maybe… But you can’t just go and test the water. You leave and that’s it.’

  Rachel’s aggression was building, and Matt resisted the urge to rise to it. He knew she was upset, she’d lost control, but the way she was behaving now was only making it easier for him to go. He had never needed a beer more in his life.

  ‘This isn’t me leaving you for anyone. I need to sort myself out. I need some time on my own. I think we’ve reached a point way beyond repair, Rach, and if you were honest with yourself for just a few seconds, instead of pretending to be emotionally battered and bruised, you’d see that. Forget the hard-done-by role-play, this is me you’re dealing with. Me— Matt. Don’t even try and blame Lizzie for this. “We” had stopped being “us” long before I ever met her. You’ve changed—we’ve changed. You’re happiest at work, surrounded by adoring young boys, impressed and impressive older men and a bottle or six of wine. All we have left is this place and a not unimpressive joint collection of books, films, CDs, photos and memories.’

  He always had been proud of their DVD collection. She was going to enjoy decimating that, just for starters. ‘She’s not just going to let you walk back into her life, you know.’

  This was weird. Funnily enough, they’d never really discussed his feelings for Lizzie. But he knew he owed it to Rachel to be honest this time.

  ‘Not now, perhaps, but maybe one day. But even if it never happens I can’t do this any more. You can’t be happy. I know you want more—or me to be something more. Face it, we’ve grown apart…’

  Her expression was glazed. Matt had to make sure she was listening. He had to penetrate her self-protective veneer. She had to know he was serious.

  ‘I’m not in love with you any more, Rachel, and if you’re completely honest with yourself I don’t think you love me either. We’ve just become a habit. A collective noun on paper but not in practice. Security for each other. It’s not enough any more. I want more.’

  Message sent…and from the change in Rachel’s composure he was sure that this time it had been received.

  ‘But…but…’ Rachel’s bottom lip was quivering. It had started as a distress signal, but she could already feel her distress mutating to anger. To add insult to injury Matt was making up for his weeks of one grunt or two communication with a veritable stream—make that a swollen river—of emotional claptrap, and apparently he was still going strong.

  ‘Face it, this isn’t working. It hasn’t been for months—maybe even years. I only want the best for you, and for me…and this isn’t it.’

  She snapped. ‘You calculating son of a bitch. You had this all planned out, didn’t you? And I suppose this time I’m supposed to be eternally grateful that you’re bothering to tell me first? So that’s it, is it? Lizzie fucking wins.’

  ‘This isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about the rest of my life. I’m not happy. Don’t you see? Don’t you care?’

  ‘You know how I feel about divorce. I never wanted to be a divorcee.’

  ‘Then maybe you should have treated me a bit more like a husband and a bit less like a doormat.’ Matt’s voice was soft.

  ‘You bastard, M
atthew Baker. And to think I thought you were different. Get out. Go on, go.’ Rachel’s tone was steely, if eerily controlled. Matt couldn’t wait to go. ‘What the fuck are you hanging around for? What do you want? A fucking leaving fucking good luck in your new fucking home card? Get out.’ Rachel was shrieking—and then suddenly she was sobbing.

  Matt watched her crumple, and as Rachel wiped the river of mascara from her cheeks he was shocked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so vulnerable.

  She was the first to speak. ‘How did this happen? I know I’ve been blind…stupid…selfish, even. I know it’s not been right between us. But, Matt…I’m scared…I need you…’

  Matt was touched by this rare display of human frailty. He crouched down and held her to him. ‘It’ll be OK…’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She was back to being brave, or trying to be. ‘I’ll be fine. I guess I’m not in love with you either, but it’s just—I guess—well, I know you so well. I love having you around.’

  ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it…’

  Matt went for humour. It seemed to work. Rachel smiled, albeit wanly.

  ‘I do love you, though…’

  ‘Like a brother, maybe…but you’re not in love with me. I’ll always be very fond of you, Rach, there’s a part of me that will always love you too. I don’t want us to be bitter…and I don’t want you to blame Lizzie.’

  ‘Well, as long as everything’s all right for you, then. Don’t mind me. I’ll try not to fuck up your fairy-tale ending.’

  ‘Rachel…’ Matt could feel her tensing again.

  She wrestled herself from his grip. ‘Look, go if you’re going. We can talk about this tomorrow or the next day. Maybe we should meet for dinner next week?’

  ‘Maybe.’