Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  ‘I can’t wait to get them upstairs and see who they’re from. I bet they’re gasping for a drink. It’s so hot today, don’t you think?’

  The smile on his face was sardonic, to say the least. But Lizzie had done it. He was going to say something. The art of conversation might be rusty but she’d be damned if it was dead yet…not on her doorstep.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve got enough vases in there. You girls are very popular.’

  Lizzie laughed out loud. She wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t said anything particularly funny. But she was very over-excited. What a great job he had. Delivering happiness to women all over London.

  He turned assertively, silently intimating the end of their exchange. As he ambled towards his van he was muttering so loudly that he was practically talking to himself. Great. He wouldn’t talk to his customers but he’d talk to himself. Lizzie refused to let it get to her. After all, she had an enormous bunch of flowers to arrange. As he walked up the path and closed the gate behind him she caught the end of what he was saying.

  ‘Daft cow. “Lovely surprise…” Yeah…good one. Like blimmin’ clockwork for the last six weeks. Poor geezer has even stopped bothering to leave a message on the card these days.’

  As Lizzie carried the flowers upstairs to the kitchen she went over what she’d just overheard. Last six weeks? Either the heat had got to him or Clare was secretly sleeping with a man with an Interflora account… And Lizzie had thought she’d been buying flowers to cheer her up in her moment—well, moments, make that weeks—of need. Cheapskate!

  Lizzie rushed to find the biggest vase they had and carefully fed a few weary stems to their spring-loaded, aggressive American-style swing bin to avail herself of the ideal receptacle. Half hurrying, she filled it from their over-zealous mixer tap, giving herself her second shower of the afternoon. She was well aware that flower arranging would be frowned upon as an excuse for her tardiness at City FM, but by the same token she couldn’t just leave them gasping for water on the worktop. She shook in a generous helping of the flower food that had come attached and stirred it vigorously with a knife that was handily lurking amongst the drying up. While she was waiting for the powder to dissolve she unpicked the mini envelope from the brown paper and opened it.

  The card was blank.

  Lizzie must have turned it over several times before conceding that there really was nothing on it except for the slightly naff print of a rose in the top left-hand corner and the florist’s stamp on the reverse. She checked the envelope in case there was another card lurking within. Nothing. She’d been cheated. She toyed with the idea of calling the shop in case the woman with the bubble writing and only rudimentary spelling skills had somehow forgotten to include the vital greeting bit, but she really didn’t have time. She could always pop in tomorrow on her way to the station.

  Lizzie automatically went to pin the card on the kitchen noticeboard, next to her and Clare’s collection of yellowing wedding invites, expired coupons off new cereals and cleaning products, mini-cab numbers, assorted takeaway menus and postcards. As she took a pin from a remote area of the board a whole pile of papers floated towards the floor, dispersing far and wide in their moment of liberation on their journey to the tiles. Lizzie gathered them up as quickly as she could, and was assertively pinning them back while searching for an alternative and less crucial drawing pin from their collection when she caught sight of the writing on the half-hidden card that had accompanied the flowers Matt had sent her after their first night together.

  Momentarily distracted from the task in hand, Lizzie indulgently, and a little wistfully, carefully freed it from its position. Over the months it had disappeared under several layers of junk mail. It was a little faded, but otherwise intact. Bar, of course, half a dozen pin holes where layers had been added on top. It was also, Lizzie noted, identical to the blank card in her hand. The same pink rose in the corner and the same florist’s address on the back. Could they be?

  Lizzie picked up the bouquet and cut through the string holding the flowers together before shoving the stems roughly into the water. In Lizzie’s imagination she could almost hear them sigh with relief as they took a long cool drink. Aesthetics could wait. Right now she had a call to make and a meeting to attend. Time was ticking confidently towards an inflexible deadline, and so she took the executive decision not to risk the jackpot of the tube and called a cab before leaving a message on Ben’s voicemail. She was on her way. In just a minute.

  For once Clare answered her mobile almost immediately. Lizzie was relieved. She needed a good dose of Williamson cynicism and fast.

  ‘Clare. Thank God.’ Lizzie was now running so late that she was practically out of breath. It didn’t really make sense, but right now very little about the last half an hour did.

  Clare sounded concerned at her best friend’s agitation. ‘Liz? Are you OK? Is something the matter? What are you doing at home? Shouldn’t you be at City?’

  Lizzie was fine. Except for a serious case of stomach churning which she was sure wasn’t fatal, and a bit of a bad hair day which hadn’t been helped by London Underground, the humidity, her shower or their mixer tap. All she needed Clare to do was shoot her latest madcap theory down in flames so she could get to work.

  ‘Cab’s on its way. Muppet that I am, I flipping well left my file on the kitchen table this morning, didn’t I? Running seriously late now.’ Lizzie looked at her watch. Yup, they’d all be waiting, slagging off self-important-presenters-who-just-thought-they-could-waltz-in-whenever-they-felt-like-it. She hated being late. ‘Listen. I’m sorry to disturb you but something strange has just happened.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, flowers have been delivered for me. At first I thought they might be for you, from Ed or someone, but they weren’t. Anyway, there’s nothing on the card.’

  ‘No message?’

  Clare, it seemed, was being dense—on purpose.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Anonymous flowers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder who they’re from?’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’m seeing Ed tonight.’

  ‘Anyway, I sort of had this mad idea— What? Ed?’ Lizzie stopped herself for a moment. ‘What—really?’ Lizzie was temporarily blown off-course by this pseudo-offhand delivery of what at any other less self-centred moment would have been a very juicy bit of gossip. Typical Clare. Just throw in that rather significant detail when Lizzie was barely paying attention. ‘Are you going on a date, Miss Williamson?’

  ‘Hardly. Just a bit of dinner.’

  ‘Bit of a busman’s holiday for you, then.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Did you call him?’

  ‘Of course not…’

  Of course not. What was Lizzie thinking?

  ‘I told you before. He called a few times and then he popped into Union Jack’s the other day. Said he was passing.’

  ‘Passing Notting Hill…from Fulham?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Clare, don’t be so naïve. I think you’ll find that Mr Wallace has a bit of a thing for you. How exciting. Just what you need.’

  ‘Well… Look, it’s probably nothing. Just a bit of dinner.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Lizzie was beginning to get annoyed. If Clare just chilled out a fraction she might even her enjoy herself.

  Clare was beginning to wish she hadn’t said anything now. She wanted the spotlight switched off, but there was only one way to get Lizzie off the subject and that was to return her good self to the centre of the conversation.

  ‘So—a secret admirer. How exciting for you… Any ideas? Had any over-attentive cab drivers lately?’

  ‘Well—and let me finish before you tell me to get a life—but, well, I was just pinning the card on the noticeboard, as I always do, and in the process a whole lot of stuff fell off… Anyway, underneath I spotted the card from the flowers that Matt sent me in December…and…well…the car
d’s identical and the flowers are from the same florist…’ Lizzie was beginning to realise quite how ludicrous this was all sounding now the words had left the confines of her over-active mind. She wished she hadn’t rung Clare. This moment wasn’t going to help her credibility at all.

  ‘So…?’

  Clare the pragmatist was in town. Probably no bad thing as far as Lizzie’s sanity went. She really had a vivid imagination.

  ‘They came from the same florist. That’s all. It must be our nearest Interflora-affiliated one. They obviously only have one naff card design to choose from. Conspiracy theory over.’

  Clare was right—as usual. Lizzie was a little disappointed—as usual.

  ‘Maybe you’re suffering with a touch of heatstroke, what with all this rushing around.’

  Lizzie was on the verge of conceding defeat and handing herself over to social services when she remembered the cryptically certifiable delivery man. ‘But hang on. The guy that delivered them said something about us having flowers delivered once a week…“like clockwork”, I think was what he actually said. For the last six weeks.’

  ‘Well…’ Clare’s telephone manner changed instantly. Hesitancy crept into her usually dogmatic tones. Lizzie detected the transformation at once.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.’ She’d made a good recovery, but something still didn’t ring true.

  ‘Clare…?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on. You’ve gone all defensive on me.’

  ‘Have not.’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘Haven’t.’

  This wasn’t going anywhere. Clare and Lizzie were currently espousing the we-are-seven-and-a-half-years-old approach to discussion. The sort that only ended in hair-pulling, scratching or pinching. Lizzie decided to break the deadlock before it got out of hand.

  ‘I know you, Clare, and I can tell when you’re being all funny with me.’

  ‘Well…the thing is… No… I can’t… Wait there. I’ll come home.’

  ‘For God’s sake…just spit it out, will you? I can’t hang around. I’ve got a live radio show starting in under two hours and a production meeting ten minutes ago, and I’m not doing either until you stop playing silly buggers with me.’

  Clare took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to hate this…promise you won’t hate me?’ Clare was sounding quite anxious. Not something that Lizzie had realised Clare knew how to sound.

  ‘Of course I won’t hate you. Well…?’

  Clare exhaled audibly before beginning a confession at break-neck speed. ‘You’vebeensentflowerseveryweekforthelastsixweeksandI’vebeeninterceptingthemandgivingtheoddbunchtoColinandspreadingtherestrounthehouseinvariousvasesandpretendingthey’refromme.’

  ‘Why on earth…?’ But Lizzie already knew. She wasn’t sure whether to jump for joy or burst into tears. Her mind was racing and she was struggling to keep up.

  ‘Liz…Liz…? Are you there? I’m so sorry. I thought I was doing a good thing. Only now I’m having to confess it sounds nothing but bitchy and calculating, but that’s honestly not what I intended to be at all. You’ve just had so much on your plate, and you’re doing so well again now, I guess I didn’t want anything to spoil it…’

  Lizzie was speechless. Genuinely speechless.

  ‘I’ve got the other cards. They’re not all blank. If you go to my bedside table and forage in the second drawer down, under all those ripped-out recipes which are still waiting to be put in a file, they should be there.’

  Lizzie found them in no time. Five cards. All the same. All from previous bunches. Four with messages. One blank.

  ‘Listen, Lizzie? Liz, honey, are you still there? Look. I’m so sorry. I realise that it wasn’t up to me. I mean, who am I to decide whether or not you have flowers?’ And then, to herself, ‘What did I think I was playing at? Have I completely lost my marbles?’

  Lizzie was barely listening. She was just staring at the cards. Enthralled. They were all from Matt. Matt who she didn’t think cared any more. Matt who had been ignoring her since the Blue launch. Only he hadn’t been. There, in front of her, were the sort of messages that she’d been hoping so hard for over the last six weeks.

  Can you ever forgive me? Sorry. Love you. Matt

  Hope you’re coping. Can this have a happy ending? Love Matt

  I have some news. Call me at work. Enough Agony. How about some Ecstasy? Love Matt

  I’m not giving up. I’m here for you any time you need me, Matt xx

  Lizzie was somewhere between euphoria and hysteria. Clare was still on the other end of the phone justifying away. Lizzie was only dimly aware of what she was saying. Something about Rachel going ballistic if she found out that Matt had been in touch. Some more about Lizzie being hurt enough already…and lots about being sorry.

  Lizzie had had enough.

  ‘Clare. Shut up.’ It didn’t even sound aggressive. Lizzie was too pleased with herself to be properly cross. She was, however, a little disappointed at Clare’s behaviour.

  ‘Oh, good. You’re still talking to me.’

  ‘How could you?’ Clare felt silent while Lizzie did her best to sound disapproving even when she felt like cartwheeling across Clare’s room. The trouble was, even though she knew she should have been, she wasn’t really angry. For once she’d played hard to get—admittedly, not of her own volition—but she had and, while she hated to admit it, it almost felt good.

  ‘I thought we were a team, Clare.’

  Clare found her voice again and decided to use it. ‘We were. We are. We are. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘You were just trying to protect me from myself. I know exactly what you were trying to do. But, Clare, I’m old enough to make my own mistakes. You’re my flatmate, not my guardian.’

  But despite the frown in her voice Lizzie couldn’t drum up any real fury. If she and Matt were meant to be there would come a time when they would look back on this and laugh. Six weeks ago she wouldn’t have been ready for this moment, but now her demons had been exorcised and she was. However, she didn’t want to be too easy on Clare. This was a very rare reversal of power.

  ‘I know—I know…’ Lizzie wondered where Clare was at the moment. By the sound of it she was practically genuflecting. ‘I’m sorry. I feel like such a cow. Why don’t you give him a call?’

  ‘Nice try, but I’m learning. I’m not going to call him in the next five minutes.’

  ‘Why not?’ Clare was surprised at herself. ‘It won’t do any harm. He’s already been waiting for weeks, and if you call now you might still catch him at work. He’s obviously mad about you. What on earth did I think I was doing?’

  Lizzie noted that Clare must be feeling incredibly guilty to be actively encouraging her to call him. She smiled to herself. ‘Look, I’m not rushing into anything. First things first. I need to know what’s happened to Rachel.’

  ‘Good girl. I’m proud of you. Listen, I only want the best for you.’

  ‘Thanks. I love him, you know.’

  ‘I know…’ Clare was genuinely moved by the strength of Lizzie’s feelings. Her principles were melting around her. ‘And if Matt really is the one for you then, believe me, I will be skipping up that aisle behind you.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Hey, one step at a time.’

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you…’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ve changed.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. Just woe betide Matt if he turns out to be another Joe.’

  ‘Speaking of whom…’

  ‘Yes…?’ Clare was stalling.

  ‘Has a call been made?’

  ‘It’s only thirty hours since I got the letter.’

  ‘And counting… So? How long, according to your rules, before you are allowed to pick up the phone while maintaining full ice maiden status? Do yourself a favour, Clare, lighten up and don’t worry about every eventuality all the time…’

  ‘I
’ll call him.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Good…’ Lizzie caught a glimpse of Clare’s alarm clock. ‘Shit. I’ve really got to go. I’m running seriously late. I hope my cab’s outside.’

  ‘Listen, good luck with the show. I’ll see you later on, when you get home.’

  ‘If you’re back from your hot dinner date.’

  ‘Shut it, Liz. It’s just dinner.’

  ‘Course it is. My mistake.’

  ‘Liz…’ Clare was feeling quite giggly despite herself. If she wasn’t mistaken she was feeling—well, just old-fashioned excitement. ‘…just once more for the record, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You will be if you’ve got a stash of love letters in a shoebox under your bed.’

  ‘None, I promise.’

  As the cab fought its way to the studios Lizzie resisted the increasingly strong urge she now had to call Matt. She didn’t want to snatch a five-minute call, and she was late enough for her meeting without deliberately delaying herself any further.

  There were only a few minutes spare after the production meeting before she was due on air, and as the opening jingles rolled she did her utmost to ignore her hyperactive mind, which was currently insisting on presenting her with a multitude of hypothetical scenarios. She tried to focus on the amended running order in front of her as she wondered whether Matt would be listening tonight, or whether after weeks of dedication he had finally given up on the girl who had failed to acknowledge a single petal?

  As the red light flicked on to give Lizzie her final cue, a surge of adrenaline finally emptied her mind of all the unanswerable questions.

  chapter 32

  ‘You’re listening to City on 99.9 FM, and this is summer in your city. Keep it cool while we get hot.’

  The all too familiar pre-recorded growl of Danny Vincent—thankfully the closest he got to her these days—cut to the studio where Lizzie was waiting live and ready for action.