Name & Address Withheld

by Jane Sigaloff

  ‘Hi, I’m Lizzie Ford and you’re listening to The Agony and the Ecstasy on City FM. It’s Tuesday night, it’s 8:03, and I’m here with you for the next three hours. So, if something’s bothering you at the moment—if you’ve got an emotional or personal crisis on your hands, or you just want a shoulder or a sounding board—give me a call. The time is now and you know the number. 0990 99 88 77. That’s 0 double nine 0. Double nine, double eight, double seven.

  ‘Coming up over the next three hours we’ll be taking lots of your calls, playing some top summer tunes and giving you the last clue for our competition. So, if you want to find yourself and a mate jetting off for a weekend to die for in a Hot City, stick with us.

  ‘But first it’s time for some music. Coming up, a bit of “Fast Love” from George Michael. Sit back, open a window and a can of something cold, turn this up and enjoy the feeling of summer with the city. We’ll be going to the phones right after these two…’

  Lizzie looked across to her sound engineer, Phil, who effortlessly mixed George up and Lizzie down while giving her a wink. They were off. She now had five minutes and twenty-five seconds of George Michael and four minutes and twenty-one seconds of Stardust in which to study the running order and get the lowdown on her first two callers.

  Matt drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music as he inched forward in the traffic jam. This was precisely why he rarely drove in London any more. Heat seeped into his personal space from every angle, and despite the fact that his car was a roof-free zone there was a total absence of anything remotely fresh about any of the air around him. As he ground to a halt a wave of hotter air cascaded into his lap and a new trickle of sweat melted into his already damp T-shirt.

  Forgetting about his lack of roof, Matt sang along enthusiastically, failing to notice the bemused expression of the motorist to his right. George really knew what he was talking about. Infected by the beat, he was soon nodding moronically in time to the music, and as he started dancing in his seat he joined in again. More song lyrics that seemed to have entered his subconscious by osmosis. It never failed to amaze him just quite how extensive his archive was. Forget MP3, he had his own built-in download facility. Matt adopted a suitable falsetto for the Patrice Rushen sample. Maybe he should have sent Lizzie forget-me-nots instead of a mixed bouquet this week.

  He had to admit she was sounding good tonight. He’d only ever used to drive into work in emergencies in the past—what with the second mortgage for parking all day, the worry that his car might not even be there when he got back, or that someone might have slashed his roof—but now it was the only way he got to listen to her show on his own and, while he didn’t want to come across as some sort of stalker, it was the only contact he had with her these days. Not that it was real contact, of the two-way variety, but at least by listening he could chart her mood, gauge how she was doing—or at least that was what he told himself.

  She still hadn’t called. Upset? Hmm, yes…but he couldn’t blame her. In fact, if he was honest, he actually had a great deal to thank her for. Since he’d moved in with James he’d been feeling a lot more like—well, like he’d remembered he used to feel. That anything was possible, that the world was his, every dream a real possibility. He knew that to the uninitiated it looked bleaker—he’d lost his wife, his home and his love interest—but it didn’t feel like that. He was liberated. Free. To do exactly what he wanted to do. His only regret: that he hadn’t done it years ago.

  He watched the lights change as he crept forward a few metres in total synch with the bumper of the gleaming TVR in front. It was a modern-day tragedy. £45,000 of hand-built performance car forced to do 0-30 in thirty minutes. Matt almost believed that it was crueller than battery farming. Almost.

  Before she knew it Ben was counting her down to the next link. Lizzie scribbled a few notes on her next callers in the margin as the last few bars played out. Some tracks were just pure summer, and tonight it was un-Britishly hot—one of the four or five evenings of the year when she wished that she and Clare had a garden for BBQing and al fresco beer-drinking. Lizzie was determined to make the most of the heat before the idiosyncrasies of global warming let everyone down again with a late-June cold snap just when they’d managed to find a flattering pair of shorts.

  ‘Well, that was George Michael and “Fast Love”, followed by Stardust and “Music Sounds Better With You”. More music coming up in a few minutes—and believe me, we’ve got some great tracks lined up for you this evening, including classics from the New Radicals, Texas, Lauryn Hill, and some even older tunes that I guarantee you’ll enjoy. But first let’s take a couple of calls—after all, that’s why I’m here. It’s 8:12 on a hot, sticky evening, and we’ve got Sarah on line one. Hello, Sarah. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hi, Lizzie.’ She sounded quite upbeat. Lizzie gave her team a thumbs-up. There was nothing worse than a monosyllabic first caller.

  ‘Hi…’

  ‘Well, the thing is…’

  Sometimes Lizzie really had to fight the urge to hurry her callers along. It didn’t help that tonight she was feeling more impatient than normal and there was a surfeit of nervous energy currently looking for a channel out of her system. But she had to be a paragon of patience and understanding. The listeners were patient and anxious to hear the full story, and therefore, Lizzie argued, so should the production team be.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Well, it’s this bloke at work. I got off with him last Friday night. He said he’d fancied me for ages and we went for a few drinks, and—well, you know…’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t sleep together or anything, but I was really excited and he said some really nice things to me. I played it cool all weekend…’

  All weekend… Ben started laughing silently in the corner of the studio and whispered, ‘Give the girl a medal,’ to Phil. Lizzie shot him a dirty look. She understood exactly where Sarah was coming from.

  ‘…and when I got into work on Monday I sent him an e-mail—just to say thanks, you know, and to suggest that we did it again some time…’

  ‘Mmhm…’ Lizzie made sure that Sarah knew she was listening without interrupting her.

  ‘But he completely ignored it. At first I wondered if, you know, maybe it had got lost in a cyber cul-de-sac or something, or that maybe I’d spelt his name wrong or put the dot in the wrong place. I know, I know—I should’ve known better. Anyway, this morning I found out that he spent most of yesterday dissing me to his mates, telling them that I couldn’t keep my hands off him, that I was really desperate, all that sort of stuff. But that’s not how it was on Friday at all. He made a move on me. I just can’t bear the thought of everyone talking about me behind my back. I can’t believe he’s behaving like this. I’m not even gutted any more. I just feel stupid for not seeing through him earlier.’

  ‘Sounds like a case of immature office male to me. How old are you, Sarah?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Right. Well, as hard as this may seem, you’ve just got to take this in your stride and not let him get to you. From the sound of it he’s not worth it, and if you’re not visibly reacting to him and his mates then I’ll bet he’ll soon lose interest in spreading unfounded rumours. By getting angry and defensive I’m afraid it only looks like you have something to hide. If you just get on with everything as normal he’ll be the one that ends up looking stupid. Ten out of ten for keeping yourself out of his bed. That would have made you feel a whole lot worse.’

  ‘You’re right. Thanks. I just can’t believe I was so stupid.’

  ‘You’re not the only one out there, Sarah. In fact—straw poll. Hands up here in the studio everyone who’s snogged a colleague in the past and it’s all ended in awkwardness or tears… Hmm. Let’s see…I’d say that’s five out of six of us.’

  Sarah giggled. ‘Thanks, Lizzie. I feel heaps better already.’

  ‘Hey, no worries, Sarah. Better luck next time.’
/>   All was not well in the driver’s seat. He didn’t like to admit it, but Lizzie was sounding different tonight. Her mood was—well, cheeky, almost, excited, happy. Too happy. Something had changed since last Thursday. She’d been just as good then—funny, even—but this was different. Now she was being almost flirtatious. He slumped in his seat. Fuck. Could she have met somebody else? All the odds were in her favour. Intelligent, beautiful, funny, sexy—very sexy—and available. God, he was stupid to think she would just be around for him for ever.

  He took a piece of chewing gum from the supply he kept in his glove compartment and chewed vigorously. He’d kept telling himself that he just wanted her to be happy, and after what he’d put her through it was the very least she deserved, but what about his chance to get things right? To show her he was serious? He was living on his own now. Happy alone. Not just behaving like a typical male and flinging himself from one woman to the next, regardless of name, face or personality. She deserved so much more than he’d given her. She wasn’t responding to his overtures of reconciliation, but he really wanted to talk to her.

  Frustrated, he spat his gum onto the tarmac before drumming his fingers on the side of the car. He dialled the City FM number into his mobile and held the phone to his ear, but he didn’t press ‘call’. As the traffic ground to a halt once again, he closed his eyes, rested his head on the headrest and listened. Lizzie’s voice soothed and haunted him all at the same time.

  ‘Right. Who’s next…?’

  Lizzie looked down at her scribbled notes in the margin of the running order.

  ‘Remember, the number to call is 0990 99 88 77, and I’m here for you until eleven tonight. Next I’m going to see what I can do for Robbie on line four… Good evening, Robbie.’

  ‘Hello, Lizzie. All right, sweetheart? Here it is in a nutshell…’

  In a nutshell? Was the man a squirrel?

  ‘Ready?’

  Lizzie could feel instant dislike creeping into her headphones, but made sure her feelings remained undetectable beneath several layers of professional veneer.

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘Me and me best mate—’

  Lizzie winced. She didn’t like to think that she was one of those people who pulled grammatical rank, but sometimes the increasingly everyday use of EastEnders English grated. She buttoned her lip and resisted the almost overwhelming urge she had to mutter ‘my best friend and I’ or just ‘me and my best friend’, and focused on listening sympathetically instead.

  ‘—are in love with the same girl. We met her at the same time and we both fancy her like mad. The trouble is I really want to ask her out again, but I think my mate would go spare.’

  Go spare… Another phrase straight out of Walford’s mouth. ‘Ask her out again? So you’ve tried and failed in the past?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, not exactly failed. We both went out with her—if you know what I’m saying—in our first year at college. He went out with her first, but then I sharked her off him. He was well cross.’

  ‘Right. OK.’

  Lizzie wasn’t sure that it was right or OK. She was tempted to ask him what he’d done at college that didn’t require him to be able to formulate a coherent sentence, but decided to keep her prejudice to herself. Robbie seemed to think he was a bit of a stud. Lizzie’s gut instinct told her otherwise. But she knew better than to get personal.

  ‘Does the girl involved know how you both feel?’ Lizzie never ceased to be amazed at how people got themselves into these situations. There was a slight pause while Robbie did his best to summon any emotional intelligence he had to the fore. His search engine was going to have trouble finding any.

  ‘Not sure. Not really. We’re all still mates and that. We have a few classes together every week. It’s just that I really want to be with her. We had some good times, you know. If you know what I mean. Trouble is, she’s sort of got a boyfriend at the moment. Nothing serious or nothin’, but it makes it all a bit more tricky.’

  ‘I see…’ It seemed the girl had managed a lucky escape…unless, of course, she was still working her way through all the undergraduates. Lizzie doubted it. She was sure she could do better than Robbie at any rate. ‘Can I ask how old you are, Robbie?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘And your mate?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  Mere children. In men’s years they were still only in their early-to-mid-teens, with way too much testosterone for their own good. Lizzie knew she had to take his problem at face value, even if she was certain that he wouldn’t know love if it came up and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘And the girl?’

  Poor love, Lizzie thought to herself. Two hormonally charged students lusting over her and calling up a radio station for maximum embarrassment when she’s trying to date someone else. Lizzie hoped she wasn’t listening.

  ‘Twenty-one, I think.’ True love? Hardly. He didn’t even know how old she was, let alone her star sign.

  ‘Have you seen anybody else since the two of you split up?’ Deathly silence. ‘Robbie?’

  ‘Well…no…not really. I could’ve shagged untold women if I’d wanted, but trouble is I’m in love with her. I should never have let her go.’

  ‘And can I ask why it ended?’

  ‘Um…well, she said something about me being immature or something…’ Lizzie had to swallow hard to remove the smile in her voice ‘…but that was like a year and a bit ago. Now I know what she wants. Trouble is my mate thinks that he does too. I don’t want this to become some sort of competition.’

  Oh, yes. Much less immature now, quite obviously. ‘Well, Robbie, if she’s seeing someone else at the moment and seems to be quite happy with him then I think you and your friend have got your answer. She’s not the only girl on the planet, or even on campus, and I think you’ll find it’s much easier and much more fun to go out with someone that wants to go out with you too. Plus, it isn’t just up to you two to decide, as you so generously put it, “who gets her”. If this girl was single—and she’s obviously not at the moment—ultimately it would be up to her to decide who she wanted to go out with, and assuming that she would even contemplate going back over old ground, if you and your mate don’t think that you could cope with one of you being chosen over the other then maybe you should agree that she is off-limits for both of you.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You’ll get over it. You’re still young. I’d say get out there and have some fun. But remember—good sex is safe sex.’

  ‘So just shag around and see what happens?’ Robbie didn’t sound heartbroken at the prospect of seeing some other girls. True love was on ice.

  ‘You really do have a way with words, Robbie. I’m surprised there isn’t a queue…’

  It was too much for the production team. Phil snorted into Lizzie’s headset, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the researchers laughing in the phone room. ‘And a top tip from me—maybe if you don’t call it “shagging around”, you might just find that there are more girls interested in spending some time with you. ‘

  Ben was the only one of the team suffering a sense of humour failure, and he shook his head firmly at her. Lizzie shrugged her shoulders and mouthed ‘tosser’ at Ben, but Ben always had been a bit of a goody-goody. Lizzie knew that plenty of her listeners would approve of the sarcastic approach in this instance. And she was sure Robbie could take it—assuming, of course, he’d even got it in the first place.

  ‘OK, then.’ Robbie seemed unfazed. She didn’t get the impression that he was particularly well endowed in the grey matter department, or indeed in any area. ‘And Lizzie?’

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘One more thing.’

  Oh, no. Lizzie was sure she didn’t want to hear this, but she couldn’t just cut him off… Phil could, though. She nodded at Phil and mimed cutting her throat with her finger, but he was obviously doing something technical and wasn’t looking. Damn.

  ‘I’d love to buy you a beer… It’s about
time someone gave you a night to remember. You’re single now aren’t you? Forget married men. What you need is a younger model.’

  It was no good. Phil lost it totally, and as he fell about in the studio Lizzie could see the researcher who’d briefed Robbie tearing her hair out in the phone gallery at the way it was all going. He obviously hadn’t sounded like a total wanker when she’d taken the call earlier.

  ‘Yeah, Robbie—whatever. Don’t wait up.’

  Time to move it all on. Lizzie glanced at the studio clock and her running order. ‘Right it’s 8:22 and you’re listening to City FM on 99.9. Coming up after the adverts is a man with a voice to soothe and a soul to die for. Mr Bill Withers and “Lean on Me”. Stay with us. We’ll be back right after these.’

  It was all cued up. Lizzie took her headphones off for a minute. Her ears needed some air. Ben’s body language indicated he was limbering up for a rant.

  ‘Steady on, Liz. He rang in for advice, not a dressing down.’

  ‘He was a jumped-up little wanker, Ben, and you know it.’

  ‘You know you just have to be nice, though. It’s still the first half-hour of the show and you never know who’s listening.’

  ‘Ease up.’ Phil came to Lizzie’s defence. ‘He was a total twat…probably wanks himself to sleep over her publicity shot…’

  ‘Thanks.’ His intentions might have been honourable but Lizzie didn’t appreciate the mental picture that Phil had just painted. It was too sordid for her female mind to want to visualise. Men.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate.’ Phil hadn’t finished yet. ‘Seriously, I doubt he was listening…and even if he was I bet he was having a bloody good laugh. You have to draw the line somewhere.’

  Ben was always paranoid until 9:00 p.m. as he had it on good authority—i.e. he had slept with the controller’s PA’s best friend on more than one occasion—that big boss Richard Drake often listened to the first part of her show on a Tuesday, when he was at the gym. Lizzie hoped he had been mid-sit-up during her mini-outburst, just in case he, like Ben, had failed to see the funny side.