Name and Address Withheld. Jane SigaloffЧитать онлайн книгу.
not when she was sober. She didn’t need new jewellery; she needed a new husband. A yes-man. Someone who didn’t want a soul mate.
‘Me too.’
There was now the briefest of pauses as their minds flashed back.
‘So, where did you slope off to in the middle of the night? I had visions of a lazy breakfast in bed this morning.’ Lizzie knew she should have gagged herself. He’d apologised on the card. That should have been enough for her, but, no, she had to ask him again. How to put a man off after one date…sound like a wife or mother… She was doing a great job so far.
‘I couldn’t sleep. You were snoring so loudly…’
Lizzie was mortified. ‘I wasn’t…was I?’ God, had she been? It’d been so long since she’d had overnight company that she might well have developed chronic nocturnal habits without realising.
Matt couldn’t help but laugh at her shocked tone. ‘OK, you win. You weren’t…’ Relief flooded through Lizzie’s veins. ‘I was just kidding. It was more of a distant rumble…’
‘Oi, you.’
‘I just woke up and decided that I’d be better off going home and getting an early start rather than being led astray by you in the morning. You, young lady, were fast asleep—beautifully silently, I might add—and so I crept off. Have you had a good day?’ Matt changed the subject as quickly as he could without inviting suspicion.
‘Not bad. Plenty of work to keep me out of trouble. Just thought I’d call to say thanks for the flowers…they’re great…and have a fantastic time skiing.’ Not too much pressure now, Liz, she reminded herself. Be fun. Do not under any circumstances be neurotic.
‘I’ll try. Snow, sunshine, schnapps…it’s a tough old life. I’ll give you a call when I get back. I’m home on sixth of Jan, I think.’
Morning? Afternoon? Evening? Lizzie wanted to ask but knew she absolutely couldn’t. So they’d had sex; it didn’t entitle her to a copy of his itinerary.
‘Great. Well, have a great time. Look after yourself, and I look forward to more adventures and romantic comedies in January.’
‘Me too. Take care.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
That was it. End of conversation. And while in the final analysis there were plenty of positives in there, Lizzie could have burst into tears as she hung up. Two weeks was nothing. But two weeks over Christmas and New Year was a mini-life-time. And considering they had only been dating for three days—if you were being generous—anything could happen—which was why, Lizzie reflected, life was much simpler, if at times less exciting in that reckless, rip your clothes off sort of a way, if the only person you had to worry about was yourself. Objectively her situation was very simple. Either she would see Matt again or she wouldn’t, in which case she had great sex, muffins and flowers to remember him by. From her postbag, she knew that was more than some people ever had.
The campaign was Rachel’s. There’d been champagne and plenty of back-slapping and now she was celebrating with a designer spending spree. Her fortunes were changing and, despite her cumulative exhaustion, there was a veritable spring in her step. She’d left the office early with every intention of doing her Christmas shopping, but then she’d popped into DKNY and Nicole Farhi on Bond Street and her agenda was shifting.
Two days to Christmas. Rachel almost felt a wave of dread at the imminence of the holiday season. There was no desk to hide behind at home. Four days of him and her mother. Just the three of them and the Christmas edition of the Radio Times. Time to be nice. Time to try. Besides, she thought as she admired her reflection in the changing room mirror, how could he possibly resist her? Next stop Agent Provocateur. Then a trip to the off-licence. Sex, satin and champagne—the trusted marriage repair kit. The season of goodwill was underway.
chapter 8
The Ford family had barely eaten a few mouthfuls of turkey before drifting towards the inevitable annual debate on when-and-where-Lizzie-might-find-a-nice-man-to-settle-down-with—a discussion in which she was not expected to take any real part—and then her mother decided to raise the stakes.
‘So, darling…rumour has it you were sent flowers this week.’
Rumour has it? How on earth had her mother found out?
‘Just a bunch.’
‘Really…?’ Annie paused for effect and looked round the table at her captive audience. ‘Clare said they were quite special.’
Clare. Great. It was fantastic that she was always willing to make polite conversation with her mother, but there were unwritten rules about divulging actual news.
‘He’s just a friend.’ Despite Lizzie’s attempt to keep her focus on her roast potatoes, she could feel her brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew staring.
‘Gran…?’
Lizzie still found it very weird when Jess and Josh called her mum ‘Gran’…it sounded so…so…set and blow-dry.
‘Yes, poppet?’
Poppet? For goodness’ sake. Jess had had the same name for all nine years of her life. Next her mother would be stashing crumpled Kleenex up her sleeve and wearing mauve.
‘You don’t usually send flowers to just friends, do you?’ Jessica shot Lizzie a look to indicate that she knew exactly what she was doing. Jonathan silently cast a sympathetic glance at his sister. Ford grillings were legendary, and it seemed that Jessica had honed the craft at a ridiculously early age.
‘Flowers, flowers…’ Josh had become a four-year-old parrot.
Lizzie gulped down her wine and wished she could be invisible. Just for an hour or two.
‘No, you don’t, darling…’
Annie might have been talking to Jessica but she was staring at Lizzie, and a smile slowly spread across her face as she sensed the discomfort of her second-born child. Lizzie decided to bombard them with information in the hope that they would retreat for analysis.
‘I met him at the City FM Christmas shindig and we’ve been on one proper date. He’s gone skiing for two weeks, during which time I hope he won’t go off me. He works in advertising. He’s a copywriter, which basically means that he comes up with slogans. I forgot to ask him what his parents do, where he was at school, his inside leg measurement or his net annual income.’
Lizzie beamed at her mother, who usually wanted far more detail than she could offer. Annie would have been happiest if any prospective sons-in-law filled out a five-page questionnaire…not that Matt was a prospective son-in-law yet in Lizzie’s eyes. In her mother’s eyes, when your daughter was thirty-two every male was a prospective son-in-law.
‘There’s no need to be so defensive, darling….’ Her sister-in-law and her mother exchanged knowing glances.
Who was being defensive? Lizzie had thought she was being funny. Clearly not.
‘What’s his name?’
Trust Alex to pick up on the crucial information she’d omitted. A natural at everything, and one of those mothers who could flit effortlessly between Play-Doh and Prada and still manage to fit in trips to the gym, Alex had a flat stomach which suggested that Jess and Josh had gestated in her handbag rather than her womb. Lizzie added interrogation to her mental checklist of Alex’s talents and filed it in her insecurity folder.
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