Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff
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conscience inserted a pause. He overrode it. ‘In fact I’ve learnt a lot from romantic comedies. Some of my best girlfriends have been picked up with lines that I’ve borrowed from Andrew McCarthy, Tom Cruise…even Tom Hanks… And girls love it even more when I quote Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan at them.’
Lizzie resisted the urge to propose there and then. A man who confessed to liking Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan vehicles was a rare find. Secretly she was impressed, but outwardly she played it down.
‘You smoothie, Matt Baker. Using “lines” to pick up girlfriends? But I suppose in the interests of you learning a few new ones I can probably force myself to sit through it. I’ve been meaning to see it for ages but never got round to it.’
‘Me too. It’s been out for weeks. We must be two of the only people who haven’t seen it yet. It’s a sign.’
‘A sign? It’s a sign? Don’t even try and go all spiritual on me. I can’t believe you just said that. The only sign is that neither of us go to the cinema enough.’
‘Lizzie Ford, a cynic…I’m not convinced. Secretly I think you love a good line. All women do!’
Lizzie smiled. Enigmatically or in a stupidly happy way? She wasn’t sure and didn’t care.
Between the trailers and the feature the cinema was momentarily plunged into total darkness, and to Lizzie’s delight Matt leant over and kissed her. She kissed him back and then, like teenagers, they snuggled up and watched the movie in silence. It was perfectly predictable, with a feel-good soundtrack to distract the viewer from the linear plot. Luckily the story-line was far from complex. Lizzie was only half watching and half wondering what might happen next…
As they turned into her road Lizzie looked at her watch for the first time since one o’clock. It was nearly seven.
‘Thanks, Lizzie. I’ve had a great afternoon.’
Had. Surely he wasn’t thinking of going home yet? Granted, they’d already spent six hours together, but it wasn’t as if either of them had Sunday night homework deadlines to meet. And besides, she’d tidied the flat especially.
‘Do you want to come in for a quick coffee before you head off?’ Was that too keen? After all he was only driving across the river, not embarking on a transglobe expedition. Lizzie wished she could remember what time Clare had said she’d be home. Not that it really mattered, but she didn’t want Matt to feel that this was a heavy ‘meet my best mate’ moment.
‘Well…’ Matt hesitated. ‘Only if it’s Nescafé.’
‘Kenco, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmm.’ He furrowed his brow in mock concern. ‘Well… I suppose I could make an exception on this occasion. Although I have to say I’m surprised at you. Everyone knows that Nescafé is the instant coffee of romantic comedy fans… I mean, their drinkers are always having close encounters of an intimate coffee breath nature…just look at their ad campaigns.’
‘My Kenco is the “really smooth” blend, though.’
‘But of course.’ Matt grinned.
‘And just because you work in clichés doesn’t mean you have to live in one.’
‘I’m just teasing. I said yes, didn’t I?’ He knew he should really be going, but he quite wanted to kiss her again before he left.
Lizzie smiled and rummaged in her bag for her door keys as Matt continued.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange that coffee is seen to be seductive? Personally, the aroma of instant coffee always makes me think of teachers in duffle coats standing around in wet playgrounds, their hands wrapped round those brown-tinted Pyrex coffee mugs.’
She knew exactly what he meant. The world according to Matt Baker was a familiar place. Lizzie could picture the scene now.
‘Not very romantic at all, in fact…’
‘I haven’t had a duffle coat for years,’ Lizzie added apropos of nothing as she unlocked the front door.
Matt’s train of thought hadn’t reached the next station yet. ‘Well, I think you’ll find that they drink the “primary and secondary” blend. I’ve heard good things about the “really smooth” option, though…’
Matt wandered into the kitchen while Lizzie was boiling the kettle and, having laughed a little too hard at the photo collage of Clare and Lizzie’s fashion and hairstyle retrospective in the clip frame on the wall, caught himself staring at her back as she stirred milk into their drinks. He stopped himself before she felt the intensity of his gaze and, sheepish at his behaviour, reverted to his preferred defence mechanism—humour. He didn’t have to look far for inspiration.
‘So which one of you is the smoker, then?’
Lizzie wheeled defensively, surprised at the line of questioning.
‘Neither of us. Why?’
Matt pointed at a box of Tampax which had been left lying on the kitchen table next to the box of matches she and Clare used to light their large candle collection.
Lizzie reddened in a very teenage ‘oooh-it’s-a-tampon’ fashion and distractedly shoved them into the utensil drawer out of sight. As old as she got, being blasé about Tampax in the presence of the opposite sex was still an effort. She must have missed the box during her earlier tidying frenzy. She and Clare didn’t even register things like tampons any more. They were no more unusual or scarce than Biros, and often turned up in just as many unexpected places.
She turned to offer an unnecessary apology but, seemingly unruffled by their sanitary tableware, Matt had taken their coffees over to the sofa and was now relaxing cross-legged, his head resting on the cushions, eyes closed. Lizzie sat down next to him and he opened his eyes and turned to face her. In perfect synchrony they both reached for their coffee, took a sip, and returned their mugs to the table.
Christmas was now in danger of becoming Lizzie’s favourite time of year. She stifled the urge she suddenly had to hum ‘White Christmas’ and instead allowed the silence, now laden with anticipation, to play havoc with her heart-strings.
Matt studied Lizzie’s face with real affection before leaning forward to kiss her. Their lips met for the third time in forty-eight hours and this time it was minutes before they prised themselves apart.
Lizzie was lost in another world. A world which was a hell of a lot more exciting than the last few months had been. As they fell back into the outsize cushions Lizzie relished the weight of his chest against hers. She could feel herself spiralling deliciously into a whirlwind of male musk and intensity.
As they started to shed a few layers Lizzie got the giggles. She felt like a Russian babushka doll. She’d been doing her utmost to be sultry, but so far, as Matt removed each layer from her top half, it was only to discover another one underneath. At her laugh Matt sat up and smiled sheepishly.
‘OK. What is this? Pass the parcel? How many layers are we talking, here?’
‘It’s all about layers in December. You’re nearly there now.’
‘Thank God,’ he muttered as he resumed his challenge.
It was only a few more moments before Lizzie was delighted to hear him murmur approvingly at her cleansed, toned, perfumed and moisturised chest and stomach. She mentally thanked her mother for her years of indoctrination in the there-is-no-such-thing-as-too-much-preparation approach to dates. She breathed in for good measure and shivered with sheer delight as his tongue explored the surface of her skin.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was all a bit soon. But, hey, he was off on holiday in a couple of days and why shouldn’t she give him something to remember her by? She knew his name. She had his mobile number. In Sex and the City the women had sex with totally random men all the time and didn’t seem to feel guilty. She was thirty-two, for goodness’ sake. She pushed