Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff
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what she might and might not, should and shouldn’t say. He answered after half a ring.
‘Matt… It’s me—Liz.’ Darling Lizzie, she thought to herself, and smiled. ‘Thank you so much for the flowers, you old smoothie.’
‘Hey, less of the old, if you don’t mind! It was a pleasure. I really enjoyed yesterday.’
Matt took a step out of the shop he was currently standing in. Trying to buy his wife a Christmas present when they’d barely had a conversation in months would have been hard enough. Trying to choose a present the day after he’d slept with someone else was pretty much impossible. He had no idea what she wanted any more. It was difficult to tell. Her moods were exhausting and he couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had a real laugh together, and certainly 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.
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