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  Matt grinned. ‘I get the message. Lecture over.’ He quickly snuck in a question, just in case Lizzie was thinking about using her near-death experience as an excuse to move on. ‘What about you? How did you get into the whole agony aunt thing?’

  Whenever Lizzie wasn’t looking directly at him, he stole a glance at the whole picture. Even without his beer goggles on she would’ve been very attractive.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a planned career. Sure, like most girls under sixteen I pored over the problem pages in magazines at my desk at breaktime and between lessons, but I would have died of embarrassment if I’d had to say clitoris out loud, let alone to a total stranger on the radio in front of more than a million people.’

  Matt laughed.

  Lizzie could feel herself blushing under her foundation. Clitoris. Out loud. In conversation. With a man. A man that she found attractive. Nothing like building up her feminine mystique. Maybe she should issue him with a map to her G-spot while she was at it. It could only save time later. Honestly. She could have punched herself with frustration. She moved on quickly in a totally transparent attempt to change the subject.

  ‘I did a degree in sociology but always wanted to get into journalism, and I started writing for a magazine when I left college. When I moved to Out Loud, problems became my thing. Then about nine months ago my editor there put me in touch with these guys and I developed some pilots for a new type of phone-in show. The rest, as they say, is history. I still do my page and a weekly column and I’m amazed at the number of letters, calls and e-mails I get every week. It’s not like I have a perfect relationship track record…far from it.’

  Lizzie stopped herself. She didn’t want to go into her relationship history. Fortunately, despite the fact he was nodding assiduously, Matt seemed to have zoned out of the conversation.

  So he hadn’t been hanging on her every word? Hmm. But then again who was she to talk? Thanks to his tactical positioning on the sofa, Matt could see that Danny had returned to the bar and was now hovering dangerously close by, no doubt hoping to launch himself at Lizzie again and resume where they had left off. But Matt wasn’t even going to let him try. When they’d sat down he’d promised to protect her and he was taking his new role as chief of security very seriously. It was an emergency, and so he suggested something he rarely enjoyed.

  ‘Let’s dance.’

  Matt was up on his feet and Lizzie, designer heels forgotten, leapt up to join him. She loved dancing. It wasn’t her greatest talent, but she was certainly an enthusiastic participant whether it was garage, disco, salsa or overly energetic rock ’n’ roll. She’d watched The kids from Fame, Footloose and Dirty Dancing more times than she would care to admit, and as she’d aged had learnt to forget about being self-conscious and just allowed the rhythm to take over. There was something so very exhilarating about two people communicating through music. It didn’t have to be over the top stuff. Just a few side steps or symmetrical arm movements as groups of people mirrored each other to bring them together. She didn’t understand people who just stood at the side and watched.

  Matt was inspired by Lizzie’s ebullience on the dance floor. He was no Patrick Swayze, but here in the semi-darkness he was enjoying what was usually the worst part of any evening for him. Thankfully the thumping dance music was soon replaced by songs with words and a hint of a tune, and when they were both hot and tired, to their relief, the slow numbers kicked in. Matt pulled Lizzie in for a couple of close ones before she could think to protest, and to his delight halfway through the second song she relaxed, resting her head on his shoulder. He breathed deeply in an attempt to get his heart-rate down. He was sure that Lizzie must be able to hear the pounding in his chest and didn’t want her to think that he was geriatrically unfit or that she had landed the over-excited teenage virgin at the school disco.

  At one-thirty someone with a twisted sense of humour turned all the lights on, illuminating what, seconds earlier, had been a den of iniquity as brightly as an operating theatre. Fortunately Matt was insisting on staying with her until she found a cab and, despite her self-assured protestations of independence, Lizzie was delighted that he hadn’t just wandered off when the music stopped.

  They walked all the way to Trafalgar Square and then along the Strand until they reached the taxi queue now snaking across the cobbles and out of the gates at Charing Cross Station. Good old Brits. Drunk as everyone was, the queue was perfect.

  By the time they finally reached the front Matt had decided that he’d share her cab. Lizzie wasn’t sure whether this was chivalrous or lecherous. She certainly hadn’t got coffee in mind, or waxed her bikini line in the last few months…but then it seemed that he really was just being friendly. Had she really lost her ability to give out the it’s-all-right-if-you-kiss-me vibes? She looked across at her fellow passenger who was staring resolutely out of the window. She couldn’t exactly ask him. Lizzie crossed her legs and sat back in the seat, hoping that tight cornering on the journey would send them sliding across the leather banquettes into each other.

  Matt didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he couldn’t have left her in the West End taxi-hunting on her own, and it had seemed silly to risk another twenty minutes in the cold when they could easily share hers. That was all he was doing. Right. But he hadn’t had such a relaxed evening in one-to-one female company for years, and now he was feeling a frisson of excitement that he’d almost forgotten existed. He released his grip on the handle above the door and slipped back into his seat. Just at that moment Lizzie slid into the side of him as the driver took a corner Formula One style. He put his arm around her shoulder to steady her. And left it there.

  As Lizzie directed the driver to her door Matt knew that, while he was still sailing on the crest of a lager wave, he really wanted to kiss her goodnight, and even with his rusty dating dial he knew that she wouldn’t resist him. As the taxi slowed to a pant Matt gave the cabbie the postcode for his onward journey before sliding the interconnecting window closed and turning to face Lizzie who, to his amusement, was taking ages to gather her non-existent belongings together before opening the door.

  Taking her hand, he leant forward to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek and, to his delight, Lizzie moved her mouth to meet his. Like a couple of love-struck teenagers they kissed. His synapses buzzed with the excitement that passed between them as he felt her lips touch his, just lingering enough to be meaningful. In a moment she was gone, and for a second he’d never wanted anything more than to still be with her.

  Matt’s mind was a mess as the driver pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Where next, mate? Well done. She was lovely.’

  Lizzie had come down off her cloud by the time she’d unlocked the front door. She shouldn’t have kissed him. True, she’d had a much better evening than she could have imagined, but he was a work colleague…sort of…and she’d had a lot to drink. Alcohol had diluted her inhibitions and now, sobering up at home, the self-justification process was starting in earnest. But no one was going to be having meetings with the advertising people until well into the New Year, by which time Matt might have forgotten all about it.

  About what, exactly? They’d had a couple of beers, chatted, danced, chatted, and then, for about ten seconds, they’d kissed each other goodnight. If she’d been eighteen years old she would’ve just put it down as a good night out, so why, fourteen years later, was she torturing herself? Lizzie hated her carefully camouflaged romantic core. It caused nothing but trouble. That was why she’d made the decision to bow out of the relationship arena and focus on her career instead. Professionally she berated herself. What if he’d been hoping for a kiss and tell with a B-list—make that E-list—agony aunt? But then there wasn’t exactly anything to kiss and tell about, was there? She was single, pissed, and at an office party. Nothing scandalous about that.

  She wished that the gland responsible for providing her with this level of adrenaline would take a break. All these hypotheticals were i
n danger of giving her a headache. Life was all about taking opportunities and seizing the moment, and tonight that moment had been hers. In fact, if she was totally honest with herself, part of her wished she’d taken a bit more.

  Lizzie performed her ablutions noisily, and even gargled a couple of times with some vintage Listerine that she found on a shelf, hoping that Clare would wake up for a debrief. Wide awake, Lizzie climbed into bed. How could she possibly sleep now?

  Across London Matt looked out of his kitchen window as he poured himself another pint of water from the filter jug which she insisted was better for them. He was disconcertingly sober. For the first time in his life he had been unfaithful: to his wife, to himself and to Lizzie.

  He should’ve said something. It might only have been a kiss, but in his mind it was already a whole lot more. His marriage might be dead, but why should she believe him? It was the oldest line in the book. Now it was rapidly approaching 3:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and he was about to creep into bed claiming to have lost all track of time at the party. Hopefully she wouldn’t wake up. She was certainly unlikely to have missed him. If she had, it would be the first time in months. He picked up his glass and left the kitchen, confused.

  chapter 2

  Rachel rubbed her eyes and was appalled to feel that her incredibly expensive all-weather mascara was now crusty. As she swallowed and winced at the furry stale oral aftermath of her Shiraz Cabernet and Marlboro Lights session, fragments of her evening started to return to her memory. She must have drunk a lot to have been smoking. Enough to forget that she had given up last month. A token attempt to try and keep at least one of her vices under some sort of control. She cupped her hand and exhaled into it. Her breath smelt as bad as it tasted.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Now she was talking to herself. Not a good sign. She fell back onto the cushions. It had only been a few drinks with the team after work, but, coupled with a long boozy client lunch earlier in the day, it had obviously got a little out of hand. Now that she had a sofa in her office this was becoming an all too frequent occurrence.

  Almost dizzy with the effort, Rachel rummaged in her capacious bag for some breath-freshening gum, paracetamol and her mobile. She held the display close to her face while her eyes refocused to inspect the small screen. No missed calls and no messages. Relieved or disappointed? She wasn’t sure. She could call and tell him that she was on her way, but phoning at this point would be tantamount to admitting she was in the wrong, not just at the office. Hopefully she’d manage to slip into bed undetected and be vague about the time of her return if he asked in the morning.

  As she located her shoes, she shivered in the unfamiliar cold of the office. In two days she’d be here raising hell like she always did on a Monday morning when deadlines looked as if they weren’t going to be met, and tomorrow she’d be back to tie up a few loose ends and do the real work that was near impossible to achieve while she was playing hard at projecting the image of being in control.

  Next week she would finally know whether she had won the account they’d all been working so hard for. She could already picture the banner headline in Campaign: ‘Anti-drugs offensive taken on by Clifton Dexter Harrison’, and her publicity shot alongside. It was high-profile, and a huge social concern, and once you’d made a name for yourself the industry didn’t forget. The account director on the last AIDS awareness campaign was running his own agency now. This could be her big break. The culmination of all the late nights and early mornings of the last few years. She’d sacrificed everything for this moment.

  Rachel felt a pang of remorse. She’d always had a selfish streak—single-minded, she preferred to call it. But she couldn’t sit back and relax until she’d made a name for herself. Rachel was a here-and-now girl. Moments were for seizing and unwinding was for watches—all part of her ‘take now and pay later’ attitude to life. But this could be it—her very own meal ticket. Then she’d set about fixing her relationship. She was sure that with a bit of effort and a couple of surprise weekends away it could all be back to normal again. Rachel didn’t do failure. Fingers crossed, she would make her New Year strategy the anti-drugs offensive followed by a quick-fire campaign to save her marriage.

  The issue addressed, her mind returned to rest and now focused on getting her some beauty sleep as soon as possible. By waving her arms as she locked her office Rachel managed to trigger enough motion sensors to illuminate her exit route from the building, and successfully startled the security guard who she suspected must have managed to nod off against the cold marble wall of their smart reception area. She wondered how much they were paying him to sleep in the upright position.

  The house was pitch-black and, jaw clenched to prevent her teeth chattering, she tiptoed up the stairs. As she stared into the dark of the bedroom she could see that the curtains were still open and the bed was still made. He wasn’t back yet. Her concern was only momentary as her tired memory saw fit to remind her of a message she’d picked up when they’d left the bar. He had another Christmas party.

  Relieved that she wasn’t going to have to explain her late return, have sex or yet another conversation about nothing in particular, Rachel flicked the lights on. She cleansed and toned in record time and was dead to the world when her slightly smoked and pickled husband collapsed into bed beside her. The room was quiet as their breathing patterns united and they lay beside each other, together but apart.

  chapter 3

  George Michael and Andrew Ridgely were crooning away on the radio for the umpteenth December in a row. It never seemed to be their Last Christmas.

  Lizzie was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the cacophony of mushy sentiment and sleigh bells to come to an end. It was Saturday morning. Five days before Christmas. No wonder so many people found the festive period depressing. The contrast with the high of the night before was almost too much. But the evening had surpassed all her expectations and now the weekend was just the same as it would have been whether or not she had kissed Matt. It just felt worse. And it certainly wasn’t being helped by the hangover that was starting to roll in from somewhere behind her ears.

  Clare must have been watching her from a hidden camera, as she chose this moment to wander in breezily with a cup of tea. As if she had just happened to be passing with a spare mug. Lizzie wondered how many times she had walked past her door in the last couple of hours, desperate for some sign of life.

  ‘Morning. How was last night, then?’

  ‘Great…’

  It was a unique delivery. Lizzie’s voice rumbled and squeaked into action and her first syllable came out grudgingly. Her tones were definitely less dulcet than normal, and she could only just hear what she was saying. She must have done more shouting in smoky atmospheres than she had realised. She coughed a couple of times in an attempt to restore her more familiar range before continuing.

  ‘…a lot of fun, actually…’ Her voice was a unique tribute to Eartha Kitt.

  ‘Really?’ Clare’s voice was laced with expectation. Eager for details, she perched on the edge of Lizzie’s bed just as her flatmate leapt to her feet, impressively grabbing her towel from the chair in one single movement.

  ‘I’ll fill you in after my shower.’

  Lizzie surprised herself with the buoyancy of her tone, especially as her whole body was wobbling with the effort of reaching a vertical position. Heart beating faster than normal, she half-walked, half-skipped to the bathroom just as Macy Gray’s ‘Winter Wonderland’ replaced Wham. She didn’t know why she hadn’t just confessed there and then. For some totally irrational reason she was suddenly embarrassed at her behaviour.

  She was standing on the bath mat drying herself when Clare knocked.

  ‘For goodness’ sake. You never get up after ten on a Saturday. I’ve been pacing up and down in the kitchen, cleaning surfaces, just waiting for you to wake up—and then you decide to have a shower first. Since when have you been so obsessive about your cleanliness? Unles
s, of course, you’re washing a man right out of your hair…’

  Lizzie refused to be goaded into a confession. All in good time. She swapped her now damp towel for her bathrobe, and as she opened the door Clare practically fell into the room. She must have been leaning right up against it.

  ‘Well, I spoke to all the bosses without saying anything incriminating, boogied the night away with Ben and the team, drank lots of alcohol and then got stuck in the corner with Danny Vincent—possibly the most self-centred, boring, slimy drive-time DJ in the history of broadcasting. It was terrible. To make matters worse my head feels too heavy for my body, and right now I’m not sure whether I’m going to make it through the next few hours without being sick…’ Lizzie didn’t remember being exceptionally drunk at any stage of the evening, but her body was telling a different story. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with something…’

  ‘Poor you…’ Clare empathised fervently.

  This was why, Lizzie mused, she was her best friend.

  ‘…but I think you’ll find it’s just a good old-fashioned hangover. So, did he make a move?’

  Lizzie shuddered at the thought of those whiter than white teeth and tighter than tight trousers.

  ‘No. Thankfully, just when I thought there was no way out, I was rescued by a different bloke who had spotted my predicament from the bar.’

  ‘I see.’

  Lizzie was being so pseudo-offhand that Clare now knew there was a whole lot more to this than she was being told at the moment. This was typical Ford behaviour. Whenever Lizzie had anything interesting to divulge she just tossed it in ever so casually at the point in the conversation where you had as good as stopped listening. Clare decided to play it cool for now. She knew from experience that this coy moment couldn’t last long. Lizzie meanwhile, freshly energised by her shower, was just burbling on.