Name & Address Withheld Read online

  Lizzie reassured everyone round the table that it was very early days yet, but conceded that she did like him—obviously omitting to mention intercourse, or Clare’s cynicism that he would be in the arms of a chalet girl by now—and the conversation was allowed to move on. Lizzie drank a silent toast to Matt, somewhere up a mountain, and, much as she loved her family, wished she was there with him.

  December the twenty-fifth when you are unhappily married with no children, with no close family with children, and with parents who have decided to go and spend the holiday season with your brother and his wife in America is possibly the worst day of the year. Not even the prospect of a skiing holiday next week was helping. Because that was in five days’ time, and right now every hour seemed to last three weeks.

  Presents had been exchanged over breakfast. Hers: handcrafted silver necklace, voucher for evening spa at the Sanctuary, new coffee table book of Mario Testino portraits—her favourite photographer—and annual subscription to Vanity Fair. His: another navy blue jumper—classically expensive and at least one size too big, he could change it—Jamie Oliver’s latest cookbook—her favourite chef—and Breakfast at Tiffany’s on DVD—her favourite film.

  They’d spent the rest of the morning preparing lunch—including the new Jamie Oliver approach to Brussels sprouts. He’d tried to be interested in her news, and she’d been more attentive than at any other time over the last six months, but the atmosphere was strained. Laughing a little too hard and too early at each other’s jokes. Recalling a little too eagerly anecdotes that proved they’d once had a healthy relationship. Somewhere along the line things had changed. Now they were virtual strangers with a shared archive of memories. Not enough to sustain what they didn’t have now.

  Today would probably have been a good time for an honest chat. For a start they were in the same place at the same time, and both conscious, but he didn’t want to provoke a showdown in front of her mother and so he’d been dutiful and gone through the motions surprisingly effectively. But it was hell. Actually, it was hell with the mute button pressed. No flaming cauldrons. No screams. Instead completely quiet, except for the gentle purring noise coming from his mother-in-law dozing in the armchair by the fire and the occasional rustle of a page being turned.

  Satan had this suffering bit down to a tee. Here he was with plenty of time to think, to hypothesise, but no suitable time to talk. And what about Lizzie? Could it work even if he had lied? It seemed an impossible situation. The plot of the book he was reading seemed far more feasible, even though it involved a race of people from a parallel galaxy. He hauled himself from the sofa and decided to make a start on the washing up. The roasting tray would be a welcome distraction.

  Happy Fucking Christmas. Rachel was irritated and her pride was well and truly dented. It had been the perfect moment. Candlelight, champagne, and yet he wasn’t in the mood. Wasn’t in the mood? Now he was in the bath ‘relaxing’, and he’d even locked the door.

  She’d spent a fortune. She’d been in full seduction mode—balconette bra, stockings, suspenders and a practically transparent negligée hiding under her bathrobe—but, nothing. And she’d thrown away the receipt.

  Now she wasn’t even sure if she was feeling humiliated, furious or just plain frustrated. She’d imagined an evening like they’d used to have. Limbs and clothes everywhere, frantic excitement, collapsing in a sweaty heap at the end only to shower and start all over again. It didn’t make sense. He’d always wanted her. Tonight she’d been ready. And when she decided something was going to happen, it fucking did.

  Glaring at nothing in particular, Rachel flung her head back onto the pillow sulkily before swinging herself back into the upright position and finding her slippers. She needed a vodka, a big one, or she was going to lose her temper. Ho Bloody Ho. But if her Christmas spirit had to come from a bottle, then so be it. No one was going to piss on her parade. Not today.

  ‘Your throw.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  Lizzie was miles away.

  ‘Your throw.’

  So far away that a four-year-old was having to remind her how to play a non-tactical throw-a-dice-and-get-your-coloured-piece-to-the-other-end board game.

  ‘Right. Sorry, Joshie…’ Lizzie rolled the dice. ‘Four.’

  He counted her playing piece along the board.

  ‘One, two, three, four.’

  Lizzie had landed on a square with writing. Josh looked beseechingly at his older, wiser sister.

  ‘Read it, Jess.’

  ‘You have missed your train. Go back to the ticket office.’

  Josh squealed with delight at his aunt’s misfortune. Lizzie moved the piece back almost to the beginning and smiled wanly. She didn’t care if she lost. She didn’t even care that her mother was cheating. She’d been drinking for over seven hours and now she just wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere snowy, at altitude. A certain chalet, perhaps…

  ‘Right, then, I’m going to watch the rest of the film in bed. At least that way your heavy breathing isn’t going to ruin all the tension…’

  Matt grunted sleepily before rolling over slightly to face the cushions. His breathing sounded laboured, and he was desperate to open his eyes, but knew his plan was on the verge of working. His wife bent down and kissed him on the cheek. The fumes from her all-day drinking session curled the edge of his nostrils.

  ‘Night. See you up there.’

  He waited until he’d heard her climb the stairs, check on her mother and switch the telly on, before turning over and propping himself up on his elbow. As he rummaged on the floor for his book and made himself comfortable he allowed himself to wonder how Lizzie’s day had been. He was far too young to have screwed up.

  chapter 9

  The phone rang from somewhere underneath the papers strewn across her desk. Carefully, so as not to disturb her morning’s work which, despite its haphazard appearance, was in fact organised into piles that only she could understand, Lizzie extricated the receiver just before the call-minder service kicked in.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lizzie, it’s me. I know it’s pathetic but I really miss you. Mum’s driving me mad.’

  It was Clare, stir-crazy, shouting just a little bit, live and direct from the maternal home—a chocolate box farmhouse in a small village just outside Wendover.

  ‘I’ll be home in a couple of days. So enjoy having the place to yourself and listening to all your crap CDs before my return!’

  ‘Two days…’ Lizzie was on automatic pilot and still concentrating on the letter she had been in the middle of answering when the phone rang. ‘Right, OK…’ Now focusing on the voice in her ear, she snapped back to the present just in time to take an active part in the conversation that Clare had already started without her. ‘What day is today anyway?’

  ‘Sunday…all day. Honestly, you’re obviously deep in “Ask Lizzie” land. I don’t want to interrupt the master at work, but I am—and I can’t say this too loudly for fear of being overheard by one of her ornaments—bored, bored, bored. You know how much I love my mother, but there are only so many times you can have the same conversation and pretend that it’s all news to you without wanting to hit someone…’

  Lizzie laughed. Clare made her laugh.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m only forty-eight minutes away from Marylebone. It’s like a different era out here. I’m beginning to find this whole relaxing thing quite stressful, and if my mother suggests I read another one of her Aga sagas I think I’ll scream. There aren’t even any proper shops for me to wander round. I can’t feel guilty about spending too much money because there is absolutely nothing to buy. I’m starting to say damn and blast. I’ve found myself poring over catalogues and have even considered ordering a shirt from one of them even though I know it will be disgusting.’

  ‘Hang in there. I’m working away at this end, so it’s not like you’re missing a great party atmosphere. Putney is deserted. I think about ninety per cent of our neighbours are che
z parents in the country or skiing. I went to Sainsbury’s the other day and there wasn’t even a queue at the checkout.’

  ‘Unbelievable…’ Scarily, Clare felt, Lizzie’s stories were just about as exciting as her mother’s. She’d have to organise a girlie night out on the town when she got back before they slid into middle age without even noticing. Next they’d be comparing detergents instead of dates. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Any calls?’

  ‘Nope. None for you at all. Sorry.’

  ‘Any for you…?’

  Lizzie hesitated. Surely she couldn’t be so bored that she wanted to know how many times her mother and Jonathan had called over the last week. She was almost ashamed to admit that it ran into double figures.

  ‘Well, a few.’

  Clare sighed. Lizzie was being deliberately obtuse. It might be tactless, but she was going to have to ask anyway.

  ‘So you haven’t heard from you-know-who?’

  Lizzie smiled at Clare’s attempt at tact and diplomacy. She didn’t know why substituting his name with the ‘you-know-who’ thing was supposed to make her think about ‘who-he-was’ any less. And, thanks to Clare, her mother now knew there was a ‘someone-of-interest’ who ‘might-have-called’ too.

  ‘Matt?’ As if she was waiting to hear from a selection of recent sexual conquests… ‘Nope. He’s still skiing.’

  Clare knew that much. She also knew that there was an effective telecommunications system which operated throughout Europe, both on mountains and in valleys. Surely he could have found a five-minute window between steins of lager? But she decided to be upbeat for now. ‘Right. When’s he back?’

  ‘Sixth or seventh I think…’

  Clare knew there was no way that Lizzie was capable of being that blasé, but let it pass all the same.

  ‘Oh, and thanks so much for telling Mum about the flowers.’

  ‘Don’t be so over-sensitive. Flowers are a good sign as far she’s concerned. It gives her hope. She only means well. Strangely enough, she just wants you to be happy.’

  ‘I am happy…’ Lizzie made a conscious effort to move the conversation away from her. She had nothing to report. All she’d done was work, food-shop and watch a few classic films on television. ‘So how’s country life? Been to any gigs at the village hall?’

  ‘Thankfully I’ve managed to talk her out of all of them. It’s at times like this I really wish I had a brother or sister to dilute all this parent-child bollocks. She still thinks I’m fourteen. I mean, it’s ridiculous. I have my own business. I employ people…’

  Clare suddenly interrupted her own soliloquy of boredom. Lizzie was actually only half listening whilst speed-reading a few letters. She’d resisted the urge to actually type anything into her computer because she knew only too well how irritating it could be to hear other people’s keyboards in action when they were supposed to be giving you their undivided attention.

  ‘Look, I’d better go. Mum’s just got back from walking the dog and I’ll be in trouble if she thinks I’ve been gassing to you the whole time she’s been out as we live together for most of the year. See you on Tuesday… Byeee.’

  ‘Bye.’

  So it was Sunday already. Since Boxing Day she’d thrown herself at her postbag and, thanks to a couple of marathon sessions, only had a couple more hours to go. But next week would herald the onslaught of the post-Christmas pre-Valentines blues. January to March was Lizzie’s busiest time of year.

  She returned her focus to her next letter of the week. In fact it was less of a letter and more of a stream of consciousness. Like many of the people who wrote, this woman had more or less answered her own questions, but Lizzie knew that plenty of her readers would identify with her.

  Dear Lizzie

  My marriage is in dire straits.

  Lizzie had to concentrate hard to override the ‘Money for Nothing’ chorus which had just surfaced from the recesses of her inbuilt jukebox and smiled to herself idiotically. It was amazing what these letters could trigger. People’s lives in crisis and she was humming songs from 1985.

  I’ve been married for five years now, but things haven’t really been right for the last six months—well, probably more like a year. I know you must get hundreds of people writing to you with this sort of problem, but I read your column this week for the first time and, whilst I’d always thought that agony aunts were for teenagers, manic depressives and people with no friends at all, you do seem to talk a lot of sense. I have friends, but right now I don’t know who to turn to. Most of them have no idea how bad things have become, plus there is the added problem of my husband and I sharing friends who would feel divided loyalty, and the last thing I want is a series of lectures. So, I thought I’d see what you think I should do. I can always ignore your advice if I don’t like it. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s a bit like reading your horoscope, I suppose. You only see what you want to see when it suits you.

  A bit of background for you: I’m in my thirties, a typical product of the go-get-it-and-while-I’m-at-it-why-can’t-I-have-it-all generation, and while I concede that I do work very hard and my career is coming first at the moment, my husband has always understood that side of me (or I thought he did). I am under a lot of pressure at the office, but I do genuinely feel that real success is just around the corner.

  My husband’s a really nice guy; he’s not a cross-dresser, or an S&M aficionado or even a difficult bloke… If only he can just hang in there I feel certain that we can make things work again, and I honestly believe that things will quieten down a bit at work when I get to the next level. The trouble is that he seems to be giving up. I’m beginning to wonder whether he might be thinking about having, or even have started, an affair and I don’t think that I could ever forgive him for that. Without being too graphic (although I know these are the details that voyeurs who read these pages are holding out for), we’re not exactly sleeping together much these days. I’m exhausted and totally immersed in my work, I’m stressed out, and to be honest having sex is the last thing I feel like at the moment. Luckily, he’s usually in bed asleep or out when I get home.

  For the last few months I’ve been burying my head in the sand, just believing that everything will be fine because we did the marriage thing together, but I know he’s feeling neglected. He’s even stopped bothering to talk to me about things, and seems to be trying to make a point by working all hours now as if to compete and prove that he doesn’t need me any more. We used to be really happy. I just worry that it’s too late to do anything about it, so I’m writing to you. Why…? I don’t know. In case you have a magic wand, I suppose. Anyway, any tips you have would be very welcome.

  Name & Address Withheld

  Lizzie found herself composing her response before she’d even finished reading.

  Dear Career Girl

  I’m afraid there’s no magic solution to your problem, but the fact that you’re so aware that things aren’t right is a huge help. You’ve hinted at many of the answers in your letter, but if it helps to have a total stranger point them out then here goes…

  Being a woman in the twenty-first century is almost impossible. There are too many demands on too little time and this, coupled with the capabilities that many women now realise that they have and naturally want to utilise, causes many conflicts of interest. At least when women were uneducated they would never have dreamed of doing half the things that they do today—often not only as well as, but better than their male counterparts. Sorry, guys who are reading this, but that’s how we feel. Ignorance must have been bliss. Washing yourself, washing clothes, reading, sewing, cooking, riding and shagging—even if you had to wear lace collars, petticoats and skirts all the time—that was it. There was plenty of time for you to adore and appreciate your husband when he got back from earning the family income, and lots of uncluttered head space for you to think about him and his needs when he wasn’t around, in comparison to now when he is just one more ball to juggle.
r />   That said, don’t forget this is an intimidating age for men. They’re adapting as fast as they can, but as we women know only too well they can rarely anticipate our latest demand and need to be nurtured and loved along the way. I know how hard it is to combine success at work with a successful relationship. It is no coincidence that I have no Mr Lizzie to look after or to look after me. But if you have found someone special it is worth putting in the effort. You say that success is just around the corner. Might it still be there if you step back for a fortnight? I know it’s hard, but try and retain some perspective. At what cost do you want it?

  From where he’s standing, there is nothing worse than feeling rejected. We all want to be loved and all need to be needed. Women don’t have the monopoly on feeling insecure. He has to believe that he’s an important part of your life and that you’re still interested in him, or yes, he may well look for someone he feels can be a real soul mate, or even just someone to massage his flagging ego, or some other bits of him that need attention… And, more importantly, however busy you both are, you need to have a part of your life which is yours together. Just because you are married it doesn’t mean you can sit back and count the years to your silver wedding anniversary. Communicate. Talk to him. Explain how you are feeling…and, hardest of all, don’t be defensive. Admit you are at fault. Take some responsibility. Telling him that you are perfect and that he needs to be more understanding and flexible will not have the desired effect.

  Don’t wait until it’s too late. Make time now, even if it’s only a day. (Lunch in Paris, thanks to Eurostar, can’t do any harm and won’t break the bank either.) We all get sucked into the work whirlpool, but it’s only a job and the world will still be rotating on its axis if you take a few hours to sort yourself out. You’ve taken the first step; you’ve written to me. But it’s him you should be talking to. He may not realise how you’re feeling. It may sound ludicrous, but men specialise in being obtuse.