man as a recipe for disaster. Lizzie, on the other hand, couldn’t help being an eternal optimist. One day she hoped to be rewarded for her dedication to an often disappointing cause.
‘So keen. You are, of course, assuming that they’re from Matt.’
‘Well, when Mum wants me to call she tends to use the phone rather than sending an edible carrier pigeon.’
‘Maybe they’re from Drive-Time Danny.’
Lizzie was hit by an instant wave of nausea totally unrelated to the amount of sugar she had just ingested, and for a few seconds her perfect moment evaporated. But Danny probably didn’t think he had to send anything to anyone—except perhaps a signed photo of himself. They had to be from Matt. Had to be.
Clare hadn’t meant to sound negative. And she had to admit sending cookies, muffins and brownies was a sweet—and sure-fire—way to Lizzie’s duvet.
‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving him a call this afternoon…’ Clare knew that Lizzie would do whatever she wanted to, but by giving Lizzie her endorsement she hoped she would be seen in a less negative, spoil-sporty light. She couldn’t help it if she had been let down one time too many. ‘Why don’t I make us a cup of coffee and then you can ring him? Or, if you’d rather wait until I go to work, I’ll be out of here by four-thirty.’
Lizzie had drained her mug long before Clare, and now had cold feet. Clare had been teaching her to live life without her heart on her sleeve and Lizzie admired her style. She was now inclined to leave it until Monday, but then she might have missed the moment altogether, and she couldn’t honestly see herself doing any work until she had got this out of the way. Besides, it was what she told her readers all the time. Be yourself and don’t play relationship games, because unless both parties know the rules you’ll lose every time.
Right. Time for her to take some of her own advice. She picked up their walkabout phone, dialling and wandering simultaneously, and tried the 0207 number first. It went straight to answer-phone. The voice on the message didn’t really sound like the one she remembered from last night, but it didn’t sound like Danny either. She left her name and number before hanging up, just in case it wasn’t his voicemail at all.
As she dialled the mobile number she prayed that the scribe at Muffin HQ wasn’t dyslexic or innumerate. All her nerves needed now was for this to be a wrong number. With each ring her heart edged a little bit closer to her mouth, until finally the phone rang out, irritatingly diverting to voicemail.
‘Hi, you’ve got through to Matt Baker…’
Lizzie could have jumped for joy at the relief that the delivery had definitely been from the right man.
‘…I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
Lizzie hung up and held the phone to her chest. What should she say? After a few moments of pacing she decided less was more and rang back, obediently leaving her name and number but no message. Now she would have to make sure that her phone was free to ring by not using it.
When it rang five minutes later both Lizzie and Clare nearly fell off the sofa. After a great deal of arm-waving on Lizzie’s part Clare answered it. Lizzie knew her behaviour was pure fifteen-year-old. Of course it wouldn’t be Matt. It was far too soon.
‘Annie. Hi. Yes, thanks…’
Her mother. Again.
‘I’ll just get her for you… Don’t keep her too long…’ Clare smiled mischievously ‘…only she’s waiting for an important call. I know… I know…’
What did she know?
OK. Yes, I’ll tell her. Fine. Thanks. Hope to see you soon. Right. Bye for now.’
Whose mother was she anyway?
‘She says you can call her later. Apparently you arranged to have a chat?’
Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘Hardly. I just said we’d speak later. You know—Some Time Later, not Within Three Hours.’ Her mother still didn’t understand that some adult children didn’t speak to their parents several times a week, a day or an afternoon. But Lizzie knew she got lonely on her own, especially at weekends.
Clare had barely put the phone down on the sofa next to her before it rang again.
‘Oh, well, maybe she’s forgotten something…’ Clare chucked the receiver, still ringing, at her flatmate. ‘She’s your mother…and I’ve got to get ready.’
‘Yup?’
‘Lizzie?’
Damn… She should have known. The one time today she hadn’t answered the phone with her ‘heylo’ hair-flick and it was him. Bloody typical.
‘Matt! Hi! Thanks so much for my food parcel. It’s wonderful.’
Too effusive? But Lizzie had never really been able to do ‘aloof’, and she wasn’t about to start now. She leapt to her feet, instinctively wandering out of earshot to her bedroom.
Clare turned the radio down and occupied herself with silent chores, listening out for any nuggets of information that might waft down the stairs. She knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she and Lizzie didn’t do the secrets thing and hearing it first hand would only save time later. As Clare strained to hear she was only managing to pick up the odd word, so she crept a bit closer to the stairwell which brought her instant rewards.
‘…oh, right… Are you feeling better…? Great… I know…I know. There seems to be a lot of it about.’
A lot of what? Clare wondered to herself. Syphilis? Flu? Office-party-related shagging? Now Lizzie was laughing. Now more talking. Clare paid closer attention.
‘Work in the morning…on a Sunday? Poor you. Mmm…yes…I see what you mean. Mind you, I’ve only got a hot date with my post bag…wild, crazy thing that I am.’
Clare balked. Sympathy with a hint of empathy. Lizzie was spiralling into the romantic quagmire as usual. She never was quite as hard to get as you would think from reading her column.
‘Lunch tomorrow? OK… Yup… Better than OK—great. Where shall we meet? …don’t mind…I eat everything…usually all at the same time…’ Lizzie laughed out loud again.
Clare smiled at Lizzie’s ‘joke’. Matt might think she was being witty and spontaneous, but if he stuck around for long enough he would discover that it was one of Lizzie’s standard lines.
‘OK. Perfect. See you at 1:00 p.m. Bye.’
Clare returned to the kitchen as quickly as she could without actually running, and faded the radio up while clattering pans together in the sink. She busied herself with scrubbing the Bolognese pan and waited for Lizzie to report back.
Lizzie rang off and would have flick-flacked to her study had she ever got higher than the shoulder-stand BAGA level of gymnastics. Instead she whistled her way there, and happily immersed herself in work.
Clare was happy for her. Just as long as Matt wasn’t going to let her down. The trouble was, despite the
