to her study. She wanted to at least start work before lunch, so that it would be easier to return to later, when the call of the shops would be strongest. Surrounded by her post, she switched on her computer and then, to order her thoughts, made one of her famous ‘to do’ lists. Scaring herself into action, she started by printing off her e-mails and adding them to the letters pile for immediate attention.
Her concentration was coming and going in waves but, focusing on the screen in front of her, she forced herself to keep typing. She had almost succeeded in blocking out her surroundings when the phone rang. The shrill electronic bleat cut through the silence and nearly prompted an instant coronary. Lizzie just stared at it. Could it be?
Caught up in the moment, she overlooked the fact that she hadn’t given him her home phone number, that she was ex-directory, and that there was no one in the office that morning to give it to him and so, after flicking her hair back with her hand, she answered in a semi-flirtatious fashion.
‘Heylo?’
‘Liz, it’s me…’
‘Me’ being Clare. Lizzie did her best not to actually sound disappointed.
‘Clare.’
‘I’m in Waitrose. Do you need me to pick up the stuff for our lunch?’
‘Yup, that would be great…’ In her hungover state Lizzie had completely forgotten about the whole needing ingredients in order to cook lunch thing. Thank goodness one of them was living in the real world today. ‘The usual…and don’t forget—’
Clare interrupted her. ‘Mushrooms and red peppers. I know.’
‘Thanks…’ Clare really was the perfect flatmate at times. ‘And a couple of tins of chopped tomatoes.’
‘No problem. See you in a bit.’
‘Bye.’
But Clare, anxious not to waste even a few seconds of her free call time, had already gone.
Lizzie was rereading her notes in an attempt to recall her train of thought when the phone rang for a second time. Again she leant back in her chair, ran her fingers through her hair, and, ever so casually, slightly slurred her greeting.
‘Heylo?’
‘Liz, it’s Mum. Can’t be long. I’m on the mobile in the Sainsbury’s car park.’
‘OK.’ What was this? The phone a friend from a supermarket half-hour?
‘I hope I haven’t interrupted anything…’
Chance would be a fine thing. ‘It’s fine, Mum. I’m working, but…’
‘On a Saturday? You are conscientious.’
A compliment. Only, the way she said it, almost an accusation.
‘What do you need?’ Lizzie could feel herself snapping without meaning to and pulled herself up. She’d always believed what goes around comes around, and didn’t want to jeopardise any chance of her and Matt getting together in the not too distant future by upsetting her mother now. It was perfectly clear female reasoning.
‘That Thai curry you were telling me about…’
‘Mmm…’
‘What was the fresh herb you needed?’
‘Coriander. Lots of it. Ignore the recipe and put loads in. If you buy too much you can always freeze it.’
‘Thanks, darling. It’s just I left the list at home.’
‘No problem.’
‘Listen, must go. This phone’s giving me a headache. I’ll call you soon. We haven’t had a proper chat in ages.’
‘OK. Speak to you later.’
‘Bye.’
Lizzie shouldn’t be allowed to cook when she was feeling hungry. While she might not be about to admit it, this mountain of pasta was comfort food. Clare knew her cravings for spaghetti, shepherd’s pie and lasagne all came on days when Lizzie was feeling vulnerable. It was as if the food of her youth represented a surrender of her adulthood. When things got really bad, butterscotch and chocolate Angel Delight would follow for dessert.
Clare tactfully kept the conversation away from parties and instead talked weekend turnover tactics. Union Jack’s was a restaurant that thrived on word of mouth. Its modern British cuisine was raved about by its regulars, but they were still a long way off becoming a household name or selling a tie-in cookbook. A few Evening Standard recommendations had helped to put it on the map, and occasional visits by celebrity local residents meant that other Londoners were happier to go out of their way just on the off-chance that they might eat alongside someone they had seen on TV or an album cover, but the challenge was to fill the place at weekends when, Clare imagined, most of their patrons visited friends in the country, jetted off for glamorous weekends or entertained in their interior designed, feng-shuied living spaces in fashionable West London.
They were strategising hard when the doorbell rang. Clare was mid-mouthful, so Lizzie drew the short straw. At 3:00 p.m. on a Saturday it could only be the tea towel and oven glove salesman, or possibly the Putney branch of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Lizzie whooped as she looked at the screen integral to their state-of-the-art intercom—essential security kit for two women living on their own and a sound investment made after being taken in by the persuasive sales patter of a not unattractive salesman at the Ideal Home Exhibition. This way they could hide from persistent exes, uninvited relatives and the aforementioned tea towel sellers without passing up any opportunities to flirt with cute delivery men or missing out on bona fide guests.
The cause of Lizzie’s excitement was a man on the doorstep. A least she thought she could see someone behind the huge bow and…what was it? Frustratingly, even with her eyeball almost resting on the screen, she couldn’t quite see. She took the stairs two at a time, arriving back in record time clutching a large wicker basket laden with all things wicked. Moist chocolate brownies, assorted mini-muffins and huge soft cookies were piled high on gingham napkins. Heart racing—along, Lizzie hoped, with her metabolic rate—she inhaled a couple of mouth-watering samples before tearing off the accompanying card.
‘Well…?’ Clare joined her on the sofa, licking her fingers as she tucked in. She couldn’t believe that Lizzie hadn’t read the card downstairs. This demonstration of will-power was very out of character. ‘What does it say?’ Clare leant up against her shoulder so that she could read the message simultaneously. Lizzie was being painfully slow and insisting on opening the envelope carefully so as not to tear it.
All the card said was ‘Call me,’ followed by two phone numbers. An 0207 number and a line of digits with more eights and sevens in it than were healthy. It looked long and confusing enough to be a mobile number.
Lizzie was beaming, and reprimanded herself silently for having doubted him earlier. How long should she wait before she called? As if she could read her mind, Clare decided to ask her outright.
‘So when are you going to call?’
Clare was scraping their now abandoned lunch into the bin. They had both already eaten more than enough to exceed their total recommended
