intermittent bursts of strobe lighting, their indiscretions were clearly visible, if a little disjointed, giving their liaisons a pop video feel. The thumping music was loud enough to create an atmosphere in that everyone almost had to shout to make themselves heard, and overall it was decadent enough to ensure that it would be described over e-mail on Monday as a great party. Those whose recollections were sketchy would probably go so far as to say it had been fantastic.
She was miles away when the drive-time DJ, Danny Vincent, slithered into her personal space, instantly activating her built-in quality control alarm by resting his arm along the couch behind her in a semi-territorial manner. He was reputedly as smooth as the voice that calmed many frayed tempers in traffic jams, and certainly at this too-close range Lizzie could see that his teeth were too white and too perfect to be his own and that his shiny designer satin jeans were at least one size too small.
‘So, what’s a beautiful, young, successful woman like you doing sitting alone in the corner?’
His voice was indeed a phenomenon. Somewhere between a growl and a purr. But it was the most interesting thing about him by a considerable margin. Lizzie wished she’d left before he’d gatecrashed her party.
‘Resting. People-watching. Taking a breather on my own.’ She pointedly left longer pauses than natural between the last three words to make her point. A cue for him to leave. But Danny was far too thick-skinned to notice.
‘But this is a party.’ He said it like ‘pardeee’. ‘A chance to meet new people, to road-test a few colleagues and get to know your new station family.’
Things were going from bad to worse. Lizzie was trapped in the corner with a station jock who was suggesting ‘road testing’ colleagues. Her stomach tensed involuntarily, but Danny was bankable talent with a long contract and way above her in the pecking order, so provided he kept his pecker to himself she would just have to be civil.
Twenty minutes later he’d barely paused for breath, peppering his egocentric monologue with innuendoes just to check Lizzie was listening and smiling in the right places. Lizzie couldn’t stand him, but, thanks to his body position, she couldn’t stand up either. He hadn’t even offered to buy her another drink, even though she’d made sure that she’d drained her glass dramatically three times in as many minutes. His eyes were glazed with self-love; hers with self-pity.
Lizzie started to pray to the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions while desperately looking for someone she knew to rescue her from drive-time hell. Not only was there no one familiar on the horizon, but as she gradually sank into a dark leather sofa abyss, her eyeline was currently at most people’s ribcages and rapidly falling to suspender level.
Matt was at the bar—again. As he picked his way back to his workmates he spotted Lizzie in the corner and, watching her as he distributed his round, he decided that her body language said, Help…Rescue me. Leaving his colleagues mid-sentence, he strode over to do the decent thing.
‘Lizzie Ford—Matt Baker. Pleased to meet you.’
His confidence was alcohol-assisted and, while she had never set eyes on him before, Lizzie stood up gratefully to shake his hand. Danny looked less than impressed at the interruption, especially as Matt obviously had no interest in talking to him or getting his autograph.
‘Matt?’
Lizzie smiled warmly and Matt grinned back, his tiredness forgotten. She really was very pretty. Her brown eyes seemed to radiate energy, and right now that was just what he needed.
Subconsciously he ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t, Lizzie noted, self-consciously long enough to suggest that he was growing it to prove that he still could, nor was it so short as to suggest that it had been shorn to disguise a rapidly receding hairline. Illuminated by stray rays from the dance floor, there were times when it almost took on a Ready-Brek glow. Divine intervention.
‘Yup…I’m a copywriter, responsible for those unforgettable slogans advertising City FM that you see on buses and billboards.’
Lizzie thought for a moment before starting to reel them off. ‘“Because it’s hot in the City”. “Tune in to City life”. “The City that cares…” Wow, they actually pay someone to come up with those! It must be a full-time job…’
‘OK, so they don’t really work out loud, at a party, but research has shown that…’
Matt tailed off mid-sentence. Lizzie was smiling mischievously and now he regretted having been so defensive. One day he’d have a career that made a difference; until then copywriting would have to do.
Danny, no longer the centre of attention, sloped off. The coast was clear.
‘Thanks so much for coming over. I thought I was stuck with him for the rest of the evening.’
Matt adopted his best deep Barry White voiceover tone and faked an American accent. ‘Danny Vincent…loving himself…on City FM.’
Lizzie laughed as she imagined the new jingle being played in at the intro to his show. ‘I’m not sure he’ll go for it…’
‘Hmm…maybe it needs a bit more work… Anyway, I spotted you from the bar, and I was getting the SOS vibe, so I thought I’d better respond to the international distress call before you gave up the will to live.’
‘I owe you one.’ Lizzie was pleased that the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions had obviously been at tea with the god of Good-Looking Specimens when he’d received her distress call. No wedding ring either. ‘Can I start by getting you a drink? I’m gasping—not that motormouth noticed!’
Motormouth? Had anyone used that expression in conversation since the late seventies? Lizzie wished she could be a little bit more articulate when it mattered. In an attempt to distract Matt from her retro turn of phrase she turned her empty glass upside down to demonstrate the urgency and Matt—apparently undeterred by the motormouth moment—raised the bottle of beer which he’d barely started and nodded.
‘Same again, please. Thanks.’
He really didn’t need another drink, but he didn’t want to go either. As far as he could remember from the press release he’d seen when she’d joined City, she wasn’t married and was a couple of years younger than him. Old enough, then, to remember the TV programmes and references to pop music that were wasted on the combat trouser-wearing members of his department…or cargo pants, as they seemed to be called these days.
As he watched his damsel, now distress-free, weave her way to the bar he checked his shirt buttons and flies automatically. All present and correct. Good. No reasons for her to stare at him unless she was interested in what he had to say. He, on the other hand, was overtly staring at her back when she suddenly turned unexpectedly, and quickly he jerked his head round and focused on something non-existent on the dance floor. He didn’t dare look back just in case she looked over and caught him staring again.
As Lizzie elbowed her way to the bar she glanced back at Matt, who was nodding his head in time to the beat, pretending to be absorbed by something happening on the dance floor in order to avoid the stigma of mateless party abandon. Very cute. She shoved a couple of drunken partygoers out of her way impatiently. She wanted to get back before he changed his mind and wandered off.
‘Here you go.’ Lizzie handed Matt two bottles of beer. ‘They were doing buy three, get one free, so I thought I’d join you. I’m sure we’ll get through two each.’
