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Had. Surely he wasn’t thinking of going home yet? Granted, they’d already spent six hours together, but it wasn’t as if either of them had Sunday night homework deadlines to meet. And besides, she’d tidied the flat especially.
‘Do you want to come in for a quick coffee before you head off?’ Was that too keen? After all he was only driving across the river, not embarking on a transglobe expedition. Lizzie wished she could remember what time Clare had said she’d be home. Not that it really mattered, but she didn’t want Matt to feel that this was a heavy ‘meet my best mate’ moment.
‘Well…’ Matt hesitated. ‘Only if it’s Nescafé.’
‘Kenco, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmm.’ He furrowed his brow in mock concern. ‘Well… I suppose I could make an exception on this occasion. Although I have to say I’m surprised at you. Everyone knows that Nescafé is the instant coffee of romantic comedy fans… I mean, their drinkers are always having close encounters of an intimate coffee breath nature…just look at their ad campaigns.’
‘My Kenco is the “really smooth” blend, though.’
‘But of course.’ Matt grinned.
‘And just because you work in clichés doesn’t mean you have to live in one.’
‘I’m just teasing. I said yes, didn’t I?’ He knew he should really be going, but he quite wanted to kiss her again before he left.
Lizzie smiled and rummaged in her bag for her door keys as Matt continued.
‘Don’t you think it’s strange that coffee is seen to be seductive? Personally, the aroma of instant coffee always makes me think of teachers in duffle coats standing around in wet playgrounds, their hands wrapped round those brown-tinted Pyrex coffee mugs.’
She knew exactly what he meant. The world according to Matt Baker was a familiar place. Lizzie could picture the scene now.
‘Not very romantic at all, in fact…’
‘I haven’t had a duffle coat for years,’ Lizzie added apropos of nothing as she unlocked the front door.
Matt’s train of thought hadn’t reached the next station yet. ‘Well, I think you’ll find that they drink the “primary and secondary” blend. I’ve heard good things about the “really smooth” option, though…’
Matt wandered into the kitchen while Lizzie was boiling the kettle and, having laughed a little too hard at the photo collage of Clare and Lizzie’s fashion and hairstyle retrospective in the clip frame on the wall, caught himself staring at her back as she stirred milk into their drinks. He stopped himself before she felt the intensity of his gaze and, sheepish at his behaviour, reverted to his preferred defence mechanism—humour. He didn’t have to look far for inspiration.
‘So which one of you is the smoker, then?’
Lizzie wheeled defensively, surprised at the line of questioning.
‘Neither of us. Why?’
Matt pointed at a box of Tampax which had been left lying on the kitchen table next to the box of matches she and Clare used to light their large candle collection.
Lizzie reddened in a very teenage ‘oooh-it’s-a-tampon’ fashion and distractedly shoved them into the utensil drawer out of sight. As old as she got, being blasé about Tampax in the presence of the opposite sex was still an effort. She must have missed the box during her earlier tidying frenzy. She and Clare didn’t even register things like tampons any more. They were no more unusual or scarce than Biros, and often turned up in just as many unexpected places.
She turned to offer an unnecessary apology but, seemingly unruffled by their sanitary tableware, Matt had taken their coffees over to the sofa and was now relaxing cross-legged, his head resting on the cushions, eyes closed. Lizzie sat down next to him and he opened his eyes and turned to face her. In perfect synchrony they both reached for their coffee, took a sip, and returned their mugs to the table.
Christmas was now in danger of becoming Lizzie’s favourite time of year. She stifled the urge she suddenly had to hum ‘White Christmas’ and instead allowed the silence, now laden with anticipation, to play havoc with her heart-strings.
Matt studied Lizzie’s face with real affection before leaning forward to kiss her. Their lips met for the third time in forty-eight hours and this time it was minutes before they prised themselves apart.
Lizzie was lost in another world. A world which was a hell of a lot more exciting than the last few months had been. As they fell back into the outsize cushions Lizzie relished the weight of his chest against hers. She could feel herself spiralling deliciously into a whirlwind of male musk and intensity.
As they started to shed a few layers Lizzie got the giggles. She felt like a Russian babushka doll. She’d been doing her utmost to be sultry, but so far, as Matt removed each layer from her top half, it was only to discover another one underneath. At her laugh Matt sat up and smiled sheepishly.
‘OK. What is this? Pass the parcel? How many layers are we talking, here?’
‘It’s all about layers in December. You’re nearly there now.’
‘Thank God,’ he muttered as he resumed his challenge.
It was only a few more moments before Lizzie was delighted to hear him murmur approvingly at her cleansed, toned, perfumed and moisturised chest and stomach. She mentally thanked her mother for her years of indoctrination in the there-is-no-such-thing-as-too-much-preparation approach to dates. She breathed in for good measure and shivered with sheer delight as his tongue explored the surface of her skin.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was all a bit soon. But, hey, he was off on holiday in a couple of days and why shouldn’t she give him something to remember her by? She knew his name. She had his mobile number. In Sex and the City the women had sex with totally random men all the time and didn’t seem to feel guilty. She was thirty-two, for goodness’ sake. She pushed her conscience to one side and indulged herself in the moment. As she watched Matt kissing her tummy she knew what was going to happen next. She decided to make the move to her bedroom just in case Clare came home early and didn’t fancy a floor show. From the way his hips were pushed up against her own, and the change in the fit of his jeans in the button fly area, she knew he wouldn’t say no.
chapter 6
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before Matt was smoking his proverbial cigarette. While no one would argue against the fact she’d been having a great time a few moments earlier, she could also feel a little disappointment creeping in. Folding her arms across her chest, she rolled over, annoyed.
This never happened in films. The sex was always amazing. The guy was invariably a great lover with a comprehensive knowledge of innovative ways to drive you wild. It wasn’t as if Lizzie brought men home very often, and when she did, she expected the world to move. Unfortunately their first encounter wasn’t even going to register on her Richter Scale, even if he was just about to drift off with a smile on his face. In fact, thinking about it, Matt had been the first for…over a year. Not that she was counting. Over a year. That had just crept up on her. Not a statistic she was going to be shouting from the rooftops.
Matt groaned before rolling over to nestle behind her and resting his chin on her shoulder. ‘Sorry, Lizzie.’
He was going to have to do better than that.
He kissed her neck. Despite her crotchety mood, she could feel his lips on her skin long after they had left it.
‘Um…all a bit embarrassing, really. Couldn’t help myself. You were just too good. I couldn’t wait any longer.’
‘Hmph.’ It was cute. A nice try. But ten minutes was short by anyone’s standards. Especially for a first time. And the foreplay bit had been going so well.
‘I’ll make it up to you, if you’ll let me.’ There was a smile in his voice.
Matt had started stroking her tummy lightly and was now running his hands up and down the front of her thighs. Despite herself Lizzie could feel a whirlpool of excitement spreading through her. Maybe she would have to give him one more chance. It was only fair. Lizzie Ford, queen of self-sacrifice, she was not. She rolled over and turned to face Matt, and as she wrapped her arms and legs around him he picked her up and seemingly effortlessly sat her up on the edge of her bed. He must be stronger than he looked. Second time lucky…
He was forgiven. Especially as he was now encouraging pillow talk. Lizzie loved chatting as she drifted off to sleep. It brought back memories of the rebellion and companionship of sleepover parties. At the same time, though, it was strange. They had just consumed each other from head to toe and now they were comparing ages, star signs, backgrounds and ambitions. Either way, a total contrast to Lizzie’s normal bedtime ritual, when she drifted off to sleep alone and in silence, her mind racing to make ‘to do’ lists for the following day.
Lizzie felt naughtily saucy. She wasn’t normally a yes-on-the-first-proper-date kind of girl. But, curled up in his arms, she didn’t regret it at all. She hadn’t met someone with as much potential as Matt in years, and she was looking forward to helping him fulfil it.
Matt slowly moved his wrist to try and find an angle where he could catch enough light on his watch face to make out the time. 12:08. He watched Lizzie sleeping beside him. Totally naked and relaxed. Her musky smell lingered in the bedclothes around them. A lump formed in his throat. He had to leave. Gingerly pulling himself to the edge of the bed, and almost sliding out to avoid rippling the mattress, he picked up his pile of clothes, found one shoe, and eventually its partner, as he tiptoed to the bedroom door. He stood there for a moment. Everything was quiet. He held his breath and opened the door.
As he removed his hand from the handle there was a slight clunk and Lizzie stirred. Matt froze in his half-taken step. To his relief, after a little somnolent murmuring she slept on, leaving him free to creep off uninterrupted.
He was ashamed. Matt Baker was a fraud. A con artist of the highest calibre, a charlatan, and yet he wanted to do it all over again. It was Monday morning and he wasn’t at home. He’d have to pretend that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa at his office again. It had genuinely happened to him recently, but this time he would have to lie.
The frosty calm silence of nocturnal suburbia was instantly shattered as he turned his key in the ignition and the classic engine rumbled into action. It harked back to a time when cars made less of a purr and more of a roar, and Matt sank as low as he could into the seat, craving anonymity. As the heater melted the ice on the windscreen just enough for him to be able to see where he was going he disappeared into the night.
chapter 7
Lizzie woke up languidly and revelled in the feeling of her nakedness against the cool Egyptian cotton of her duvet cover. The all-pervading and unbeatable aroma of fresh toast teased her nostrils and, eyes still closed, she ran through the edited highlights of the last twenty-four hours.
It was only when she finally turned to gloat a little at her conquest that she discovered she was alone. Her pulse suddenly racing, she scoured the bedclothes and surrounding surfaces for a note. Nothing. Moreover, his clothes were no longer in a heap on the floor…unless he had something to do with the cooking smells that were wafting up the stairs.
Lizzie lay back on the pillows, removed the sleep from the corners of her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair a few times, removing her centre parting. She didn’t want to miss the breakfast in bed moment if it was just about to happen. She’d bet he was a cereal man. And his tipple? Peter-Pan-complex-Frosties? Real-men-eat-Shredded-Wheat? Or leave-those-love-handles-at-home muesli? Judging by the current state of affairs, maybe it was Cheerios.
While she was waiting Lizzie rummaged in her bedside debris for the remote control and, turning on the radio, was horrified to discover that it was just about time for the eleven o’clock news bulletin. By Lizzie’s standards this was a lie-in of gargantuan proportions. Disappointment lurked in the wings. Matt had gone from doting breakfast chef to typical male in less than sixty seconds. He must have left hours ago.
Hauling herself out of bed in an attempt to distract herself from the crap inevitability of it all, Lizzie busied herself with the emergency tidying to be done before Clare waltzed in.
In a whirlwind of light-headed activity, Lizzie found and folded her clothes, located all the bits of condom wrappers and pieced them together just to ensure there wouldn’t be any tell-tale Durex logos lurking on the carpet. This was the seedy aftermath of the night before and Lizzie collapsed back onto the bed feeling hot, bothered and decidedly unsexy.
Within nanoseconds she was back in the bolt upright position and rummaging through her make-up bag. This was when she was glad that she’d decided to stay on the Pill, even though she presently had sex less often than the England cricket team won a Test series. As she knew from her letters, condoms weren’t always to be trusted, and taking the Pill had become a habit. Somehow it made life a little easier and, although she knew she shouldn’t be popping hormones on a daily basis, it prevented her skin and monthly mood swings returning to their teenage ferocity. Anyway, it was one of the few things in life which was still free, and in the prolonged barren months between men it helped to remind her that some people had sex regularly.
Lizzie wrapped herself in a towel and set off for the bathroom to restore herself to her formerly feisty incarnation. On the bright side she’d had a great day and sex—twice. On the down side she didn’t like to think that he made a habit of this…
And to think that she’d already been thinking of it in relationship terms. Would it take a lobotomy for her to learn? She’d jinxed it all by herself by daring to think long term. Men definitely had a sixth sense about that sort of thing. Her instinct had said genuine last night, and she was usually quite a good judge of character, but then he was unlikely to have had ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ printed on his boxer shorts. For all she knew he was a serial sex-on-a-first-date merchant. Still, Lizzie had vowed in the past that she would no longer live with her heart on her sleeve. She could be pragmatic. Right. It was just sex. In which case everything was going according to plan. Well then. Much easier to deal with now.
Lizzie had barely put one carefully painted toenail over the threshold when she saw Clare standing at her bedroom door, a slice of half-eaten breakfast in her hand. The ‘phantom’ toast-maker was indeed at home. For once Lizzie wished her flatmate had a nine to five job. Clare’s knowing smile was making her feel like an attraction at a Victorian circus. Roll up. Roll up. Come and see the woman who had sex twice in an hour with the incredible disappearing man.
‘So I take it you had a good afternoon and evening with Mr Matt? Coffee too this time. What progress.’
Lizzie was beginning to wonder whether Clare had installed CCTV before she realised they had abandoned their mugs on the coffee table. There was no point denying anything.
‘Yup, we went to the cinema after lunch and he came back for a coffee before heading home. What time did you get in?’
‘Oh, not until half-one. I ended up drinking the world to rights with a few girlie mates…just for a change. You must have done your usual pass-out-on-the-sofa-before-staggering-to-bed trick. You left all the lights on. I know I’m a sad old nag, but we don’t need to leave the hall, landing and sitting room lights on while you’re in bed, so if you could just try and muster enough energy and co-ordination to hit a few switches as you stumble past I’d appreciate it.’
‘Sure. Sorry.’
Lizzie didn’t even remember turning the landing light on, and smiled esoterically when she realised that Matt had probably put and left it on when he got up to leave…which meant he must have left before Clare got back. Which meant—her smile evaporated—he hadn’t exactly hung around. Clearly she wasn’t as irresistible as she had previously thought. And to think that she’d entertained the possibility, albeit fleetingly, that he might be making her toast this morning…
Clare was quick to notice the split second when the corners of Lizzie’s mouth turned up.
‘Lizzie Ford. You…you…you pulled, didn’t you?’
Lizzie hated that word. It was so unromantic, and didn’t sound like anything she ever wanted to be involved in. She wished that for once Clare could be just a touch more tactful and a fraction less direct. She was feeling more than a little emotionally fragile this morning.
‘Well, isn’t Matt a lucky boy…?’
For the first time since she’d woken up Lizzie was glad that he wasn’t in her bed, listening to Clare going on and on…and on.
‘So…’ Lizzie was refusing to make eye contact. Clare couldn’t bear it any longer, and she couldn’t wait for Lizzie to tell her in her own time either. ‘Well…did you? Did he…? Is he…you know…? Well…?’
Lizzie wasn’t helping. It was going to have to be the direct approach and it was now or never. ‘Well…did you shag him?’
The pause that ensued was pregnant—with twins. Lizzie reddened, Clare had her answer and, despite her flatmate’s broad, almost proud smile, Lizzie felt a little cheap. About £4.99.
Clare decreased her volume for dramatic effect, bypassing her normal speaking tone in favour of a clipped half-whisper. She had just one more question.
‘In which case, where is he now?’
‘How would I know?’ Lizzie tried to sound flippant and failed miserably. Her presently folded arms indicated only one mood: defensive.
Clare knew that Lizzie was incapable of emotionally detaching herself from this sort of situation. Maybe she should have adopted a more softly-softly approach, but the trouble with that was that she never got any answers. Lizzie always started out trying to be coy about relationships. Clare usually only got the real truth after copious amounts of alcohol or after the final whistle had been blown on the whole thing.
‘Ahh. So he didn’t exactly say goodbye, then?’
‘No. I just woke up this morning and he had gone. No note. Nothing.’
Clare scolded herself for being so insensitive. She was seriously cross with Mr Matt. She changed her whole tone and demeanour at once, and replaced accusatory with sympathetic.
‘So that’s it, then?’ She went over and gave Lizzie a hug and stroked her cheek affectionately. ‘Just a one-night stand?’
‘Yup, that’s it. Just a bit of festive fun.’ It sounded logical to Lizzie, even if it didn’t feel fun right now. She wished Clare would stop being so nice. It was only making her feel tearful and crying wouldn’t achieve anything. If she was feeling hurt, it was her own fault for letting him get under her skin.
‘Was it worth it?’
Lizzie blushed. Clare had her answer. She could have told Lizzie that she should have waited, but it was a bit late now and no one needs a told-you-so, smart-arse flatmate at a time like this.
Lizzie was sitting in her study, staring at her computer screen trying to work, when the doorbell rang. She had no idea what time it was. The day had been doing its best to drag its heels since she’d got dressed.
‘I’ll get it!’ Clare shouted.
Fine with Lizzie. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The front door slammed and was shortly followed by a tentative knock at her study door.
‘Yes?’ She didn’t even look up. She wasn’t in the mood.
‘Liz. Good news…he obviously has shares in delivery services.’
‘Hmm… What?’
Lizzie looked over her shoulder. Clare was standing there with a huge bunch of flowers.
Her cloud of depression suddenly lifted and Lizzie gave Clare’s arm an excited squeeze as she took the bouquet and headed to the kitchen in search of a big vase and card-reading privacy. It was a tasteful arrangement, wrapped in expensive brown paper and tied with fashionable rope instead of pink ribbon, an interesting mixture of warm winter shades and, most importantly of all, not a carnation in sight. They were almost certainly the nicest flowers she had ever received—not that she was biased or anything. She dared to hope who they were from.
Darling Lizzie…
Woo-hoo.
Please forgive me for disappearing. Thanks for last night. Have a great Christmas and see you next year, when I get back from the slopes.
Lots of love, Matt xx
Darling! Some might say that was over the top, but Lizzie imagined Matt saying it and knew that it was perfect. She could feel herself blushing. She reread the card before pinning it onto the kitchen noticeboard and then looked up to see that her privacy had only been momentary. Clare reappeared, obviously about to leave for work, and glanced over to the card.
‘So, he’s a skier.’
‘Apparently so.’
‘But not a poseur.’
‘Definitely not.’
