enough question. Did you bring a man back to our apartment last night? Yes? Or no?’
Apartment. She’d definitely been reading another American legal thriller.
‘No.’ All of a sudden Lizzie was feeling very self-conscious and very naked underneath her bathrobe.
‘But at any point on the night in question did you engage in the activity of kissing? Were salivary juices exchanged?’
Clare certainly knew how to make an ostensibly romantic moment seem very clinical. But the I-know-I’m-onto-something look now plastered all over on Clare’s face was making Lizzie laugh. She stopped fudging her answers and, between giggles, confessed.
‘Yes. Guilty as charged. We kissed in the cab. He left. Happy?’
Lizzie didn’t want to get on to the fact that she hadn’t got his number and didn’t know when, or even if, she would be seeing him again or, more interestingly, the fact that she knew she’d quite like to. Clare was bound to say something disparaging, plus it always seemed like tempting fate. It was time to move this conversation on. Lizzie was determined to develop her enigmatic side, and now was as good a time as any—plus, once she admitted that she liked someone things always seemed to go awry. However humorous Clare thought she was being, this was Lizzie’s life they were mocking, even if right now there was more material than normal.
‘I suppose I’d better get on with my day…’
Clare looked at her watch. ‘Your afternoon…’
‘Afternoon, then… God, you can be pedantic.’
‘Takes one to know one. You’ve taught me everything I know. Anyway, now you’re up I must just pop to the shops. Do you need anything? I shouldn’t be long but I don’t have to be at the restaurant until five…’ Clare waited for Lizzie to process the information. If she knew Lizzie as well as she thought she did, she’d offer to cook them some lunch. She could almost hear the cogs grinding into action.
‘Right… Why don’t I cook us some lunch? Take advantage of the fact that we’re both in the flat at the same time. Novel, I know. Spaghetti Bolognese OK for you?’
Bingo. Clare loved the way that Lizzie’s mind always worked the same way. It was one of the most male things about her personality.
‘Great. Is two o’clock too late for you?’
‘Perfect. I’m sure I can manage on tea and toast until then.’
‘Bit peckish, are you? Was your tongue sarnie not very filling?’
Lizzie was already on her way to her room. Thanks to Clare, though, she was smiling.
Clean, dressed, and well on her way to physical and emotional recovery, Lizzie headed down 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