‘I just want to stay married.’
Dulcie was leaning her chair back on its hind legs, wondering again who you-know-who could possibly have been. It was frustrating not being able to remember. Glancing at her watch, she realised she should be making a move. Patrick would go mental if she was late home; they were supposed to be meeting friends at seven, before going on to the country club dance.
‘Dulcie,’ prompted Liza. ‘Your turn.’
‘Me?’ Dulcie brought the chair back down on to all fours with a thump. ‘All I want is a divorce.’
‘So who’s the lucky chap?’ Dulcie asked Liza as they said their goodbyes on the doorstep.
‘Anyone we know?’
‘Haven’t decided yet.’ Shivering in a thin white shirt, Liza hugged herself and edged back into the hall. Glancing up, she saw a couple of moths batting furiously around the outside light like rival lovers competing for attention.
‘Still road-testing, I suppose. So many men, so little time.’ Dulcie was flippant. What did Liza expect, sympathy? ‘Maybe it’s just as well you aren’t coming to tonight’s bash at the club. Less competition for me.’ She looked smug. ‘Personally I plan on snogging as many men as I can get my hands on.’
‘You’ll have to catch them first.’ Liza’s smile was deceptively innocent. ‘Do you have any idea how much garlic went into that pasta sauce?’
Dulcie’s hands flew to her mouth in horror.
‘I hate you,’ she exclaimed. ‘When I said I wanted men to fall at my feet, I meant them to be overcome with lust, not garlic fumes.’
‘You shouldn’t want men to fall at your feet. You’ve got Patrick.’
‘I’m tired of Patrick!’ It came out as a howl. ‘Dammit, you know better than anyone how that feels! How come you’re allowed to do it and I’m not?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Of course you aren’t! Who’d have you?’
‘Come on, if you want a lift home,’ said Pru, because once these two started, they could bicker for England.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming. Even if my life is over.’ Dulcie huffed into her cupped hands and gazed heart-rendingly at Pru. ‘Can we stop off at a chemist on the way, pick up some Gold Spot?’
‘Bye,’ said Liza, hugging them both. She kissed first Pru’s icy cheek then Dulcie’s indignant one. ‘And let’s have a Happy New Year. May all our resolutions come true.’
When it came to people’s lives, it was generally agreed that Liza Lawson’s was the kind you could envy.
She was single, successful, blonde and beautiful, with dark- brown, come-to-bed-this-minute eyes, flawless skin and a bewitching smile.
There is little more alluring than a woman utterly at ease with her body, and Liza – a curvy size fourteen – had never experienced the slightest urge to diet. She liked herself just as she was, and everyone else seemed to as well. She’d certainly never had any complaints.
Liza’s job was pretty enviable too. Her career as a food writer had received a massive boost eighteen months earlier when she had landed the plum position of restaurant critic for the dazzlingly successful Herald on Sunday. Now, each week, her article appeared beneath the same photograph of herself smiling provocatively up from the last page of the colour supplement, with her gold-blonde hair falling over one shoulder and the beginnings of a heavenly cleavage peeping over the scooped-out top of a low-cut black velvet dress.
Men were forever falling in love with this photograph of Liza, and writing to tell her so.
Women envied her, because if looking like that and eating for a living wasn’t a dream existence, they didn’t know what was.
And restaurant owners wondered frustratedly why they had never spotted Liza Lawson in their restaurants, even when they knew she’d visited them because there in the Herald’s glossy Sunday supplement was the review.
Waking up late the following morning, Liza made her way gingerly downstairs. Two letters lay on the mat by the front door. She stuffed them into her dressing gown pocket, put the kettle on for coffee and opened the new packet of paracetamol she had had the foresight to buy yesterday afternoon. A hangover on New Year’s Day was pretty much de rigueur; it was just a shame the way the older you got, the more blistering the effects became.
It was also a shame she had to work today, but a deadline was a deadline and the job had to be done. Slotting bread into the toaster – just one slice, to reassure her nervous stomach – she made coffee and hoped her appetite would recover in time for lunch.
While Liza ate breakfast she played back last night’s messages on the ansaphone. One was from an old lover, calling from London to wish her a happy New Year and inviting her to visit him at any time. The second was from her sister in New Zealand, drunkenly bawling ‘Auld Lang Syne’
down the phone along with what sounded like an entire team of All Blacks. The third message was from someone called Alistair, sounding self-conscious but determined, shyly telling her that having for many months admired her from afar, he would be thrilled if Liza would do him the honour of accompanying him to the theatre one night.
. we’ve never spoken, but maybe you’ve noticed me playing squash at the country club,’ he explained falteringly. ‘I’m thirty-seven, six foot two, not in bad shape ... um, I have dark hair, grey eyes and I drive a blue Volvo. Does this ring any bells?’
‘No,’ said Liza, swallowing another paracetamol.
‘... oh dear, this isn’t working out.’ Alistair’s voice was sounding worried now. ‘I don’t know how else to describe myself. Look, I’ll hang up. I don’t live too far from you. Why don’t I drop a photograph of myself through your door? Then at least you’ll know—’
At that point the tape ran out, because Liza had forgotten to rewind it the night before.
‘Good thinking, Alistair.’ She smiled as she retrieved the envelopes from her pocket. The first was a belated Christmas card from another ex, married and with children now but from the wry postscript sounding as if he wished he weren’t. ‘Missing you,’ Liza read at the bottom of the card. ‘Really missing you. How about dinner
