Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff

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.’

      ‘Right. Well I’m off, then… See you later—Darling Lizzie.’ Clare raised an eyebrow and smiled as Lizzie blushed for a second time. She had returned to her teens.

      As she saw Clare off the premises Colin, the good-looking man who owned the garden flat, arrived home laden with Christmas shopping and Lizzie waved a hello. Lizzie and Clare knew Colin about as well as anyone in London knew the people that lived above, below and next door to them. They weren’t best friends, like Chandler, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Monica, just real-life neighbours stepping in to water the odd plant when their holidays didn’t coincide. A neighbourly alliance and general level of friendship which was certainly preferable to worrying about whether Hannibal Lecter rented the flat underneath theirs.

      In the absence of a spare arm to wave with he tilted his head in recognition and helloed back.

      Colin brought colour to the street. His steady stream of male visitors gave them plenty to gossip about and, in the summer months, provided plenty of eye-candy as they sunbathed in the tiniest of shorts. But right now she had a phone call to