Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff

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 only be the tea towel and oven glove salesman, or possibly the Putney branch of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Lizzie whooped as she looked at the screen integral to their state-of-the-art intercom—essential security kit for two women living on their own and a sound investment made after being taken in by the persuasive sales patter of a not unattractive salesman at the Ideal Home Exhibition. This way they could hide from persistent exes, uninvited relatives and the aforementioned tea towel sellers without passing up any opportunities to flirt with cute delivery men or missing out on bona fide guests.

      The cause of Lizzie’s excitement was a man on the doorstep. A least she thought she could see someone behind the huge bow and…what was it? Frustratingly, even with her eyeball almost resting on the screen, she couldn’t quite see. She took the stairs two at a time, arriving back in record time clutching a large wicker basket laden with all things wicked. Moist chocolate brownies, assorted mini-muffins and huge soft cookies were piled high on gingham napkins. Heart racing—along, Lizzie hoped, with her metabolic rate—she inhaled a couple of mouth-watering samples before tearing off the accompanying card.

      ‘Well…?’ Clare joined her on the sofa, licking her fingers as she tucked in. She couldn’t believe that Lizzie hadn’t read the card downstairs. This demonstration of will-power was very out of character. ‘What does it say?’ Clare leant up against her shoulder so that she could read the message simultaneously. Lizzie was being painfully slow and insisting on opening the envelope carefully so as not to tear it.

      All the card said was ‘Call me,’ followed by two phone numbers. An 0207 number and a line of digits with more eights and sevens in it than were healthy. It looked long and confusing enough to be a mobile number.

      Lizzie was beaming, and reprimanded herself silently for having doubted him earlier. How long should she wait before she called? As if she could read her mind, Clare decided to ask her outright.

      ‘So when are you going to call?’

      Clare was scraping their now abandoned lunch into the bin. They had both already eaten more than enough to exceed their total recommended calorie intake until tomorrow lunchtime.

      ‘Mmm. In an hour or so?’ Lizzie feigned nonchalance. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with straight away, but she knew that Clare saw every man as a recipe for disaster. Lizzie, on the other hand, couldn’t help being an eternal optimist. One day she hoped to be rewarded for her dedication to an often disappointing cause.

      ‘So keen. You are, of course, assuming that they’re from Matt.’

      ‘Well, when Mum wants me to call she tends to use the phone rather than sending an edible carrier pigeon.’

      ‘Maybe they’re from Drive-Time Danny.’

      Lizzie was hit by an instant wave of nausea totally unrelated to the amount of sugar she had just ingested, and for a few seconds her perfect moment evaporated. But Danny probably didn’t think he had to send anything to anyone—except perhaps a signed photo of himself. They had to be from Matt. Had to be.

      Clare hadn’t meant to sound negative. And she had to admit sending cookies, muffins and brownies was a sweet—and sure-fire—way to Lizzie’s duvet.

      ‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving him a call this afternoon…’ Clare knew that Lizzie would do whatever she wanted to, but by giving Lizzie her endorsement she hoped she would be seen in a less negative, spoil-sporty light. She couldn’t help it if she had been let down one time too many. ‘Why don’t I make us a cup of coffee and then you can ring him? Or, if you’d rather wait until I go to work, I’ll be out of here by four-thirty.’

      Lizzie had drained her mug long before Clare, and now had cold feet. Clare had been teaching her to live life without her heart on her sleeve and Lizzie admired her style. She was now inclined to leave it until Monday, but then she might have missed the moment altogether, and she couldn’t honestly see herself doing any work until she had got this out of the way. Besides, it was what she told her readers all the time. Be yourself and don’t play relationship games, because unless both parties know the rules you’ll lose every time.

      Right. Time for her to take some of her own advice. She picked up their walkabout phone, dialling and wandering simultaneously, and tried the 0207 number first. It went straight to answer-phone. The voice on the message didn’t really sound like the one she remembered from last night, but it didn’t sound like Danny either. She left her name and number before hanging up, just in case it wasn’t his voicemail at all.

      As she dialled the mobile number she prayed that the scribe at Muffin HQ wasn’t dyslexic or innumerate. All her nerves needed now was for this to be a wrong number. With each ring her heart edged a little bit closer to her mouth, until finally the phone rang out, irritatingly diverting to voicemail.

      ‘Hi, you’ve got through to Matt Baker…’

      Lizzie could have jumped for joy at the relief that the delivery had definitely been from the right man.

      ‘…I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

      Lizzie hung up and held the phone to her chest. What should she say? After a few moments of pacing she decided less was more and rang back, obediently leaving her name and number but no message. Now she would have to make sure that her phone was free to ring by not using it.

      When it rang five minutes later both Lizzie and Clare nearly fell off the sofa. After a great deal of arm-waving on Lizzie’s part Clare answered it. Lizzie knew her behaviour was pure fifteen-year-old. Of course it wouldn’t be Matt. It was far too soon.

      ‘Annie. Hi. Yes, thanks…’

      Her mother. Again.

      ‘I’ll just get her for you… Don’t keep her too long…’ Clare smiled mischievously ‘…only she’s waiting for an important call. I know… I know…’

      What did she know?

      OK. Yes, I’ll tell her. Fine. Thanks. Hope to see you soon. Right. Bye for now.’

      Whose mother was she anyway?

      ‘She says you can call her later. Apparently you arranged to have a chat?’

      Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘Hardly. I just said we’d speak later. You know—Some Time Later, not Within Three Hours.’ Her mother still didn’t understand that some adult children didn’t speak to their parents several times a week, a day or an afternoon. But Lizzie knew she got lonely on her own, especially at weekends.

      Clare had barely put the phone down on the sofa next to her before it rang again.

      ‘Oh, well, maybe she’s forgotten something…’ Clare chucked the receiver, still ringing, at her flatmate. ‘She’s your mother…and I’ve got to get ready.’

      ‘Yup?’

      ‘Lizzie?’

      Damn… She should have known. The one time today she hadn’t answered the phone with her ‘heylo’ hair-flick and it was him. Bloody typical.

      ‘Matt! Hi! Thanks so much for my food parcel. It’s wonderful.’

      Too effusive? But Lizzie had never really been able to do ‘aloof’, and she wasn’t about to start now. She leapt to her feet, instinctively