Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff

state of his underwear drawer. The first test. And an answer that required a careful combination of articulacy and modesty—neither trait enhanced by a cocktail of gin, tonic and lager. Lizzie was bashful. This year had certainly marked a step in the right direction, but there were still plenty of boxes unchecked on her list of ambitions and, as far as City FM were concerned, she was still the new kid on the radio block.

      ‘It’s great. I’m loving doing the show…and my column…but it’s hardly brain surgery…’ Lizzie stopped herself. What exactly was the self-deprecation for? ‘So far so good. It’s quite a fresh approach, and the listeners seem to like it…radio awards here I come…’ Much better. Positive without being cocky. But now she was babbling so much that she had noticed Clare’s raised eyebrow even though she wasn’t even at this party. It was a side effect of beer. Probably something to do with the bubbles. She reined herself in. Clare would have been proud.

      ‘How about you?’ Masterfully done. The ball was back in his court now, and she was much less likely to bore him if he was the one doing the talking. She might have been trained to fill any silences on air, but she knew that silences in day-to-day conversation were not only natural but to be encouraged if you wanted to retain any close friends.

      ‘I’ve had a fantastic year professionally. My best ever. My slogans have even won a couple of awards.’ Matt silently chastised himself. Next he would be trying to impress her with his A-level results. What was the matter with him?

      ‘Really? So how did you get into copywriting?’ Another volley straight back. Lizzie was still trying her best to be flirtatious, but it didn’t seem to be working. She’d even bowed her head slightly, and had been trying to look at him out of the corner of her eye in what she had thought was a coy fashion. But what if he just thought she had a weak neck and a slight squint and was too polite to mention it? Seduction was bloody hard work. Matt clearly had no idea what she was up to.

      ‘Well, I had a one-liner for everything from a very early age.’

      ‘You must have been a precocious kid.’

      ‘How dare you?’ Matt put his hand on his hip in mock indignation before leaning closer to Lizzie in a pseudo-whisper. ‘But if the truth be known, I was—a bit.’ He smiled, amused that he was being so candid. In fact, he was really enjoying himself. ‘I was the youngest and my mother and father doted on me. Drama lessons. Music lessons. Tennis lessons. I had them all… But like most little boys I was happiest watching television. ITV was my channel of choice, and I always looked forward to the adverts—even though the best ones were always on at the cinema.’

      ‘Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…’ Lizzie, to her horror, had suddenly started singing the Pearl & Dean theme tune that had haunted the cinema trips of her youth. She was about ten seconds in before she realised what she was doing and stopped herself at once. Singing to a stranger in public. Certifiable behaviour. Lose ten points. It was too late. Matt had noticed and spontaneously finished off the tune for her.

      He was thrilled. So Lizzie had been brainwashed by advertisers too. And what a relief to have met someone who was just comfortable with herself instead of being totally preoccupied with saying what she thought he wanted to hear.

      ‘I’d be that child singing jingles in the back of the car. I remember getting into trouble once for singing the telephone number of our local Ford dealer all the way to Devon, and I think my father was ready to strangle me with his bare hands when I finally moved on to the likes of the ever so catchy, ever so irritating “Transformers…robots in disguise” campaign… By then I was well into my teens.’

      Lizzie smiled, genuinely entertained by the man beside her and desperately trying to put the Pearl & Dean moment behind her. Matt was very engaging and, while she knew it was pure cliché, his face really did light up when he spoke. She had better pull herself together before she allowed the moment to go all soft-focus around the edges. She decided that more questions were the best option. That way she could just look and listen.

      ‘So how did you get into it then?’

      ‘To my parents’ delight I left university with a degree in English…’

      Which university? When? With what class of degree? Lizzie could feel the spirit of her mother tapping on her shoulder and chose to ignore it.

      ‘…but to their disappointment I had no real focus or motivation, and ironically I sort of fell into advertising by accident. Once I was there I was hooked. If you think about it, trends are always changing—and it’s my job not only to reflect what’s out there but to try to anticipate new ideas, or even fuse a couple to create fresh styles.’

      He looked across. Lizzie seemed interested enough, but then again she made a living out of listening to other people. Matt decided to give her a ‘get out of jail free’ option just in case.

      ‘Promise you’ll just stop me when you get bored. Yawn, stand on my foot, stare at some bloke at the bar—that sort of thing. I don’t want to be a fate worse than Danny.’ But Matt knew that right now he had a lot to thank the king of slime-time for.

      Lizzie glanced down at Matt’s legs. Relaxed-cut dark jeans. No stretch satin in sight. She looked up a little too quickly to be discreet and hoped Matt didn’t think she’d been staring at his lap. Their eyes locked.

      ‘It’s interesting. Really.’ Suddenly self-conscious, Lizzie looked away and pretended to rummage in her little bag for nothing in particular.

      ‘I guess I’m just trying to justify my existence. If only I was a heart surgeon and could gain instant respect. You know—just add boiling water and stir gently.’

      ‘Hmm?’

      ‘For instant respect…’

      ‘Oh—I get it.’ Lizzie did, but only a nanosecond after she’d said that she already had. ‘Anyway, justify away. Believe me, you’ll know when I’m bored…’

      Matt hesitated. He wasn’t convinced.

      ‘…and I’ve still got a beer and a half to go.’

      Lizzie was more than happy to let someone else do all the talking. It made a nice change.

      ‘Well, OK, then…if you’re sure you’re sure…’

      ‘I’m sure I’m sure.’

      ‘Remember, I did warn you…’

      ‘Yes. Yes.’ Lizzie was impressed that he’d even stopped to think about whether she was interested or not. Her recent experience had definitely indicated this was a dying trait.

      ‘Right…’

      Matt’s whole intonation changed as he verbally rolled up his sleeves and prepared to address Lizzie as a student of his craft. He wasn’t being patronising. Just passionate. Lizzie was mesmerised, although if she was being honest she couldn’t only credit her interest to the topic under discussion.

      ‘If you just think about things in a different way you can see where we were at certain times in our lives, and where we are now, by what we eat, drink, wear and by the adverts that we see around us…’

      He really was very desirable. Lizzie was glad that tonight had been a G-string occasion. She always felt at her most seductive and unnervingly saucy when she was wearing one. Irrationally so, really. Until her second or third drink she usually just felt as if her knickers had ridden up and got stuck between the cheeks of her bottom.

      ‘…most of it’s subliminal at the time, but looking back it’s all quite clear. Look at the minimalism of the late 1990s: less was more, everything was about stripping away the excesses, getting our autonomy and power back. Natural everything. Neutral plain colours. Cotton and cashmere, not nylon and polyester. In fact very little artificial anything—a reaction to the multicoloured, additive-laden 70s and 80s. Fashions change. Who in the late 1970s and 1980s would have thought that we’d be eating rocket salad…who even knew what rocket was…?’

      Matt paused for effect and she snapped