Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff

sentences together.

      Not requiring a response to his rhetorical question, Matt continued unfazed, much to Lizzie’s relief. From now on she would treat everything he said as a listening comprehension.

      ‘You’d have dismissed it as faddish if anyone back then had suggested that we’d be drinking cranberry juice with vodka in bars—indeed, drinking cranberry juice in Britain at all, where cranberries have traditionally been teamed with turkey at this time of year. The world is becoming a smaller place. You only have to look in your kitchen cupboards: ginger, lemon grass, chilli, vanilla pods, couscous. But these new trends are only replacing the old. In the seventies it was frozen food. If you couldn’t freeze it, it wasn’t worth eating. In the late eighties it was microwaves and ultra-convenience. With our go-getting attitudes, the revolutions in micro-technology and generally higher standards of living why would we want to have spent any more than five or ten minutes cooking? In the nineties it was back to basics. Organic and fresh was best and cooking made a comeback, as did gardening. But fashions are left behind. They’re superseded by new choices and new theories on the way we should live our lives. Who now can even remember what disk cameras and Noodle Doodles looked like? Who in the late 1990s would have even have considered wearing a brown and powder-blue acrylic tank top—unless, of course, they were doing the whole Jarvis Cocker retro thing? But then maybe I’m just bitter because powder-blue isn’t my colour…it just doesn’t do anything for my skin tone…’

      Matt feigned camp and Lizzie laughed. This time she had been listening and, while she could no longer claim objectivity, it certainly was a positive departure from discussing football teams, gym attendance, holidays and other people’s heartache.

      ‘So is what you’re saying that nothing happens by accident? We all choose to eat things, decorate our homes in a particular way, travel to certain places, because subliminally we’ve been told to?’

      ‘Precisely.’ Matt briefly wondered why it had taken him so long to say exactly that.

      ‘Isn’t that just a little bit frightening?’

      ‘I suppose a little. But we’re not all clones. Free will and independent spirit will always prevail—plus a natural rebellion against the norm, which will spin off new ideas for people like me… I mean look at this…’ Matt held up his bottle ‘“Ice” beer. Colder? Maybe. Smoother? Maybe. Better? Maybe. And “Light beer”. Less sugar and more alcohol? Or only because you wouldn’t get guys asking for a Diet Budweiser?

      ‘And to think there I was accusing you of just writing cheeseball slogans.’

      Matt smiled, ‘Well, to be fair, nine times out of ten I’ll be poring over a computer screen as the client deadline approaches, desperately trying to come up with something innovative, witty, punchy and memorable. I’m not usually contributing to or capturing a moment in time. Shaping cultural history is for politicians and pop stars. And even they are just absorbing eclectic influences. It’s pretty much impossible to have a totally new idea.’

      Lizzie concentrated on draining the last of her beer from the bottle in what she hoped was possibly an attractive fashion. Matt used the moment to round up.

      ‘Plus, I’ve been lucky. Doors have swung open at the right times and all that. Personally, it’s been a bit lonely, but I’m not sure that you can have everything. Something has to give… Oh, God…Lizzie…. are you OK?’

      Lizzie nodded and blinked back a few tears as Matt reached over and gently rubbed her back. The dregs of her lager had frustratingly slipped down the wrong way and she’d been trying not to draw attention to it, but the more she had tried to disguise her discomfort the more she had felt her chest tightening. She’d been drowning in a mouthful. She coughed a few times, restoring a clear passage for air to reach her lungs, and did her best to smile and relax. Fucking hell. Thirty-two years old and she couldn’t even swallow properly.

      ‘Fine.’ She rasped her response and closed her mouth just in time to stop a stray burp escaping noisily. ‘Only choking.’ She smiled at her Christmas cracker level of humour and tried to ignore the fact that she could still feel his hand on her back—even though it was holding his beer bottle now.

      Matt grinned. ‘I get the message. Lecture over.’ He quickly snuck in a question, just in case Lizzie was thinking about using her near-death experience as an excuse to move on. ‘What about you? How did you get into the whole agony aunt thing?’

      Whenever Lizzie wasn’t looking directly at him, he stole a glance at the whole picture. Even without his beer goggles on she would’ve been very attractive.

      ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a planned career. Sure, like most girls under sixteen I pored over the problem pages in magazines at my desk at breaktime and between lessons, but I would have died of embarrassment if I’d had to say clitoris out loud, let alone to a total stranger on the radio in front of more than a million people.’

      Matt laughed.

      Lizzie could feel herself blushing under her foundation. Clitoris. Out loud. In conversation. With a man. A man that she found attractive. Nothing like building up her feminine mystique. Maybe she should issue him with a map to her G-spot while she was at it. It could only save time later. Honestly. She could have punched herself with frustration. She moved on quickly in a totally transparent attempt to change the subject.

      ‘I did a degree in sociology but always wanted to get into journalism, and I started writing for a magazine when I left college. When I moved to Out Loud, problems became my thing. Then about nine months ago my editor there put me in touch with these guys and I developed some pilots for a new type of phone-in show. The rest, as they say, is history. I still do my page and a weekly column and I’m amazed at the number of letters, calls and e-mails I get every week. It’s not like I have a perfect relationship track record…far from it.’

      Lizzie stopped herself. She didn’t want to go into her relationship history. Fortunately, despite the fact he was nodding assiduously, Matt seemed to have zoned out of the conversation.

      So he hadn’t been hanging on her every word? Hmm. But then again who was she to talk? Thanks to his tactical positioning on the sofa, Matt could see that Danny had returned to the bar and was now hovering dangerously close by, no doubt hoping to launch himself at Lizzie again and resume where they had left off. But Matt wasn’t even going to let him try. When they’d sat down he’d promised to protect her and he was taking his new role as chief of security very seriously. It was an emergency, and so he suggested something he rarely enjoyed.

      ‘Let’s dance.’

      Matt was up on his feet and Lizzie, designer heels forgotten, leapt up to join him. She loved dancing. It wasn’t her greatest talent, but she was certainly an enthusiastic participant whether it was garage, disco, salsa or overly energetic rock ’n’ roll. She’d watched The kids from Fame, Footloose and Dirty Dancing more times than she would care to admit, and as she’d aged had learnt to forget about being self-conscious and just allowed the rhythm to take over. There was something so very exhilarating about two people communicating through music. It didn’t have to be over the top stuff. Just a few side steps or symmetrical arm movements as groups of people mirrored each other to bring them together. She didn’t understand people who just stood at the side and watched.

      Matt was inspired by Lizzie’s ebullience on the dance floor. He was no Patrick Swayze, but here in the semi-darkness he was enjoying what was usually the worst part of any evening for him. Thankfully the thumping dance music was soon replaced by songs with words and a hint of a tune, and when they were both hot and tired, to their relief, the slow numbers kicked in. Matt pulled Lizzie in for a couple of close ones before she could think to protest, and to his delight halfway through the second song she relaxed, resting her head on his shoulder. He breathed deeply in an attempt to get his heart-rate down. He was sure that Lizzie must be able to hear the pounding in his chest and didn’t want her to think that he was geriatrically unfit or that she had landed the over-excited teenage virgin at the school disco.

      At one-thirty someone with a twisted sense of humour turned all the lights on, illuminating what, seconds