Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff

most people’s ribcages and rapidly falling to suspender level.

      Matt was at the bar—again. As he picked his way back to his workmates he spotted Lizzie in the corner and, watching her as he distributed his round, he decided that her body language said, Help…Rescue me. Leaving his colleagues mid-sentence, he strode over to do the decent thing.

      ‘Lizzie Ford—Matt Baker. Pleased to meet you.’

      His confidence was alcohol-assisted and, while she had never set eyes on him before, Lizzie stood up gratefully to shake his hand. Danny looked less than impressed at the interruption, especially as Matt obviously had no interest in talking to him or getting his autograph.

      ‘Matt?’

      Lizzie smiled warmly and Matt grinned back, his tiredness forgotten. She really was very pretty. Her brown eyes seemed to radiate energy, and right now that was just what he needed.

      Subconsciously he ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t, Lizzie noted, self-consciously long enough to suggest that he was growing it to prove that he still could, nor was it so short as to suggest that it had been shorn to disguise a rapidly receding hairline. Illuminated by stray rays from the dance floor, there were times when it almost took on a Ready-Brek glow. Divine intervention.

      ‘Yup…I’m a copywriter, responsible for those unforgettable slogans advertising City FM that you see on buses and billboards.’

      Lizzie thought for a moment before starting to reel them off. ‘“Because it’s hot in the City”. “Tune in to City life”. “The City that cares…” Wow, they actually pay someone to come up with those! It must be a full-time job…’

      ‘OK, so they don’t really work out loud, at a party, but research has shown that…’

      Matt tailed off mid-sentence. Lizzie was smiling mischievously and now he regretted having been so defensive. One day he’d have a career that made a difference; until then copywriting would have to do.

      Danny, no longer the centre of attention, sloped off. The coast was clear.

      ‘Thanks so much for coming over. I thought I was stuck with him for the rest of the evening.’

      Matt adopted his best deep Barry White voiceover tone and faked an American accent. ‘Danny Vincent…loving himself…on City FM.’

      Lizzie laughed as she imagined the new jingle being played in at the intro to his show. ‘I’m not sure he’ll go for it…’

      ‘Hmm…maybe it needs a bit more work… Anyway, I spotted you from the bar, and I was getting the SOS vibe, so I thought I’d better respond to the international distress call before you gave up the will to live.’

      ‘I owe you one.’ Lizzie was pleased that the god of Interruptions and Small Distractions had obviously been at tea with the god of Good-Looking Specimens when he’d received her distress call. No wedding ring either. ‘Can I start by getting you a drink? I’m gasping—not that motormouth noticed!’

      Motormouth? Had anyone used that expression in conversation since the late seventies? Lizzie wished she could be a little bit more articulate when it mattered. In an attempt to distract Matt from her retro turn of phrase she turned her empty glass upside down to demonstrate the urgency and Matt—apparently undeterred by the motormouth moment—raised the bottle of beer which he’d barely started and nodded.

      ‘Same again, please. Thanks.’

      He really didn’t need another drink, but he didn’t want to go either. As far as he could remember from the press release he’d seen when she’d joined City, she wasn’t married and was a couple of years younger than him. Old enough, then, to remember the TV programmes and references to pop music that were wasted on the combat trouser-wearing members of his department…or cargo pants, as they seemed to be called these days.

      As he watched his damsel, now distress-free, weave her way to the bar he checked his shirt buttons and flies automatically. All present and correct. Good. No reasons for her to stare at him unless she was interested in what he had to say. He, on the other hand, was overtly staring at her back when she suddenly turned unexpectedly, and quickly he jerked his head round and focused on something non-existent on the dance floor. He didn’t dare look back just in case she looked over and caught him staring again.

      As Lizzie elbowed her way to the bar she glanced back at Matt, who was nodding his head in time to the beat, pretending to be absorbed by something happening on the dance floor in order to avoid the stigma of mateless party abandon. Very cute. She shoved a couple of drunken partygoers out of her way impatiently. She wanted to get back before he changed his mind and wandered off.

      ‘Here you go.’ Lizzie handed Matt two bottles of beer. ‘They were doing buy three, get one free, so I thought I’d join you. I’m sure we’ll get through two each.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Matt wished he hadn’t already had at least six already. How was he supposed to impress her if he was in danger of losing the ability to enunciate properly?

      After a synchronised swig from their bottles they both started speaking at the same time.

      ‘So…’

      ‘So…’

      ‘You first…’

      ‘No, you…’

      Another swig…

      …and a smile.

      He had very good teeth, she couldn’t help noticing. Her stepfather had been a dentist and had left a legacy of interest in incisors, canines and premolars for her to deal with. She’d always believed that clean nails and nice teeth were important indices of personal hygiene.

      Matt, unaware that he was under observation, was off to a good start. He decided to break up the meaningful look competition and took charge.

      ‘Shall we find a table?’

      ‘We could stay on the sofa if you promise to protect me from Danny.’

      ‘Right.’ My pleasure, he thought. But thankfully for his credibility it remained unsaid.

      As they sat down, Lizzie sighed with relief. ‘I’ve decided I hate office parties.’

      ‘Me too. Can’t stand them. You spend the whole evening pretending that everyone you work with is your best friend. The fact that you don’t have anything to say to them when you’re sober doesn’t seem to stand in your way…until the next day, when you realise that you’ve arranged to go to the cinema, to go on holiday with them or something equally unlikely—all because you drank too much the night before.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Or you spend the next working week trying to work out whether the member of senior management that you felt the need to be excruciatingly honest with remembers your conversation and is going to hold it against you.’ Words were tumbling from his mouth and it appeared that Matt was powerless to do anything about it. Alcohol had loosened his tongue. He closed his mouth in an attempt to reverse the process.

      Lizzie giggled. He was right. ‘It’s even worse for me because, as an agony aunt, I’m somehow not supposed to be the person who takes her top off on the dance floor, who downs a pint the quickest or snogs people randomly. If you like, I’m the token parent at the party—and that, I must say, is one of the only disadvantages of my job.’

      ‘Probably saves you a lot of embarrassment in the long run.’

      ‘Maybe.’ Lizzie wasn’t interested in sensible conversation. She was flirting, obviously so subtly that Matt hadn’t noticed yet, but she was out of practice. Most people in advertising that she knew, including Clare’s ex-husband, were hooked on creating the right image, modelling themselves to fit whatever was considered to be of the moment. Matt, however, was a natural. He was charming without being smooth, boyish yet well worn, tall but not gangly and solid without being chunky. Lizzie wondered what the catch was. Maybe he wore briefs or Y-fronts?