Name and Address Withheld. Jane Sigaloff

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 earlier, had been a den of iniquity as brightly as an operating theatre. Fortunately Matt was insisting on staying with her until she found a cab and, despite her self-assured protestations of independence, Lizzie was delighted that he hadn’t just wandered off when the music stopped.

      They walked all the way to Trafalgar Square and then along the Strand until they reached the taxi queue now snaking across the cobbles and out of the gates at Charing Cross Station. Good old Brits. Drunk as everyone was, the queue was perfect.

      By the time they finally reached the front Matt had decided that he’d share her cab. Lizzie wasn’t sure whether this was chivalrous or lecherous. She certainly hadn’t got coffee in mind, or waxed her bikini line in the last few months…but then it seemed that he really was just being friendly. Had she really lost her ability to give out the it’s-all-right-if-you-kiss-me vibes? She looked across at her fellow passenger who was staring resolutely out of the window. She couldn’t exactly ask him. Lizzie crossed her legs and sat back in the seat, hoping that tight cornering on the journey would send them sliding across the leather banquettes into each other.

      Matt didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he couldn’t have left her in the West End taxi-hunting on her own, and it had seemed silly to risk another twenty minutes in the cold when they could easily share hers. That was all he was doing. Right. But he hadn’t had such a relaxed evening in one-to-one female company for years, and now he was feeling a frisson of excitement that he’d almost forgotten existed. He released his grip on the handle above the door and slipped back into his seat. Just at that moment Lizzie slid into the side of him as the driver took a corner Formula One style. He put his arm around her shoulder to steady her. And left it there.

      As Lizzie directed the driver to her door Matt knew that, while he was still sailing on the crest of a lager wave, he really wanted to kiss her goodnight, and even with his rusty dating dial he knew that she wouldn’t resist him. As the taxi slowed to a pant Matt gave the cabbie the postcode for his onward journey before sliding the interconnecting window closed and turning to face Lizzie who, to his amusement, was taking ages to gather her non-existent belongings together before opening the door.

      Taking her hand, he leant forward to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek and, to his delight, Lizzie moved her mouth to meet his. Like a couple of love-struck teenagers they kissed. His synapses buzzed with the excitement that passed between them as he felt her lips touch his, just lingering enough to be meaningful. In a moment she was gone, and for a second he’d never wanted anything more than to still be with her.

      Matt’s mind was a mess as the driver pulled away from the kerb.

      ‘Where next, mate? Well done. She was lovely.’

      Lizzie had come down off her cloud by the time she’d unlocked the front door. She shouldn’t have kissed him. True, she’d had a much better evening than she could have imagined, but he was a work colleague…sort of…and she’d had a lot to drink. Alcohol had diluted her inhibitions and now, sobering up at home, the self-justification process was starting in earnest. But no one was going to be having meetings with the advertising people until well into the New Year, by which time Matt might have forgotten all about it.

      About what, exactly? They’d had a couple of beers, chatted, danced, chatted, and then, for about ten seconds, they’d kissed each other goodnight. If she’d been eighteen years old she would’ve just put it down as a good night out, so why, fourteen years later, was she torturing herself? Lizzie hated her carefully camouflaged romantic core. It caused nothing but trouble. That was why she’d made the decision to bow out of the relationship arena and focus on her career instead. Professionally she berated herself. What if he’d been hoping for a kiss and tell with a B-list—make that E-list—agony aunt? But then there wasn’t exactly anything to kiss and tell about, was there? She was single, pissed, and at an office party. Nothing scandalous about that.

      She wished that the gland responsible for providing her with this level of adrenaline would take a break. All these hypotheticals were in danger of giving her a headache. Life was all about taking opportunities and seizing the moment, and tonight that moment had been hers. In fact, if she was totally honest with herself, part of her wished she’d taken a bit more.

      Lizzie performed her ablutions noisily, and even gargled a couple of times with some vintage Listerine that she found on a shelf, hoping that Clare would wake up for a debrief. Wide awake, Lizzie climbed into bed. How could she possibly sleep now?

      Across London Matt looked out of his kitchen window as he poured himself another pint of water from the filter jug which she insisted was better for them. He was disconcertingly sober. For the first time in his life he had been unfaithful: to his wife, to himself and to Lizzie.

      He should’ve said something. It might only have been a kiss, but in his mind it was already a whole lot more. His marriage might be dead, but why should she believe him? It was the oldest line in the book. Now it was rapidly approaching 3:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and he was about to creep into bed claiming to have lost all track of time at the party. Hopefully she wouldn’t wake up. She was certainly unlikely to have missed him. If she had, it would be the first time in months. He picked up his glass and left the kitchen, confused.

      chapter 2

      Rachel rubbed her eyes and was appalled to feel that her incredibly expensive all-weather mascara was now crusty. As she swallowed and winced at the furry stale oral aftermath of her Shiraz Cabernet and Marlboro Lights session, fragments of her evening started to return to her memory. She must have drunk a lot to have been smoking. Enough to forget that she had given up last month. A token attempt to try and keep at least one of her vices under some sort of control. She cupped her hand and exhaled into it. Her breath smelt as bad as it tasted.

      ‘Bollocks.’

      Now she was talking to herself. Not a good sign. She fell back onto the cushions. It had only been a few drinks with the team after work, but, coupled with a long boozy client lunch earlier in the day, it had obviously got a little out of hand. Now that she had a sofa in her office this was becoming an all too frequent occurrence.

      Almost dizzy with the effort, Rachel rummaged in her capacious bag for some breath-freshening gum, paracetamol and her mobile. She held the display close to her face while her eyes refocused to inspect the small screen. No missed calls and no messages. Relieved or disappointed? She wasn’t sure. She could call and tell him that she was on her way, but phoning at this point would be tantamount to admitting she was in the wrong, not just at the office. Hopefully she’d manage to slip into bed undetected and be vague about the time of her return if he asked in the morning.

      As she located her shoes, she shivered in the unfamiliar cold of the office. In two days she’d be here raising hell like she always did on a Monday morning when deadlines looked as if they weren’t going to be met, and tomorrow she’d be back to tie up a few loose ends and do the real work that was near impossible to achieve while she was playing hard at projecting the image of being in control.

      Next week she would finally know whether she had won the account they’d all been working so hard for. She could already picture the banner headline in Campaign: ‘Anti-drugs offensive taken on by Clifton Dexter Harrison’, and her publicity shot alongside. It was high-profile, and a huge social concern, and once you’d made a name for yourself the industry didn’t forget.