Jane Sigaloff - Name and Address Withheld

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 wandering out of earshot to her bedroom.

Clare turned the radio down and occupied herself with silent chores, listening out for any nuggets of information that might waft down the stairs. She knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she and Lizzie didn’t do the secrets thing and hearing it first hand would only save time later. As Clare strained to hear she was only managing to pick up the odd word, so she crept a bit closer to the stairwell which brought her instant rewards.

‘…oh, right… Are you feeling better…? Great… I know…I know. There seems to be a lot of it about.’

A lot of what? Clare wondered to herself. Syphilis? Flu? Office-party-related shagging? Now Lizzie was laughing. Now more talking. Clare paid closer attention.

‘Work in the morning…on a Sunday? Poor you. Mmm…yes…I see what you mean. Mind you, I’ve only got a hot date with my post bag…wild, crazy thing that I am.’

Clare balked. Sympathy with a hint of empathy. Lizzie was spiralling into the romantic quagmire as usual. She never was quite as hard to get as you would think from reading her column.

‘Lunch tomorrow? OK… Yup… Better than OK—great. Where shall we meet? …don’t mind…I eat everything…usually all at the same time…’ Lizzie laughed out loud again.

Clare smiled at Lizzie’s ‘joke’. Matt might think she was being witty and spontaneous, but if he stuck around for long enough he would discover that it was one of Lizzie’s standard lines.

‘OK. Perfect. See you at 1:00 p.m. Bye.’

Clare returned to the kitchen as quickly as she could without actually running, and faded the radio up while clattering pans together in the sink. She busied herself with scrubbing the Bolognese pan and waited for Lizzie to report back.

Lizzie rang off and would have flick-flacked to her study had she ever got higher than the shoulder-stand BAGA level of gymnastics. Instead she whistled her way there, and happily immersed herself in work.

Clare was happy for her. Just as long as Matt wasn’t going to let her down. The trouble was, despite the hundreds of letters she received each week alerting her to the contrary, Lizzie did have a tendency to look for the best in people. With a failed marriage behind her, Clare was more cynical. When your perfect husband is unfaithful six months after he says ‘I do’ it affects your perspective. Her rose-coloured spectacles definitely had a darker tint than most.

Thump… Thump… Thump…

Her pulse was currently reverberating around the inside of her cranium in Surround Sound. Her joints were aching and her eyeballs were hot and dry in their sockets. It wasn’t a hangover. That meant only one thing…but she couldn’t be ill. In thirteen years of schooling she’d only been absent for a handful of days, postponing any ailments for the lengthy holidays when she wouldn’t be missing out or overtaken by any of her classmates. She knew she was fiercely competitive—whether it was careers, gym attendance or just a Christmas game of Monopoly. It was in her DNA. As she struggled to the bathroom in an attempt to begin her daily routine and kickstart herself into action Rachel knew that today she would be forced to admit that she was human. It was a grand admission.

At least it was a Saturday. Work could wait twenty-four hours. They wouldn’t have official confirmation until Monday, but she was sure they’d won the account. Rachel smiled into the mirrored cabinet above the washbasin as she imagined telling the partners. She’d be walking on air.

It now appeared that all that air was in her eyelids; she’d never seen them looking quite so puffy. A quick prod of her neck and underarm area confirmed that her glands were up, and after sticking out her tongue and making the traditional self-diagnostic ‘aaaaah’ noise she searched the shelves for suitable drugs. Adding a couple of soluble aspirin to a glass of tepid basin tap water, she weakly swooshed the water round in the hope that the resultant whirlpool effect would speed up the fizzing process. It might only be 9:30 a.m. but the day already felt as if it was slipping away.

Rachel stared into the mirror, pawing in disbelief at the pallor which must have descended in the dead of night—along with the contrasting purple shadows which stretched under her eyes and shaded the sides of her nose. As she downed the grey aspirin suspension she grimaced at the nostalgic familiarity of the bitter bitty aftertaste. From the sad day that she had outgrown Calpol, aspirin had always been administered by her mother at the first hint of a temperature. Rachel shuffled back to bed and, teeth now chattering, crawled under the duvet, her breathing shallow to conserve heat.

She hadn’t had a sick day for at least a year, and had been working six-day weeks for almost as long. She simply didn’t do colds and minor afflictions. At least she was alone, free to doze in front of the television without interruptions. Her husband had left earlier, to tidy some things up in his office, and she knew where to find him—not that she did the needy wife thing very often. It wasn’t her style—although she did wonder whether he might prefer it if she was a little bit ditsy and less competent occasionally. This was the downside to a day in bed: too much time to think—and there was plenty in her personal life that merited attention. But she’d managed to dodge her problems for months, and she certainly didn’t want to face up to them when she was feeling as shitty as this.

After channel-surfing for over an hour, Rachel knew she must be seriously ill. Twenty minutes of morning television was usually enough to persuade even the most apathetic couch potato to rise from the cushions and do something with their life other than fantasise about remodelling their neighbour’s garden. Exhausted, she finally succumbed to unconsciousness, and when she next opened her eyes her body was on fire. Feverish strands of hair stuck to her scalp and her cheeks almost stung with the intensity.

Momentarily disorientated, she soon noticed a note on the floor. She craned her neck in search of the alarm clock: 14:07. Which day and which year she couldn’t be sure. Her brain was definitely lagging behind at the moment.

Rach

Didn’t want to wake you.

Thought these might help while away the afternoon. You might as well celebrate your temperature with an overdose of trash, fashion and recipes!

Off to Banbury to brainstorm with a client. Back later. You can get me on the mobile if you need me.

Beside the bed there was now a pile of magazines and a bottle of his cure-all—Lucozade. In all the years they’d been together she’d never once professed to like it, but she knew it was the thought that counted. Ironically, she didn’t appear to have the strength to open the bottle. It promised to be an energy provider—but only if you could get past the plastic seal.