Love Rules. Freya North
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a fan of your column,’ Ian said, ‘we both are.’
‘Which one?’ Saul asked, genuinely flattered.
‘ES magazine – it’s so much more than a consumer low-down. It’s like a little slice of your life – very self-effacing and engaging. Well written, too.’ Ian chinked his glass. ‘I chuckle but you have Karen in stitches.’
‘Cheers, mate,’ Saul said, ‘cheers.’
‘And you still have your regular slots in the men’s mags?’
‘Yes,’ said Saul, ‘GQ have expanded my section. I do the gadgets pages for that new mag, Edition, my columns for the weeklies and the odd bit of roving reporter here and there, some editorial consultancy for launches on the side.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve any iPods knocking around?’ said Ian, who could easily afford one but loved the idea of a freebie. ‘Any cool press trips? Golf in the Algarve? Scuba anywhere?’
‘Just the one iPod,’ Saul said, ‘and as for press trips, there was Bermuda for sailing and Sweden for sledding. By husky. And a lost weekend in Prague with Sonja from the Tourist Office.’
‘You jammy bastard,’ Ian laughed.
‘Three thousand words, though I had to censor most of it, thanks to Sonja,’ Saul said, as if it was an occupational hazard.
‘And how about you?’ Ian asked again, with a concern Karen had taught him how to access. Saul tucked into his sausages, nodded and shrugged. He’d rather have his mouth full than talk. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Ian asked, partly because Karen had told him to.
Saul chewed thoughtfully. He shook his head. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said, wishing for more mash.
‘Anyone on the horizon?’
‘Why?’ Saul laughed. ‘Has Karen a queue of luscious friends?’
‘Actually,’ said Ian, ‘yes.’
Saul shrugged. ‘Cool,’ he said, ‘why not. There hasn’t been anyone since Emma. I’m not sure if I count the tryst with Sonja.’
‘Blimey,’ Ian said, ‘we’re talking a good eighteen months, mate. Sounds like celibacy to me.’
Saul shrugged again. ‘You know me,’ he said quietly, ‘I can be quite choosy.’
‘Mind you,’ Ian theorized, ‘your social life is pretty lively and there are always relatively funky work do’s on. I bet you don’t even notice the absence of a girlfriend.’
Saul considered Ian’s overview. ‘Actually, it’s not so much that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m quite into the idea of a steady partner – even the concept of commitment. However, I just can’t be bothered with doing the singles-circuit-dating games. It’s too contrived.’
‘Too time consuming,’ Ian agreed, ‘and expensive.’ God, he thanked his luck for Karen. ‘Mind you, celibacy must be a bit bloody frustrating.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘I do what a lot of other blokes do,’ shrugged Saul.
Ian shrugged back. He also made a mental note to provide Karen with a current description of Saul to circulate amongst her friends. He’d heard Karen refer admiringly to similar hairstyles as ‘bed hair’ and no doubt she’d declare the colour of Saul’s to be like caramel or something. He noted his friend still had a thing about trendy footwear and approved his Oris watch as an indication that Saul’s career was going very well indeed. Armani soft black jeans. And a shirt he’d tell Karen was Paul Smith. They were already compiling their guest list for the wedding. It would be cosy if by then Saul attended with a girlfriend who happened to be a friend of Karen’s. Ian glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be going, mate. Does this place not have last orders?’
‘It’s when the last person orders,’ Saul informed him.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Ian said, ‘let’s not make it so long, next time. Come over to ours. Karen is a great cook. You’ll love her. I’ll call you.’
Saul sat on alone in the Swallow with another pint. Lynton sat by himself too. And Barry was on his own tonight as well. They all nodded amiably at each other but were quietly content to sit separately. That was what Saul loved about the Swallow, its concept of relaxed companionship, that it wasn’t necessary to cramp around the same table to be in warm company. Saul looked over to Eleni, snuggled against her boyfriend. He reckoned he was their age or thereabouts. When Anne, the wife of the landlord, had brought over the two plates of sausage and mash, she’d ruffled Saul’s hair maternally. He reckoned she was close to his mother in age.
Saul walked around the corner back to his flat. He scanned through the draft of the article he’d be writing the next day and then logged off his laptop, content. There was nothing watchable on television. He thought he ought to run a bath – he’d been sent products by Clarins For Men to test. All that talk of women and wives and girlfriends and his own barren situation had left him quite hollow and horny. So he decided to do what a lot of other blokes do. He’d lie in a bath later. He grabbed his jacket and went back out into the night.
I keep singing the corniest of songs. ‘I’m Getting Married in the Morning!’ In the daftest of voices. ‘Going to the Chapel and We’re Going to Get Ma-ha-ha-rid.’ The daftest of songs in the silliest of accents. I even sang ‘Nights in White Satin’ in the cab today. It struck me, for the first time, that it was actually ‘nights’ and not ‘knights’. And then I was absorbed for at least an hour wondering why it had never previously crossed my mind that a knight got up in white satin would be pretty odd in a heterosexual love song.
Anyway, I am going to be married in the morning. Thanks in no small part to the girls on Dream Weddings magazine and Mark indulging me, it’s going to be a fairy-tale wedding. I’m feeling deliriously excited – but a bit stressed too. I’m even feeling a bit pissed off – like I want everyone to continually pat me on the back and acknowledge how much hard work I’ve put into it all. We only got engaged in March, after all. Eight months later, and I’ve researched and secured the flowers, the dresses, the venue, held auditions for the band, even written the vows. I want it to be the best day of my life. And Mark’s too. And I want it to go down in the annals of the guests as the best wedding they’ve ever been to.
I must pack for honeymoon. Initially I wanted the destination to be a surprise, but I pointed out to Mark that I’d be a stroppy cow if I packed salopettes and we arrived in Bermuda. Actually, I just pressed and pestered him because I really did need to know. It’s not that I’m a control freak, though I suppose I am, it’s just that I know myself well enough to admit that I’m a nightmare if I’m disappointed. So, if I was going to be disappointed, at least I could’ve had the chance to get over it in advance. Shit, OK, if I have to admit it, I might have subtly persuaded Mark to change the plans if need be! Anyway, bless him, Mark must have picked up on all my not-so-subtle hints and he is whisking me away to St Lucia. A helicopter to the Jalousie Plantation between those two iconic Piton mountains you see in the films, in the brochures. They know we’re honeymooning so hopefully they’ll lay on all sorts of little extras. I am going to be princess for a fortnight. And why not – because when we get home, I’ll be just boring old Mrs Sinclair!
They gave me a great send-off at work. They must have had quite some whip-round as they’ve gone for the Gaggia coffee machine from the wedding list. Anyway, all my mags will be fine – they can spare me for a fortnight but if they need me, I’ve told them they can phone the Jalousie.
I’m getting married in the morning. Bloody bloody hell. Ding dong. I really really am. I’ll be thirty years old. And fifty-one weeks. I, Alice Rose Heggarty, am going to marry Mark Oliver Sinclair in approximately twenty-three hours’