Love Rules. Freya North
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Ian.’
‘Ian! How’s it going?’
‘Er, listen mate, Karen’s been on to me suggesting we all go out one evening.’
‘Cool. Love to. When?’
‘This week perhaps? Friday maybe?’
‘Yes, looks fine to me.’
‘And Jo. We’ll bring Jo, shall we? She loved meeting you.’
‘The thing is – I mean, please tell Karen I thought Jo was a great girl – hot too – but I actually have a girlfriend now. Thea.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Jo – great girl. But Thea – greatest yet.’
‘You have a girlfriend? Since when?’
‘Since Sunday.’
‘It’s Monday.’
‘And you can see for yourself on Friday then. You’ll love her.’
‘Hullo, Mrs Sinclair,’ Mark phoned Alice.
‘Hullo, husband,’ Alice replied, glancing at the clock and marvelling how writing thank-yous could make the time fly, ‘where are you?’
‘Office,’ Mark apologized. ‘I’m almost finished – I promise. Another hour. Home by nine. I’m knackered.’
Alice quickly advised herself to be neither disappointed nor pissed off. Remember the jet lag. Remember post-wedding blues. ‘Soup for supper?’ Alice suggested, half wondering whether to decant a carton into the tureen.
Alice felt a little flat. Her place was a mess and the piles of presents suddenly irritated her. She longed for St Lucia. She tried to phone Thea but the line was busy. Alice didn’t doubt that she was talking to Saul. They’d probably been chatting for ages and she reckoned they would be for some time yet. Telling each other about their lives, loves and quirks. They’d be laughing and marvelling and nattering nineteen to the dozen. Ah, the joys and the intricacy of the human mating dance. The thought made Alice feel warm. And just a little lonely.
Saul soon gained everyone’s seal of approval. Sally Stonehill considered various adjectives before deciding on ‘dashing’ to best describe him. Richard Stonehill liked him enough to return the Armani jacket and Saul liked Richard enough to consider telling him to keep it. Instead, he bought him a pint over which they discovered they both played squash. They arranged a game and their standards were so level that it soon became a weekly fixture with the obligatory post-match praise and pints which they enjoyed just as much as time on court.
Mark Sinclair didn’t play squash but he was happy to guide Saul on playing the stock market. Mark was more than flattered when Saul asked to interview him for GQ magazine, an article entitled ‘Barrow Boys and Bowler Hats: Who Stocks the Stock Market’ and they had a jocular but productive lunch on expenses. The other therapists Thea worked alongside at the Being Well welcomed Saul’s impromptu visits. He usually came bearing gifts: fresh juice and brownies, a poinsettia for reception, magazines for the waiting room, a smile to Thea’s face. He also made it his business to recommend the clinic to friends and colleagues moaning about bad backs, tiredness and stress.
Alice had rehearsed an acerbic soliloquy starting ‘Let me tell you about Thea’ and ending ‘so, hurt her and I’ll kill you’. However, she was actually pleasantly surprised that she took to Saul, though it meant her soliloquy remained unperformed. She decided not to be suspicious of his good looks and she detected no cockiness in the fact that he was naturally outgoing. She respected him for sparring back when she tried to provoke him. She liked it that they could talk about their industry. Most importantly, he appeared very taken with Thea. How fortunate that her best friend’s boyfriend had the potential to become a friend in his own right too.
Thea was instantly liked by all to whom Saul introduced her. Karen Soon-to-be-Ashford had to concede to Jo that Thea was great and would fit right into one of their girls’ nights out. Even Lynne took to her, despite having to keep Molly shut in the downstairs toilet for the duration of her visit. Lynne’s husband was so impressed with a five-minute speed treatment Thea gave his interminably stiff shoulder that he booked an appointment, then another and also gladly took Thea’s advice to see Souki the acupuncturist. Staff and patrons at the Swallow gave her a warm nod of acceptance. Marco from the Deli slipped her a complimentary muffin and slid Saul a knowing wink underscored by appreciative insinuations in throaty Italian. Dave the paper man soon called out to her by name whether or not she was buying an Evening Standard. None of them resented Saul taking his custom to Crouch End for half the week. It evened out anyway, because Thea invariably accompanied him when he returned home.
Thea surprised herself at holding her own amongst Saul’s editors and fellow writers at dos down in Soho, even calling the bluff of one cocky columnist who asked her if she gave ‘extras’ with her massage. ‘Of course I do. But I don’t give them,’ said Thea most levelly, ‘they cost.’ He was just about to lick his lips and ask for a price list when those standing near roared with laughter and called him a dickhead. Alice was at that party. Neither married life for her, nor new relationship fervour for Thea, had imposed any constriction on their friendship. Alice decided it was serendipitous that Thea had met someone whose path crossed naturally with her own. And with Mark travelling so regularly it seemed daft not to attend events when Thea and Saul would be there too. What would she do otherwise? Work late? Sit at home showing people around her flat? Simultaneously, Alice’s world became smaller and Thea’s broadened.
‘Saul,’ Alice phoned Saul out of the blue, ‘can I tickle your fancy?’
‘That’s a rather tempting offer on a grim February morning,’ Saul laughed.
‘Let me buy you lunch and whet your appetite,’ Alice continued, her desk diary open, red pen to hand, prepared to rearrange anything already booked.
‘Wednesday?’ Saul suggested.
‘Perfect,’ said Alice.
‘It’s a date,’ said Saul, tapping the details into a Palm Pilot.
‘Top secret,’ said Alice.
‘You can trust me,’ said Saul.
‘No one knows about Quentin,’ Alice told Saul over a covert sushi lunch near Liverpool Street. She lit a cigarette and replenished her green tea, aware that puffing one and sipping the other was vaguely contradictory.
‘I thought you only ever smoked at parties,’ Saul remarked.
‘And over clandestine lunches about top-secret things,’ Alice said, her eyes glinting. ‘Don’t tell Mark. He hates cigarettes.’
Saul pulled an imaginary zip across his lips. ‘OK, Mrs Sinclair,’ he said, ‘tell me about Quentin and where I come in?’
‘Heggarty today,’ said Alice, ‘I’ve kept Heggarty for half my life. And Quentin, well, Quentin is my baby.’
Saul popped slippery edamame beans out of their salty pods. ‘Quentin,’ he mused.
‘Code-name: Project Quentin,’ she whispered, adding hastily, ‘you know – after Tarantino, rather than Crisp.’
‘So, we’re talking a men’s mag, hetero rather than homo,’ Saul surmised. He split his wooden chopsticks and rubbed the one against the other to smooth any shards.
‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘we all know the market for men’s mags is huge. We’re not going for anything ground breaking. The main focus