So it turned out that Mark Sinclair was right. He was so right that, for some time, he would quietly wonder if something must be wrong. Alice Heggarty was to be married, just as he predicted, by the time she was thirty. Actually, she would turn thirty-one on honeymoon because her meticulous attention to detail and aversion to compromise meant the wedding was shunted to accommodate seamstress, florist, venue and cake-maker. Though, normally, she liked to have her birthday planned to perfection too, she didn’t actually know where she would be when she turned thirty-one. That was up to the groom and she had relinquished some responsibility to him in return for assurances of untold luxury. After all, she was not so secretly dreaming of the Caribbean.

      All that Mark had wrong was her choice of groom. Alice wasn’t going to marry Bill. In all other respects, though, Mark had been absolutely right. It turned out that if you are good, you can indeed earn yourself a happy-ever-after. Obviously, Mark Sinclair must have been very very good. Because Alice Heggarty was going to marry him.

Thea Luckmore

      Thea Luckmore’s twelve-o’clock client, a fit man in his mid-thirties, groaned under her. She kept the pressure steady and insistent until she could feel him yield, sense the tautness of his body ebb away, the grimace on his face ease into an expression of relief. She rolled his flesh between her fingers. Under her hands, he now felt as soft as his appreciative sigh. She lightened her touch and changed rhythm and direction as a wind-down. Finally, she placed both palms on his bare back, between his shoulder blades, and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes, feeling warmth interchange between them. She exhaled quietly but deeply and opened her eyes.

      ‘OK,’ she said softly, lifting her hands away very slowly, ‘there you go.’ She wondered if he had fallen asleep.

      ‘Can’t move,’ he muffled, his face buried in the bed, ‘amazing.’

      ‘I’ll leave you to rest and get dressed,’ said Thea as she closed the door quietly behind her and went to wash her hands. She ran her damp fingers through her hair, giving her short, gamine crop what her mother termed ‘an Audrey Hepburn nonchalance, darling – if Audrey had been mouse-brown’. Thea hadn’t had hair long enough for a pony-tail since Headfuck Boy of her student days.

      ‘God, that was good,’ her client grinned, handing over £50 though he would gladly have doubled it. ‘Can I have you again next week?’

      The session had drained Thea; her bones felt soft and her joints felt stiff. Often, the clients for whom her treatment had the most extreme results were those whose negative energy she absorbed in the process. Which is why they felt so energized and she felt so sapped. She flicked her hands as if trying to fling something away, shook her arms and legs and splashed cold water on her face. She could climb on the bed and sleep for an hour, which was tempting, or she could pull herself together and step out into a gorgeous spring day. Thea Luckmore always tried to do what she felt was right, even if it wasn’t quite what she felt like. So she opened the sash window to air the room and went out for a brisk walk. With an extravagantly stuffed sandwich from Pret a Manger, she strolled to Paddington Street Gardens and had an impromptu picnic with a copy of Heat magazine for company and light relief.

      Her phone showed two missed calls from Giles. And a voicemail message. Thea felt burdened. Giles was nice enough. ‘But not nice enough,’ Thea explained to a pigeon who was bobbing at a respectful distance within pecking reach of any crumb she might dispense. ‘I’ve tried telling him that I value our friendship too much to jeopardize it by taking it further, but he saw that as a challenge rather than a gentle let-down.’ Filling from her sandwich dropped to the ground. The pigeon, it seemed, didn’t care for avocado. Patiently, it continued to bob and coo. ‘I like him but I don’t fizz for him. No spark – no point.’ A slice of tomato was tried and rejected so Thea gave the pigeon more bread. ‘I’m just going to have to be blunt with him. Tell him he’s simply not my type. Not that I really have a type.’ She watched the pigeon wrestle with her chewy granary crust, fending off the pestering of other birds. ‘Just a feeling.’

      Thea wasn’t expecting her six o’clock to come early – she’d expected him to be at least ten minutes late. She’d developed a theory, based on ample evidence over the years, that her clients tended to be early in the winter months, when inclement weather and darkness by teatime saw them jump in cabs to arrive early yet apologetic, as if sitting quietly in the waiting room, thawing out, was somehow taking a liberty. Come the spring, her clients would stroll to her, or jump off the bus a couple of stops early. They were simply not in so much of a rush to be indoors from outside. With this March being one of the warmest on record, Thea’s clients were not turning up on time. Apart from this one. It was unexpected. But not half as unexpected as seeing Alice in reception too. Alice and the client were standing side by side awkwardly, both fixing her with a beseeching gaze like puppies in a pet shop competing for her attention. Thea mouthed ‘one minute’ to her client and with a tilt of her head, she beckoned Alice through to the kitchenette. Maintaining the mime, she raised one eyebrow to invite an explanation from Alice who thought, just then, that her best friend would make a very good headmistress. Indeed, Alice suddenly felt a little bashful, turning up and surprising Thea while her six o’clock loitered. She proffered a clutch of magazines. ‘Here,’ she said in a contrived, sheepish voice and a don’t-beat-me look on her face, ‘these are for your waiting room.’

      ‘Are you all right?’ Thea enquired in a discreet whisper.

      ‘Fine,’