by Freya North
Slowly, Alice sat up. Her face was flushed and her eyes were gently glazed with relaxation. ‘You're a genius,’ she declared woozily, ‘you have healing hands.’
Thea, however, snorted almost derisively. ‘Don't be daft,’ she said, ‘they're just “helpful hands” – if you want truly healing hands, you want to have Reiki with Maria. Or Souki's acupuncture. Or have Lars tutor you in the basics of Feldenkrais. My massage is more a satisfying after-dinner mint to the main course served by the other practitioners.’
‘Would you just give yourself some bloody credit, girl,’ Alice said, almost angrily. ‘You didn't see the look on your last client's face. Blissed-out is an understatement.’
‘I didn't need to,’ Thea shrugged, ‘I felt his back say thank you all by itself.’
‘Can I make one tiny suggestion?’ Alice asked. ‘Ditch the plinky-plinky rainforest music in reception. It made me want to yell and wee simultaneously.’
Later that night, Thea sat up in bed, flicked on the bedside light and looked at the clock. It was in fact the early hours of the next day. She couldn't sleep and she knew the worst place to be was her bed. She pulled on her fleece dressing gown and padded out of the room. The brutal change from soft carpet to cold floor tiles still unnerved her though she'd lived with it for four years. By the time she reached her small kitchen – a matter of only a few steps – her feet had acclimatized to the tiles. She made a cup of tea and went through to the sitting room and the comfort of carpet once more. Her mother liked to say that the flat was placed around a sixpence and it made her quite dizzy. The perpetually cold central hallway, small indeed and basically circular, was the hub off which the other rooms radiated. The bedroom, the kitchen, the sitting room, the bathroom. Standing in the hallway with all the other doors shut and surrounding you was a slightly disorientating experience. But Thea loved it. ‘It's my little slice of Lewis Carroll Living,’ she'd proclaimed to her mother when begging her for a loan for her deposit. Viewed from the pavement, the side of the building where Thea's flat was located was a turreted, cylindrical add-on to an otherwise unremarkable Victorian exterior.
‘A satisfying expression of Gothick-with-a-k,’ Thea's usually serious and conservative older brother had declared with surprising approval, ‘don't you think so, Alice?’
‘I reckon your sister just wants her Rapunzel moment!’ Alice had said.
Thea scrunched her toes into her shaggy rug and sat down, hugging her knees. She didn't drink the tea – the ritual of making it and cupping her hands around it had been the thing. She saw her mobile phone on the sofa and reached for it. It was on and a text message was unopened.
u r happy 4 me?!! Say u r!! xxx
course I am !!! Thea replied. brill news – u deserve hap-ev-aft! Xxx
Though Alice's news was undoubtedly brilliant, Thea was still somewhat overwhelmed by the shock of it. She thought back to Alice linking arms with her and hauling her off to Blandford Street for sushi.
Guess what!
What?
You'll never guess!
What?
Guess!
What? Don't tell me! Don't tell me! That bloke from your ad agency?
I'm getting married!
That bloke from your ad agency?
No, silly. No! Mark Sinclair! Mark Sinclair?
Yes!
Mark Sinclair?
Yes! Yes!
Mark Sinclair?
Yes, Thea, Mark Sinclair!
Does he know?
Alice hadn't met someone. She'd found someone. Those had been her words and she was effervescing with excitement, exclamation marks now peppering her speech.
‘I found someone! I'm getting married. Fucking hell! Can you believe it! I've found someone!’
Initially Thea was gobsmacked into jaw-dropped silence but Alice's animation was infectious. Though baffled by the simple facts that Alice was now engaged, that Mark Sinclair was fiancé, and though stunned by the speed of it all, Thea soon spun into Alice's excitement. She sketched wedding-dress possibilities on serviettes while Alice, flushed and gesticulating, re-enacted the entire proposal before launching into list-making.
‘You know what? I can't believe I didn't think of him earlier. I mean, I've known him for ever! I've always loved him. Because he's always always been there for me.’
Thea agreed. Mark Sinclair had always always been there. She knew him, of course, without really knowing him at all. The lovely guy who always made Alice feel better, who had always been there for her when some cad or other had done her wrong. With hindsight, Thea recalled the gaze he'd bestowed on Alice now and then over the years which, at the time, she'd interpreted as brotherly affection. After all, it was Mark who had shared with Thea the job of looking after Alice when some Lothario had broken her heart again. Mark who had gladly taken Alice out to lovely restaurants or opening nights at the theatre when she was without a date and down in the doldrums. Mark who'd been at the other end of the phone as Alice's late-night insecurity guard. Mark who assured Alice that not all men were bastards, that there were fish in the sea aplenty and she was the prize catch. Thea had been grateful to him for this. Without ever really having had the forum to tell him so. Well, she could now. Here was one man she'd never have to take to one side to threaten that if he hurt her friend she'd kill him. He was the absolute antithesis of Alice's previous pick. That's why it was such a shock. Such a revelation.
And yet it made sense. Since breaking up with Bill, Alice had indeed had a quiet, sometimes pensive few months. Maybe she had made a conscientious decision to practise what she published. Perhaps it really was as easy as reassessing her wish list. Blinking and seeing that the man to marry was standing right in front of her. Learning it's not who you love, it's how.
‘But how long have you been seeing him? I mean, how come I didn't know you've even been seeing him?’
‘Two weeks. Don't shout at me, Thea!’
‘Two weeks? And now you're engaged?’
‘Be happy for me – or you can't be bridesmaid.’
‘Of course I'm happy for you, idiot. Ecstatic. I'm just shocked. Two weeks?’
‘He's perfect. What was the point of waiting? Kind, considerate, calm – there are no safer hands in the world for handling me.’
‘Are you madly in love with him? With Mark Sinclair?’
Alice looked at Thea. ‘You do know that feeling of “madly in love” is merely phenylethylamine, Thea?’ Alice said with a sigh. ‘It's just a natural amphetamine – which is why it's addictive. It's the same hormone that's released during high-risk sports and eating chocolate.’
‘Whatever,’ said Thea, ‘but you need to be in love with someone to actually marry them.’
‘So fiction and films would have us believe,’ Alice said. ‘There's more to marriage than being head over heels. In fact, my feet are firmly rooted and my head is now out of the clouds and firmly on my shoulders – that's why I know it's going to work. I'm ready for this.’
‘And you do love him,’ Thea said.
‘Everyone loves Mark,’ Alice smiled, ‘he's one of life's good guys.’
‘And you love him,’ said Thea.
‘I'm the love of his life. And he's my love for life. That's why we're marrying. What more could I ask for?’
Now, contemplating quietly in the conducive early hours, Thea likened it to Alice having a good tidy-up and coming across something she'd forgotten all about. Like something never worn, bought on impulse, never even tried on, pushed to the back of a cupboard, then rediscovered. A perfect fit, it transpired. A delightful surprise. What disconcerted Thea was that she hadn't ever thought that when Alice did her tidy-up, she'd find Mark. What unnerved her most – and she could now admit it in the silence and privacy of her space – was that she was actually slightly taken aback. Alice had brought Thea the best news in the world. But for the first time in their friendship, she'd done so without the need to ask Thea's advice or seek her opinion first.
Mark Sincla
ir
Mark Sinclair had an aptitude for diplomacy and an instinct for manners. They hadn't been drilled into him at home, he hadn't learnt them at school or been trained in them after university. They were simply part of his personality and throughout his thirty-two years they had won him friends and influence. These qualities, combined with a head for figures and a heart with a strong work ethic, saw his rapid promotion through the hierarchies at ADS Internationale for whom he worked as an investment analyst. He was invaluable to them. He could speak languages, keep calm under the pressure of City finance, didn't get drunk over business lunches, never fell out with colleagues or associates, travelled uncomplainingly and trained his immediate team into an efficient, likeable unit. The company had no need to incentivize him and every reason to reward him which they did, handsomely.
Whoever met Mark, wished to befriend him. It helped that he was fluent in Spanish and French, passable in German and Italian, and that his work took him abroad frequently. A full Filofax and a packed Palm Pilot kept track of his worldwide friendships. He was a terrific host when people came to London. He'd stock the fridge for them, tailor a list of sights to see, and provide his membership cards for a variety of museums. He'd meet them after work, having secured great seats at theatres or enviable tables in top restaurants. Mark was also a wonderful guest – as comfortable sleeping on the bottom bunk of his godson's bed in Didsbury as he was staying in palatial grandeur in a suite at the Peninsula, Hong Kong. He loved hiking hard in Skye with his old friends the McLeods and he enjoyed putting the world to rights in French with his new friend at the Paris office, Pierre. He went on safari by himself in Kenya and made Jeep-loads of new friends there. He was a Friend of the Royal Academy of Arts and soon made friends at the Royal Academy. He had friends who'd invite him to Glyndebourne and others he'd accompany to Glastonbury. Mark Sinclair was open-minded, kind-hearted and plain good company. He hated confrontations and far preferred to bite his tongue than fall out with anyone he cared for. An even keel was what he aimed for. Which is why he had so many friends but not actually one best one.
Alice looked at Mark expectantly. She smoothed her white shirt, flicked her hair back, cocked her head and regarded him again.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked, while patting his pockets to double-check on keys, wallet, mobile phone. ‘Shall we go?’
‘But how do I look?’ Alice said, standing her ground a little petulantly. ‘Will they approve? Do you think I should wear a skirt instead?’
‘You look gorgeous,’ Mark assured her, congratulating himself on the earrings he'd bought her. ‘You look – brown?’
‘Thea did my fake tan,’ Alice said, with no embarrassment. ‘I felt a bit pale and peaky from my cold last week – I don't want your mum to think you're not looking after me. Do you think your parents will approve? Do you think they'll like me? I hope your mum is a good cook – I'm starving.’
‘Of course they will,’ said Mark, ‘who wouldn't. Come on. Mum's Sunday Roast is legendary – but don't touch the white wine. They only do Liebfraumilch.’
Gail Sinclair busied off to the kitchen to prepare the dessert, turning down Alice's keen offer to help. Gail was delighted. Better still, she was charmed.
‘Charmed, absolutely charmed,’ she practised quietly to herself in the kitchen whilst decanting Marks & Spencer custard into a jug and carefully transferring their cherry Bakewell onto her best cake dish. Charmed, she continued in a whisper, Alice is delightful, Hazel. Absolutely winning to look at. A magazine person. She brought us copies – a real variety, Mary. She dotes on Mark, Carole – absolutely dotes on him. Chris and I couldn't be more happy.
‘She's a cracker,’ Chris Sinclair, who'd never mastered the art of the whisper, told his son; while Alice sat to his right and tried to look as though she wasn't eavesdropping. Gail heard, even though she was at a clatter changing their everyday crockery for the best china. Chris thinks she's a cracker, Joyce, and I know you'll agree once you've met her.
Alice reckoned Chris to be in his mid-sixties, dapper despite the patterned sweater and corduroy slippers. Thinning silvery hair cut neatly, bright eyes, elegant hands and a healthy complexion due to his love of golf and gardening. She reckoned Gail to be five years younger, her hair cut into a short, neat style appropriate for her age, any grey expensively masked by an overall coppery sheen. While Mark talked to his father about PELS and Gail poured Marks & Spencer's coulis into another jug, Alice thought how best to describe Mark's parents and his childhood home to Thea. ‘Refreshingly nice,’ she would probably say, ‘just normal, nice people.’ She stifled giggles into her serviette, predicting how she and Thea would then analyse the mothers of boyfriends past. Callum's mother who wore the same Whistles jeans as her own but a size smaller, Finlay's mother who'd insisted Alice call her Mrs Jones despite allowing them to sleep together. Tom's mother who was insanely jealous of his affection for Alice and would thus drape herself over him quite alarmingly for the duration of their visits. But Mark's parents seemed to be simply nice, ordinary people.
‘You look like your dad,’ Alice suddenly announced though it momentarily halted conversation and fixed Gail's cake slice mid-air. Alice was happy to predict that in thirty years or so, the man seated opposite her, whom she was soon to marry, would look a little like the gentleman currently seated to her left.
Charmed, Gail thought to herself again, charmed.
Chris and Mark browsed the Sunday papers while Gail poured coffee and Alice effervesced over the beauty of their garden.
‘God, I completely love your verbena.’
‘Viburnum,’ Gail corrected lightly. ‘Have you a garden?’
‘Well, at the moment, I'm restricted to what the lifestyle mags call patio living,’ Alice said. ‘It's basically a small, glorified back yard covered with cream gravel and pots with plants that die on me on an annual basis. And twisty wire furniture that looks amazing, cost a bloody fortune and is bloody uncomfortable.’
Gail looked at Alice without expression at much the same time that Alice thought to herself shit! Is ‘bloody’ swearing? And Mark jerked up from the Sunday Times thinking oh shit, she bloody swore.
‘Perhaps once you're married, you'll find a house with a garden,’ Gail said diplomatically. ‘Herbaceous borders pretty much look after themselves and perennials do just what they're meant to do.’ She took a thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘They needn't be expensive either.’ See, no need for ‘bloody’.
‘Lovely idea,’ said Alice warmly, helping herself to another chocolate because she noted that Gail was on her third.
‘Now, I want to hear all about the proposal,’ Gail said expectantly, ‘all the romantic details.’
‘Mum –’ Mark remonstrated, raising his eyebrow at his father for sympathy and assistance.
‘Did he get down on bended knee?’ Gail asked. ‘Did he take you to a restaurant and have the maître d' present you with a diamond ring?’ Mark groaned but Alice giggled. She thought Gail probably had the makings of a rather good mother-in-law. ‘Perhaps he whisked you off to Venice for the weekend and popped the question aboard a gondola?’
‘Last week,’ Alice grinned over to Mark who was attempting to disappear behind the Sunday Times, ‘at Mark's flat. He was cooking that amazing chorizo and butterbean casserole thing with the six cloves of garlic. We had a glass of Rioja. I was eating a carrot.’
Gail had never been a fan of garlic, let alone Spanish peasant fare, but she tried to look enthusiastic.
‘It struck me, it simply struck me that it was the best idea ever,’ Alice said dreamily.
‘Yes, but how was the question itself popped?’ Gail persisted. ‘Mark's father whisked me to Paris expressly to propose.’
Alice grinned. ‘It was quite matter of fact, actually,’ she said, ‘I had to turn down the radio to be heard. It all made such perfect sense. Even though I had a mouth full of carrot, I just looked at Mark and said “Marry me, Mark, marry me.” He looked at me as if he was having difficul
ty understanding my language. So I swallowed the carrot, repeated the question and added “please”. Still he stared. And then he said yes.’
Gail stared at Alice as if she had difficulty understanding her language. Chris just stared. ‘What's that on your shirt?’ Gail exclaimed, looking horrified. ‘On the collar and cuffs? It's brown.’
‘What?’ Alice looked at her collar and cuffs. ‘Oh bugger!’ she declared. ‘It's fake tan. I'll bloody kill Thea.’
‘Do you think they liked me?’ Alice asked Mark as they drove away.
‘Of course,’ Mark assured her, concentrating on the road, biting his tongue on being cut up by a man with a sharp haircut driving a car that was obviously meant to look like a Porsche but was glaringly not. Alice gazed out of the car. She pressed her cheek against the passenger window. She needn't have had the fake tan – the wine at lunchtime, the effort of being on best behaviour had made her feel quite warm. She looked at the trees, some bursting into leaf, others in full blossom. She'd learn the names of lots of plants by the time she next met Mark's parents. And she'd try not to swear.
Saul Mundy
Saul Mundy had assumed he'd buy a sensible two-bedroom house in a popular postcode, take out a mortgage with Emma and have a leg-up onto the London property ladder. He had been thinking about Brondesbury or Tufnell Park or Ealing as safe bets. But then he hadn't been thinking about breaking up with Emma. Twelve hours after the relationship ended, Saul signed a short let on a top-floor space in central London, a location he'd previously never considered as residential. It was uncompromisingly open plan, and he reckoned the land-lord had probably marketed it variously as office space, storage space, apartment or studio according to the potential tenant's requirements. Saul chanced upon it en route to a meeting in Baker Street and rented it because it was available that afternoon and had a view he knew he'd never tire of, a privileged panorama of the city from a vantage point available to few. He need never elbow his way onto a crowded Tube again. And with upmarket delicatessens such as Villandry on his doorstep, he need never resort to frozen meals again.
