Love Rules

by Freya North

  I've just thought – when Thea marries, I won't be called her ‘bridesmaid’. What is the term? Something like Lady of Honour? No no – that can't be right – that sounds like an eighteenth-century hooker attempting to turn her life around. Lady in Waiting? No no – that's what royalty have and although I'm princess for a day tomorrow, my delusions of grandeur are not on that scale! Matron of Honour? Damn and bugger. That's it, that's what married women in brides-maid capacities are called. Bloody Matron. God, it sounds horrendously frumpy. But there again, by the time Thea gets her act together, I'll be the definitive boring old housewife! Maybe we can fix her up with Mark's American cousin tomorrow.

  Thea will so fixate on the notion of a dashing hero – it's her yardstick and she resolutely refuses to alter the scale. I've tried to tell her that in my experience – and especially my discovery through Mark – it doesn't really work like that. But she won't believe me. She doesn't want to think that growing up is about understanding that love's no longer about falling in love. I say to her ah, but look where it's got me – getting married in the morning and deliriously happy about it. She'll figure it out, I guess, like I did.

  Jesus, it's here. It's the day of my wedding. I have exactly seven hours to go. How on earth am I going to make time pass? I only need to have my hair done and put my make-up on and then my dress. Not even I can make that last seven hours. I slept pretty well, actually. Thea's the best bed-partner a girl can have because she doesn't snore, she doesn't toss and turn and she always recounts the funniest dreams. Last night she dreamt that the groom was Bill but that I didn't notice and she couldn't make her voice heard because my veil was 30 feet long and wafted all around her like cheap bubble bath and tasted like marshmallow.

  We tried for ages to find some deep significance to her dream but we concluded she ought to keep away from sugary snacks and that Bill wants to be where Mark will be but will die a lonely old bachelor. Thea brought me breakfast in bed; a tray laden with pain au chocolat, orange juice, tea and a blush-coloured rose. She keeps calling me Miss Almost Sinclair and Nearly Mrs. I told her I wished I could take her on honeymoon – and I do! I want to be able to run around the bathroom with Thea getting over-excited about all the gorgeous toiletries and sumptuous thick towels.

  People keep phoning and asking if I have last-minute doubts, or if I'm a bag of nerves. Actually, I feel pretty level-headed about everything. I'm excited. About my dress. About seeing all the people. OK, yes – about being the centre of attention. Bring it on, I say – all is planned to perfection so bring it on. Yes, I'm full of butterflies but they're fluttering in excitement and anticipation, not swarming with trepidation or nerves. This isn't just my big day, it's huge. I'm going to a wedding in four hours' time and it's my own and I can't wait.

  I'm meant to be having a lie-down – that's what Thea suggested. She's just in the bath – she was happy to have my bath water. I do love my flat but it does make sense for Mark and me to sell our flats and buy a marital home. One with a hot water tank big enough for more than just one bathful. A house with a ready-matured herbaceous border in the garden. Tell me there isn't a catch. That life can be this blessed. I need to double-check the cab to take us to the hairdresser's.

  I love my hair! Manuel is amazing. Thea's looks gorgeous too. She actually had hers trimmed today – I just had the blow-dry of my life. Her hair is gleaming, slightly shorter than usual, cut into the nape of her neck and tucked behind her ears. I hate the way she says it's boring and mousy. Anyway, she looks like a fusion of Audrey Hepburn and Isabella Rossellini. I've had this beautiful grip made for her – a single orchid. I can't wait to see her in her frock. We chose A-line in crushed velvet the colour of buttermilk; slightly empire under the bust, a low, square-cut neck and wide straps just off the shoulder. I seriously almost wept when I saw her in it. She looks divine. My mum just phoned in some unnecessary flap or other. I spoke to Dad and diplomatically asked him to intervene on any further calls she might be tempted to make. I'm glad the car will take just Dad and me. And I know Thea will cope fine with Mum. I wonder how Mark is. We spoke when Thea was in the bath. I was meant to be having a little lie-down but I couldn't keep my mind still enough for my body to relax. He sounded fine. He said yes to every single thing on my Double-Triple-Check And Check Again List. He was laughing. He loves my quirks. I hope he likes my hair all heaped up like this. In fact, I wonder whether to warn him in advance that if he touches it, it's grounds for an immediate annulment. Whoever thought that hair could feel so heavy! Maybe it's the little pearls that they've pinned into it. Fake. Not that you'd know. In fact, I'm getting a stiff neck from admiring the back view in the mirror.

  Thea came to say it's time to get dressed. She's a glorious vision in the pretty panties and bra we bought from Fenwicks for her. We bought my undies from Agent Provocateur. Mark will blush. I love it that Mark blushes at my sexiness. If he wore glasses, he'd be the type they'd steam up on. Thea and I have set the dress out on my bed and we have twice gone through the precise order that things must go on, be stepped into, have laced up and smoothed down. So I'm stepping in. And slipping my arms through the sleeves. And Thea is lacing me up. And smoothing me down. We've gone quiet. We're listening to some play on Radio 4 but I couldn't tell you what it's about. I don't know how to describe the feeling of my dress. I don't want to use clichés. It's duchesse satin, blush coloured – the colour you'd imagine a child's kiss would equate to. The sensation on my body is like a loved one gently, adoringly, whispering to my skin. I almost daren't look in the mirror. Thea's finished the lacing and smoothing and her eyes are welling up. She's just nodding at me. Nodding. And biting her lip. And nodding some more. With her eyes all watery and her nose now red. I'll have a look. In a minute. I'll turn around. I'll have a look now. I'll have a little look at Alice Heggarty in her wedding dress.

  Hullo, Daddy. Hullo, hullo. Oh my God – the car is amazing! Let's tell the driver to drive round the block a couple of times. I ought to be five minutes late. Ten, preferably. And we must remember not to stride up the aisle. Mum will kill us. And please please don't say anything to me that'll make me cry. Don't call me your little girl. I am your little girl but if I hear it from you today, I'll cry and want to run all the way home.

  I can't hear. I can't hear a thing. I'm watching lips move over the vows I helped pen. I know it all off by heart. But I can't hear. I'm ever so warm. Actually I feel a bit hot. Mark is saying things. Pardon? It's my turn. I have to say something. Something for everyone to hear. I know this bit. I know what to say. Please don't let my voice croak.

  ‘I DO.’

  Thea and Saul

  Thea Luckmore had a remarkable constitution when it came to alcohol. Guts of iron, Alice called it. For some, this would be their downfall. For Thea, it was no big deal. She didn't regard it as a skill, or a gift; nor as a demon to keep at bay, or an affliction to be wary of. She could simply drink as much as she liked, become talkative and effervescent until the small hours yet maintain the presence of mind not to snog indiscriminately, to remember where she lived, to take off her mascara before she went to sleep and to awaken with energy, a clear head and a fresh complexion. Just occasionally, however, a hangover befell her which reminded her that alcohol could be rather a bore. A hangover for Thea bore no relevance to the amount drunk the night before, it was attributable solely to champagne. And at Mark and Alice's wedding, Veuve Clicquot flowed as if it were lemonade.

  So, while Alice was trying to procure an upgrade from Club to First on her first morning as a married woman, Thea was creaking open an eyelid, groaning and praying for numb sleep. When Alice and Mark left Heathrow, First Class, two hours later, Thea managed to creep carefully to her bath-room, take two Nurofen and tolerate an invigoratingly cool shower. Although it felt as if the inside of her skull and the rims of her eye-sockets were being maliciously rubbed with industrial sandpaper, that sawdust had stuck her tongue to her tonsils and that her stomach would never absorb any kind of food again, Thea wa
s staggered to see from the mirror that she looked as if she'd had eight hours' sleep, a macrobiotic supper the night before and a challenging Pilates session.

  She gave herself a stern look and vowed never to drink champagne again. She let the telephone ring and listened to Alice leave a message.

  ‘Thea? I'm on the plane! I am 38,000 feet high! We're in First Class. Which isn't the reason I'm calling – well, it is. But also, would you mind popping into mine while I'm away – twitch the curtains and all the etceteras? Thanks, babes. Oh! By the way, one of Mark's cousins from America thought you were “hot”. And I've given him your email address – apparently, he's over in Britain on business quite often.’

  ‘I can't remember him,’ said Thea, wondering if a warmer shower might be good for the cold sweat now gripping her.

  ‘And if you can't remember him, he was the one you danced with on Top Table to “Lady's Night”.’

  ‘I was dancing on Top Table? Oh my God.’ Thea groaned.

  ‘You also danced with Jeff, one of my features editors. But despite his passion for mascara and glossy lippy, I don't think you were aware that he is in fact gay. And shorter than you. Anyway, must fly – oh, I already am! There's in-flight massage! Bye, darling, bye.’

  A purpose was a very good idea. Thea had a purpose to the day. And after she checked on Alice's flat, she walked sedately to the top of Primrose Hill. The air was cold and cut through the fog in her head. The wind sliced across her face and elicited tears which refreshed her eyes. She was under-dressed for the weather but every time she shivered, she found that her nausea quelled. So she stood on the top of Primrose Hill, tears coursing down her face, shuddering violently at irregular intervals. And that was when Saul Mundy first saw Thea Luckmore, all silent tears and harsh, spasmodic shuddering. She was staring in the vague direction of St Paul's Cathedral but to Saul it seemed she was gazing deep into the nub of whatever it was that irked her so. It immediately struck him as peculiar that a seemingly unhinged person he'd never met was in fact capturing his attention. Even more bizarre was his instinct to take off his jacket and place it around her shoulders. He wanted to buy her soup. To sit her down. Though disconcerted, he felt compelled to linger. She seemed oblivious to her surroundings yet at the mercy of the elements. Trembling. Tears. Pale.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Saul, whether it was a good idea or not, ‘chilly, isn't it.’ He couldn't believe he'd chosen the weather as his opening gambit, but he was not in the habit of striking up conversation with a complete stranger, albeit an attractive woman who appeared intriguingly sorrowful. The only other thing he thought of saying was ‘nice view’, but he managed to resist.

  Thea didn't dare turn her head for fear of upsetting the fragile balance she'd achieved. Even glancing down the hill, five minutes before, had made her feel dizzy.

  ‘Look, excuse me for asking,’ Saul continued, ‘but are you all right?’ Fuck, now I sound like a bloody Samaritan.

  ‘Thanks,’ Thea mumbled, ‘I'm fine.’

  ‘I don't mean to pry,’ Saul said, though it would appear he was doing just that. She said nothing. She didn't look at him. This was so not his style and yet on he rabbited, grim-acing at himself for sounding like an insipid do-gooder. ‘I just don't like to see people crying and shivering and alone on a cold November afternoon.’

  Oh for fuck's sake, thought Thea, can't I just have my hangover in peace?

  ‘I'm fine, OK?’ she grumbled. ‘I have a sodding hangover. That's all. Go and rescue souls somewhere else, please. The devil's had mine and I'm a lost cause.’

  Saul tipped his head back and laughed. ‘I take back all my sympathy then,’ he joshed. ‘I was going to offer you my jacket. But hey, it's Armani. And anyway, your suffering is self-inflicted, enjoy!’

  Carefully, Thea turned to regard the sartorial Samaritan. And she caught her breath. She had just discovered another component for Luckmore's Elixir for the Over-Indulged. Fresh air. Nurofen. Primrose Hill altitude. And a rather hand-some guardian angel. ‘Who are you? Some zealot Methodist?’ she sparred back.

  Again the man laughed. ‘I'm Saul,’ he answered, extending his hand which, to his surprise, she took, ‘and Jesus Christ do you have the coldest hands. I can't lead you to the Lord because I don't know the way myself. Just take my damn jacket, would you?’

  ‘I'm Thea and if it's all right with you, I will just have a quick go of your jacket.’ Saul placed his jacket around Thea's shoulders. She thanked him with a slight smile that obviously caused her a little discomfort but was rewarding for him. ‘It was my best friend's wedding yesterday. Champagne,’ she said by way of an explanation and shrugged.

  ‘And today you are resolving never to drink again,’ Saul said, knowingly.

  ‘Did you know they have telephones on planes,’ Thea marvelled. ‘Alice phoned me from 38,000 feet.’

  ‘Technology, hey!’ teased Saul, who'd made a few calls from even higher altitudes in his time.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Thea, earnestly.

  ‘Sit down,’ Saul said lightly, as if the park bench was his own for the offering. ‘You'll find some Opal Fruits in my jacket pocket. They've changed the name to something else so if you're decades younger than me you won't know what an Opal Fruit is.’

  ‘I'm thirty-one,’ Thea said, sitting down gratefully, ‘and I only like the red or yellow ones.’

  The sugar rush from the sweets worked wonders. She must patent this cure. Fresh air, Nurofen, Primrose Hill altitude, a handsome guardian angel bearing Opal Fruits. It worked – Thea found she could turn her head with ease. Saul sat beside her. She gladly zipped up his jacket and settled into it. It was soft brown leather, lined with something warm. ‘Gorgeous jacket,’ she said gratefully.

  ‘Don't you run off with it,’ Saul cautioned, eyeing it as if regretting his generosity.

  ‘Yes yes, it's Armani,’ said Thea. ‘Well, one thing's for sure – I am not capable of running anywhere today.’

  ‘Are there any sweeties left?’ Saul asked and Thea delighted in his childish terminology.

  ‘Two greens and a red,’ said Thea.

  ‘Well, I'll be having the greens then,’ Saul said with exaggerated selflessness.

  Thea sucked the red Opal Fruit and hummed. ‘Starburst,’ she said, ‘that's what they're called now. What a rubbish name for them.’

  ‘Opal Fruits,’ Saul sang the advert of old.

  ‘Made to make your mouth water,’ Thea sang back.

  ‘Er, would you like to go for a drink?’ Saul suggested.

  Thea looked as if she might cry. ‘I shall never touch alcohol again,’ she declared, ‘even the term “hair of the dog” makes me feel nauseous.’

  ‘Why do Americans call it “norshus”?’ Saul pondered, unsure whether Thea had turned him down outright.

  ‘I don't know,’ Thea mused, ‘norshus nauseous.’

  ‘But there again, why do they say “math” and “sports” and we say “maths” and “sport”?’ Saul digressed. ‘Anyway, how about I buy you some carbohydrates and protein cooked in a pan over a flame?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I was worried the term fry-up might make you nauseous or even norshus,’ Saul said, ‘but I can recommend a nice greasy sausage, two eggs slightly runny, a mound of chips, a squirt of brown sauce and a blob of red as an excellent cure for the common hangover.’ Thea groaned and paled visibly. Saul was amused but also disappointed. He quite fancied a cooked breakfast. Even at almost teatime.

  ‘Perhaps more sweeties?’ Thea suggested.

  Saul regarded her and she regarded him straight back. She was accepting his advance. He'd struck lucky on Primrose Hill. Good God. ‘You'd like me to buy you some sweets?’ he verified. He looked at her. Those eyes aren't watering, they're sparkling, the minx. ‘Opal Fruits?’

  ‘Do you know what I'd really like? Refreshers! Do you remember them? They come in a roll, little fizzy things. Like compacted sherbet. If you chew a few at once, they fizz up and fill your mouth and bubble t
hrough your lips.’ And Thea settled further into his jacket, dipping her face so that the collar came over her nose. I can't believe I'm being chatted up on Primrose Hill. ‘Anyway, that's what I'd like: Refreshers.’

  ‘Can I trust you to sit still and not bugger off in my jacket?’ Saul asked. ‘It's Armani.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ said Thea. ‘Are you sure it's not knock-off?’ and she scrutinized the cuffs suspiciously.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Saul because he knew she'd stay. He headed off down the hill, thanking God for hangovers and for friends' flats and for phones at 38,000 feet. As he walked back up Primrose Hill, a roll of Refreshers in his back pocket, her smile floated down to him.

  ‘Refreshers, milady,’ he announced, proffering them to her.

  ‘I only like the yellow and pink ones,’ she said.

  ‘Suck or crunch?’

  ‘Crunch.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They crunched and hummed and stifled the burps that scoffing the entire packet in a matter of minutes created.

  ‘I'm thawing out now,’ Thea said, ‘and I ought to go home, I'm exhausted.’

  ‘Thea,’ Saul said, ‘take my jacket. Seriously. Every man should have one Sir Walter Ralegh moment in his life. Please allow me mine. My mum would be so proud.’

  Thea giggled at the thought of this man rushing home: Mum! Mum! I was a gentleman today, I lent my jacket to a chilly waif. Do I get more pocket money? Can I stay up late? ‘But I'm fine,’ she continued gratefully, ‘my car is just over there.’

  Saul shrugged and nodded. ‘Yeah, but if I lend you my jacket, you'll have to return it,’ he concluded with a hopeful trump card. Thea glanced at him and knew she blushed. ‘Perhaps same place, same time, a week from now?’ he suggested, unfolding and folding the foil from the sweets.

  ‘OK,’ said Thea, thinking to herself how Alice's mags would tell her to decline and play hard to get, or to suppress her grin for demure procrastination at the very least. But sod Alice's magazines. ‘Same time, same place, next Sunday then,’ she said.