Love Rules

by Freya North

  ‘Fine,’ Mr Sewell said, ‘OK.’

  ‘I'll book you in downstairs,’ Thea said, leading the way.

  ‘Thank you, Miss –?’ Mr Sewell waited to be informed.

  ‘Thea,’ Thea assured him, ‘Thea's fine.’

  He nodded and left.

  ‘Thea darling! I'm late, I know – I'm sorry, honey, but I've had a bitch of a morning. A total bitch. And my back's killing me. Total fucking nightmare.’

  Thea's twelve o'clock arrived quarter of an hour late with his usual flurry of excuses. Because he was a regular, she would overrun her lunch hour to honour a full session for him. ‘Don't worry, it's not a problem, Peter,’ she acquiesced, ‘come on up and let's get cracking.’

  ‘I thought only osteos could do that,’ Peter joked.

  ‘Let's get petrissaging doesn't have quite the same ring to it,’ Thea said over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.

  Peter Glass had been a client of Thea's for a year or so. He came in now for ‘monthly maintenance’ as he termed it, though he regularly phoned for ‘crisis sessions’ in between. This was meant to be a maintenance visit but it was obvious from his stilted gait that a crisis now superseded it.

  ‘How are you, Peter?’ Thea asked him, wondering how long it would take the serene atmosphere of her room to calm him. Peter was usually busy to the point of being manic – an upmarket estate agent earning on commission only, with a complex love life, a love of material goods and a propensity for changing his car as frequently as his girlfriend.

  ‘Work's mental – good mental. Life's crazy – cool crazy. New squeeze, new Beemer.’

  ‘What's Beemer?’ Thea asked.

  Peter laughed. ‘BMW – Beemer, you know? Like Merc? Alpha?’

  ‘Skoda?’ Thea said.

  ‘You don't!’ Peter exclaimed.

  ‘I don't,’ Thea assured him, ‘I have a Fiat Panda.’

  ‘You don't!’ Peter exclaimed with genuine horror.

  ‘Eleven years old,’ Thea said proudly. ‘Now, how are you?’ She glanced at the clock, knowing that he'd talk at her throughout the session anyway.

  ‘Nightmare,’ Peter groaned theatrically but with justification. ‘Do you want me down to my Jockeys?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Thea, skimming her notes on Peter's last session, ‘and then face down on the table.’

  ‘How's your love life, babes?’ Peter enquired, his voice muffled as Thea started the massage.

  ‘This feels tight.’ Thea ignored his question, pressing into his lower trapezius until she felt it yield.

  ‘If I was single, I'd wine and dine you, honey,’ Peter told her with an appreciative groan.

  ‘If I was single, I'd turn you down,’ Thea responded though immediately wished she hadn't.

  ‘So you do have a love life,’ Peter commented, ‘but do you have a love nest? I can show you some gorgeous properties.’

  ‘You haven't been doing those stretches I showed you, have you?’ Thea chastised, glad to change the subject.

  ‘Not enough hours in the day, babes,’ Peter rued. ‘Stretching takes too long.’

  ‘Peter!’ Thea admonished. ‘That series I showed you takes a maximum ten minutes, on weekdays only. You can do them anywhere.’

  ‘Not long but slow,’ Peter qualified, ‘I mean they feel like they take too long because they're so slow. All that holding and breathing. I don't do slow – not in my life.’

  Reluctantly, Thea understood. He was a character, Peter Glass, a wide boy and charmer but self-deprecating and thus likeable. For all his bravura and bullshit, bragging of Beemers and calling every woman ‘babes’, he was a decent bloke contending with vicious pain.

  ‘You do make me feel better,’ Peter told her, knotting his Gucci tie. ‘If I could afford the time I'd come to you every bloody week. Twice, maybe. It's only here that I slow down and unwind a little while you untie all those crap muscles of mine.’

  ‘Let's book you in for next week,’ Thea said.

  ‘Cool, babes,’ said Peter, ‘but I may have to cancel last minute.’

  ‘Zay say zat avocado makes a lady ripe for lurve. Zay say zat carrot cake makes a lady hot. Zay say zat cheesy crisps make a lady juicy.’

  Thea stood in the queue at Pret a Manger, thrilled at the surprise of Saul whispering in her ear, with his improbable accent and bizarre theories on foodstuffs.

  ‘Lady,’ he continued, murmuring throatily, his voice an octave lower than his regular English accent, ‘zay say zat a lady who likes avocado and cheesy crisps and cake of carrot, she is lady who do much sexy sex.’

  ‘Piss off,’ Thea whispered, giggling. Saul stood close behind her and kissed insistently behind her ear and along the curve of her neck. ‘Stop it,’ Thea hissed, ‘we're in public.’

  ‘Exactly,’ whispered Saul. ‘God, I'm horny.’

  ‘I'm on a short lunch,’ Thea apologized, now feeling quite horny herself.

  ‘I'll walk you back,’ Saul said, ‘as long as the tent pole in my trousers doesn't get me arrested en route.’

  It had snowed overnight and though the pavements were clear of it, a dusting still sprinkled the shrubs, iced the lawns and cushioned the benches in Paddington Street Gardens. Dogs trotted through the park with elevated action and children scampered around trying to snowball all spare snow.

  ‘It always seems bizarre to be planning summer issues when it's February and freezing,’ Saul commented, ‘but that's my afternoon – top beaches and barbecue tips. And a haircut – look at me, Christ!’

  ‘After my morning of men,’ Thea told him, ‘I have an afternoon of girls – my ballet dancer, two pregnant women and my little old lady. But I'd really better make tracks and warm my hands or I'll lose all my clients.’

  ‘And then you'll come to mine?’ Saul asked. ‘Movie? Villandry carpet picnic? Rude sex?’

  ‘Reverse order, preferably,’ Thea said. She looked at Saul and bit her bottom lip with coquettish intent. ‘Who'd've thought that cheesy crisps were an aphrodisiac.’

  Saul took Thea at face value and didn't dare say he'd made it up. ‘Let's sneak up to your room for a quickie,’ he said instead, ‘you know you want it, you dirty thing!’

  ‘You're incorrigible. I'm not remotely tempted,’ Thea scolded him playfully, kissing him teasingly with her tongue before flouncing into the Being Well with a provocative wiggle.

  ‘Christ, I need a shag,’ Saul muttered to himself, putting beaches and barbecues on the back burner, the haircut on hold.

  ADAM

  April, Issue 11

  Vic Reeves/Bob Mortimer cover

  Why British comedy rocks

  Rock – why British rock is comedy

  Sex – rock hard

  Vinnie Jones – still rock hard

  Travel – Gibraltar, Brighton and Australia – and other famous rocks

  Sport – rock climbing

  Win! Some rocks, courtesy of De Beers

  ADAM

  May, Issue 12

  Emmanuelle Beart/Vanessa Paradis double cover

  It's in the Cannes – the sexiest film festival, now and then

  Secrets, lies and big big bucks – what keeps the film industry rolling

  Muscle in – steroid abuse: coming to your high-street chemist soon

  Sex addiction – bona-fide illness or top excuse

  Air guitar, shadow boxing and imaginary golf swings – good for your health

  Property how-to: it doesn't cost much and it won't hurt your back

  Win! A line in Danny Boyle's new film

  Saul sat in Alice's office and they both swivelled in the chairs, Saul tapping a Biro gently against his teeth, Alice furrowing her brow and twitching her lip, while they brainstormed features for future issues.

  ‘How about,’ Alice mused, ‘sex advice through the eyes of – hang on – a porn star, a sex therapist and a—’

  ‘Housewife,’ Saul suggested.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Alice said, her fingers scuttling over her key-
board.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Saul said, ‘the Tour de France for the July issue – the world's best athletes or drugged-up cheats.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Alice, ‘I like it. How's the August issue going?’

  Saul twitched his lip. He looked sidelong at Alice, swivelled a complete revolution, rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his chin and then leant forward. ‘I'm going to hear by the end of the week if we've got Bowie for the cover,’ he said nonchalantly.

  ‘Oh, Good Lord,’ Alice exclaimed, blushing visibly, clasping her hand to her heart. She reached across her desk and grabbed Saul's wrists, her eyes darting around his. ‘Seriously?’ she whispered. ‘Because you know you really must never joke about something like that.’ Saul raised an eyebrow in affirmation. ‘Oh, Good Lord,’ Alice exclaimed. She slumped back in her chair. ‘I'm coming to the photo shoot,’ she declared. ‘Have you told Thea?’

  Saul shook his head. ‘It's not confirmed,’ he cautioned, ‘and the shoot will be in New York.’

  ‘Well, I feel a business trip coming on,’ Alice proclaimed, ‘and I'll need an assistant, of course.’

  ‘I'm far too busy,’ Saul declared.

  ‘Not you, idiot boy, Thea!’ Alice retorted, quietly wondering if an enduring crush on an ageing icon was in any way unsuitable for a married woman. She swiftly decided it was not.

  ‘Anyway, Bowie or not, the issue's coming on fine,’ Saul assured her, ‘it'll be the biggest yet and the ad team are storming their targets already.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Alice. ‘Bowie. Oh, my God. Right. Yes. Moving on – how about something on relationship dynamics, you know, who has power.’

  ‘Who has the balls, who wears the trousers,’ Saul said, ‘that's good – I'll try and commission someone like Jeff Green to write it. Oh, Richard Stonehill is putting me in touch with a guy who has a self-build company – I thought that would make an interesting piece.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Alice, ‘and Ben from the music division is working on Liam Gallagher. Come on, let's go for lunch. Thea said you had an amazing weekend in Brighton. You were lucky with the weather – May bank holiday is usually a washout.’

  Saul gathered his things and followed Alice through the building. He smiled to himself, recalling Thea that previous weekend, stripping off nonchalantly on a quiet spot on the beach. It was only when she was down to her knickers that he clarified it was Bournemouth, not Brighton, that had the nudist beach.

  ‘Saul thinks we'll have Bowie for the August issue,’ Alice told Mark as he loaded the dishwasher. ‘Can you believe that?’

  ‘Believe what, darling?’ Mark asked distractedly.

  ‘That we'll have Bowie for the August issue,’ Alice frowned.

  ‘Well done,’ Mark said, straightening up and rubbing the small of his back. ‘I think I'll take some paracetamol.’

  ‘So I may go to New York for the shoot,’ Alice said, though she feared tempting fate by being presumptuous.

  ‘New York?’ Mark said, rummaging through his briefcase for painkillers. ‘No, San Francisco next week, home via Chicago.’

  ‘I give up,’ Alice muttered, turning her back on Mark and her attention to the Evening Standard, flipping noisily through the pages.

  ‘Alice,’ Mark protested quietly, ‘I just really want to knock the Gerber–Klein deal on the head – precisely so there won't be so much travelling.’

  ‘Until the next deal,’ Alice said under her breath. ‘Actually, I was talking about me, Mark – I may have to go to New York.’

  ‘For work?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Yes, Mark, we're shooting Bowie for the August issue and he's personally requested I attend,’ Alice said with cutting nonchalance, though she was now convinced she'd probably jinxed the deal completely.

  ‘Well, that's a feather to your cap,’ Mark said ingenuously, wondering why his wife looked cross when her news was so good. He swallowed the paracetamol. ‘John and Lisa have invited us to dinner next Friday,’ Mark changed the subject brightly, ‘and Leo and Nadia want to know if we'd like to accompany them to the Barbican the following week – Madame Butterfly.’

  Alice tried to bite her tongue but she missed, snapping at Mark instead. ‘Oh, great. Dull dinners with your boss and sodding opera with your dreary clients.’

  ‘Alice!’ Mark exclaimed, unprepared for her reaction. ‘I thought you liked Lisa – you said she's a marvellous cook. And you've been saying recently how you'd like us to go out more, do things.’

  ‘I'm more than just your corporate wife, you know,’ Alice said, unfairly as Mark had never treated her as such. Mark, bewildered that a dinner invite and concert tickets could have such an adverse effect on Alice, started cleaning the coffee machine.

  With her back towards Mark, she lowered her voice. ‘I'm thirty-two, Mark. I don't want to do boring dinner parties and stuffy concerts all the time.’

  ‘Come on,’ Mark said, ‘it's hardly all the time.’

  Alice turned to face him, her hands on her hips. ‘That's true,’ she said, ‘because the rest of the time you're invariably away.’

  ‘Alice, that's not fair,’ Mark objected, ‘I work hard because I work for us.’ He waved his hand around vaguely to signify their home.

  ‘And I'm just the little wifey keeping your home fire burning?’ Alice asked spikily.

  Mark ran his hands through his hair, though they were full of coffee grains. He was hurt. But very clear. ‘You know what, Alice,’ Mark said, ‘for me that is precisely one of the joys of marriage – knowing you are my home. Wherever I am in the world, whatever time it is, no matter how stressful my day or how hectic my schedule, there's this underlying warmth and security which makes sense of everything – the knowledge of my wife, my home.’

  Alice flounced off to bed early, in the spare room, in her old bed. She dreamt of New York and David Bowie; that she and Thea brought roses to the shoot, which liquefied into green gloop. In the small hours, she awoke with her heart racing, acutely aware of the hurt and confusion she'd caused the man who loved her most. She felt ashamed. Mark's love was unconditional and she told herself that she should aim to love him likewise. She waited a while and then tiptoed to their bedroom, to their vast bed and said sorry.

  Mark was finding it difficult to sleep. His back hurt, the Gerber–Klein deal was a lingering headache and it pained him that he'd upset Alice. He welcomed her with open arms and a tender kiss to her forehead.

  Alice had seemed distracted at Pilates, cutting her session short to sit quietly in the reception area, browsing back issues of Hello magazine. Even suggesting the bistro on a balmy May evening had taken Thea some doing. Assessing the menu, she remarked that Alice seemed tired.

  ‘I'm not tired,’ Alice said.

  ‘Hungry?’ Thea asked, beckoning the waitress.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Alice said, glancing at the specials board.

  ‘Oh, my God, are you pregnant?’ Thea gasped because Sally had recently announced that she was and she looked tired and had gone off Pilates and chips.

  ‘I am most certainly not pregnant,’ Alice declared flatly.

  ‘Is it work?’ Thea presumed.

  ‘No, Thea,’ Alice said, ‘it's Mark.’

  ‘Mark?’ Thea balked, ignoring the chips, which had just arrived. She stared at Alice who was gazing into the middle distance of the restaurant. ‘Alice?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice, prodding the pasta without looking, ‘Mark.’

  ‘What's he done?’ Thea demanded, heaping Greek salad onto her fork.

  ‘Nothing,’ Alice said despondently, twirling the pasta to such a degree that it unwound from the fork completely.

  ‘Nothing?’ Thea repeated, with her mouth full.

  ‘Yes, nothing,’ Alice sighed, lifting her empty fork and putting it in her mouth, ‘and that's the point. It's just nothingy.’ She shrugged. ‘All work and no play make Mark a dull, dull boy.’ Though she felt instantly disloyal, she was just a li
ttle relieved too. ‘I'm scared that I'm bored,’ Alice confided, looking genuinely alarmed. ‘I'm worried, Thea. Actually, perhaps it's not Mark. Perhaps it's me.’

  Thea didn't want to hear this and didn't know what to make of it, let alone how to comment. ‘Mark is all that you've wanted and he is all that you need, he's what you never had and you married him precisely for his commitment and his soberness,’ she told Alice sternly.

  ‘But his commitment is to work and he's so sober it's a bore,’ Alice muttered. ‘Corporate dinners and bloody opera, Thea, that's the sum of it.’

  ‘What are his workmates like?’ Thea asked, trying to be positive.

  ‘Mark doesn't have “mates”, Thea,’ Alice said, ‘he has colleagues and clients. They're fine – I mean, a similar age – but dull.’

  ‘Well, I love Mark,’ Thea said warmly. ‘Let's organize some evenings together, the four of us. How about salsa? Or that hysterical pub quiz you and I used to go to? I don't know, ice-skating at Ally Pally?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘Can you honestly see Mark salsa dancing? Do you really think he'd leave work on time for a pub quiz?’

  ‘Come on,’ Thea said gently, ‘perhaps you're a little stressed yourself – work?’

  Alice laughed harshly. ‘I have David Bowie as my cover boy – how can I be stressed?’

  ‘Maybe Mark's stress is rubbing off on you?’ Thea tried, knowing she didn't sound convincing.

  ‘Mark is ticking along just fine, Thea – it's me,’ Alice whispered. ‘Suddenly he seems so much older than me.’ She couldn't say it so she mouthed it, staring at the table. Boring.

  Thea didn't want to hear this. Mark Sinclair was Alice's salvation, the yin to her yang. Alice, it seemed to Thea, had done the grown-up thing when she married Mark; she'd set the standard and embraced the rules. Alice being unhappy made Thea feel discomfited. That Alice was bored caused Thea to worry. As her best friend, she didn't think twice about reprimanding Alice.