Love Rules

by Freya North

  ‘Hullo,’ she says, ‘I'm painting my toenails. It's a freebie from Alice – it's Chanel. I've cooked us something delicious. It'll be ready in an hour. How was your day?’

  Saul doesn't know what to say because he hasn't a clue where to start or how to say it. The Isley Brothers desert him. All he can do, just now, is nod and say hi, kiss the top of her head and kick himself, as he passes by on the way to the fridge for a beer.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Thea asked him, a couple of hours later. She regarded him with a softly suspicious expression.

  ‘Fine,’ Saul assured her. ‘God – why?’

  ‘I don't know,’ Thea said lightly, ‘you've seemed a little pensive and you keep looking at me when you think I won't notice. Makes me think I have a Biro mark on my chin or a stray bogey.’

  Saul drew her against him, enfolding his arms around her, and gently placed his lips to her temple while they watched the nine o'clock news.

  He slept fitfully that night. They'd had intercourse by frantic fucking rather than refined lovemaking more akin to his earlier mood. He should have been worn out after that, drained after all his thinking on top of a long walk home. But he'd drift off then wake up, every hour or so. At two a.m. he awoke to the Isley Brothers playing again and again in his head. Be quiet. At four a.m. he woke again because he could no longer hear the Isley Brothers, his heartbeat drowned it out. And Alice. Oh shut up, Alice. I can think for myself. By five a.m. Saul had reached a turning point.

  I'm confident I haven't done anything wrong – but perhaps, just perhaps, it really is time to do the right thing.

  The notion made him feel exhilarated and terrified and like waking Thea right there and then. However, at some point, he must have slumped down into a soundless, dream-less sleep because when he woke with start at eight o'clock, he felt exhausted and fuggy and, as a consequence, non-communicative.

  ‘See you later, grumpy,’ Thea said, kissing his cheek as she left for work.

  Shall I email her?

  Ask her by text message?

  But not over the phone.

  Should I write a love letter or dictate a message to a florist and have it sent in someone else's handwriting with a huge bouquet?

  Shall I just stride into the Being Well, burst in on her and ask her outright?

  Perhaps I should whisper it to her while we make love? Or ask her nonchalantly after we've had sex?

  I could do it over dinner – a ready-meal or after sausages at the Swallow or even a table at Sheekey's?

  I could call to her from my window when I see her approach.

  Ought I to whisk her away and do it on some glorious bridge in Venice or Paris or Las Vegas even?

  Blag an Aston Martin DB7, take her for a spin and then ask?

  Should I run any of this past Alice?

  Or Ian?

  Should I let Barefaced Bloke do the talking for me in my piece this Sunday?

  How about a singing telegram?

  Balloons in a box?

  Icing – literally – on a cake, spelling it out?

  First thing in the morning? So how about tomorrow? Last thing at night? What about tonight, then?

  No time like the present? Then fuck it – why don't I just jump on my scooter and nip up to Crouch End right now?

  Serenade outside her Gothick tower?

  Rapunzel, Rapunzel – I have something to say.

  Did David Bowie say anything on the matter? Hang on, I'll just do a Google search to find out.

  But what will she say?

  What will she say?

  And will she say yes?

  Crowded House

  It's raining. It's pouring. It's bucketing down cats, dogs and hailstones on a day when really it shouldn't. It is the first day of spring and it also happens to be Juliette Celia Stonehill's baby blessing. Her daddy is pissed off because he hired an awning, paid caterers, organized everything impeccably but forgot to even hope the weather would be fine. Her mummy is in a bit of a flap because she doesn't know quite how to position sixty people on the ground floor of a Highgate terrace house.

  ‘Sally!’ Thea pipes up. ‘Brainwave – you, Richard and Baby Ju stand on the landing at the top of the stairs, god-parents on the steps below, then close family for the few steps down and then we'll all shove and scrum around the lower steps or out in the hallway.’

  ‘Genius!’ Sally exclaims. ‘But – oh.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come with me a sec – you stand at the bottom there. Now, look up at me standing at the top from different angles and check you can't see up my skirt.’

  ‘Great knees, Sally – but that's all you're giving me.’

  ‘Cool, great. But – oh. Do you think it's rude to ask everyone to take their shoes off – the carpets are new?’

  ‘Yes – but no one would put it past you to.’

  ‘OK, everyone! Everyone. We're having the ceremony on the stairs and can you all take your shoes off, please. Pass it on. Pass it on, Thea – can you spread the word?’

  When Saul Mundy had split from Emma all those years ago, one of the things that upset her most was the fact that he didn't cry. One of the things that made the ordeal easier for Saul was an inkling at the time that Emma was actually charging her waterworks with a torrent not entirely commensurate with her distress. He'd since written a couple of pieces as Barefaced Bloke on the whole subject of men and tears. He'd focused on the tears shed and embraces shared by grown men when Spurs lost to Arsenal in the last minute. Another time, he claimed that contrary to popular belief, heterosexual blokes cry frequently and easily. The perfect trigger of Bruce Springsteen songs, for example. Whisky, in certain amounts. Raging Bull and Chariots of Fire. Wrestling with IKEA shelving. Getting pubic hair caught in a zip – not necessarily one's own. Zip, that is.

  Saul himself did not subscribe to stiff-upper-lipness yet he did not cry often. Recently, Springsteen had got to him. And Spurs losing, of course. But that day, the first day of spring, in his socks at the Stonehills' house in Highgate, he did. It was as if all the most cherished components that made up his world were colliding – yet on impact they were cloaking him in cloud-soft warmth and affirmation.

  Life is really, really good. I am thirty-five years old and that baby girl is so tiny and beautiful. And her very existence makes sense of all the things we take for granted and don't bother to think about or don't treasure and acknowledge enough. Sex is fun but baby making is what it's all about. And my friend Richard made that little Juliette. And he wasn't a friend until I met him through the woman I love. And I met him because she'd given him the jacket I'd lent her up on Primrose Hill one November afternoon that seems an age ago.

  ‘Saul?’ Thea whispers. ‘You OK?’ He turns to look at her and nods and grins with eyes that are bloodshot from the pressure of welling tears; his nose crackling with snot. Thea looks simultaneously embarrassed but moved. ‘Shh!’ she hushes because Saul's sniff makes heads turn away from the action on the stairs. She hands him a tissue, which Alice has passed her with a nudge and a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Soft git!’ Alice whispers carefully to Thea. Thea giggles.

  ‘Saul,’ Thea finds him knocking back champagne as though it's lemonade, ‘you OK?’

  ‘Fine!’ he declares. ‘Thirsty.’

  ‘Were you OK?’ Thea asks him tenderly, putting her arms around him. ‘Back there?’

  ‘Back there?’ Saul frowns, feigning confusion.

  Thea tips her head to one side and regards him quizzically.

  ‘Champagne?’ he offers.

  ‘Piss off!’ Thea retorts. ‘You know champagne and I don't mix. Evil stuff.’

  ‘You would think that after a lifetime as a hack, he could take his drink by now,’ Thea apologized to Sally an hour later while Saul swayed around the hallway, peering at framed photos unsteadily.

  ‘Don't worry about it,’ Sally laughed, ‘take him home and put him to bed with a bucket nearby.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Thea, rolli
ng her eyes, ‘Mark and Alice are giving us a lift.’

  ‘Thea, is everything OK there?’ Sally lowered her voice. ‘Alice seems a little – I don't know. Distant? Preoccupied?’

  Thea thought for a moment. ‘She's fine,’ she said, ‘she's Alice. Mark's been abroad a lot and she's feeling a little – needy.’

  ‘We need to make tracks,’ Alice said, her coat already on, ‘Mark's got to go into the sodding office.’

  ‘You could stay? Cab it home later?’ Thea suggested.

  ‘I think I'll just catch up on a little work myself,’ Alice said flatly. ‘If you two still want a lift, we're going now.’

  ‘Bye Alice, bye Mark, bye Thea,’ Sally kissed them all and waved them off from her doorstep. ‘Bye Saul. Oops – easy there, tiger. Christ, is he all right?’

  ‘Fuck bollocks, my knee. Ouch. Wank,’ Saul fulminated in a stagger towards Mark's very nice Lexus.

  Although Thea focused on Saul for the journey over to Crouch End, noting with alarm a green-tinged pallor permeate his face by the top of Coolhurst Road, she was also able to observe her best friend gazing out of the window in a quiet world of her own, a downward sigh to her shoulders. Just then, she wished she was sitting with her arms around Alice, rather than serving as a buttress to the slumping Saul. Thea also noticed that Mark drove with deliberate attentiveness to the route and road sense, thereby counter-acting any chance for chat.

  He's probably just worried Saul will throw up on the cream leather, Thea told herself, or thinking about the hassles awaiting him at the office, perhaps.

  Thea put Saul in her bed with a bucket at the side and a jug of water and a packet of Nurofen on the bedside table.

  ‘I love you, Thea,’ he slurred while she bustled around him, undressing him and plumping pillows, ‘I really love you and want to get you for ever.’

  ‘Now, let's go and have a pee, yes?’ she said in a matronly manner. ‘Come along.’

  ‘I don't want to have a pee,’ he mumbled petulantly.

  ‘Come on,’ she said as she hauled him through to the bath-room and pulled down his boxers, ‘have a nice pee.’

  ‘I don't want to have a pee,’ said Saul sulkily while it gushed out with Thea's guidance.

  ‘Now let's get you into bed.’

  ‘I don't want to go to bed,’ Saul objected, bashing his shoulder into the door frame but appearing not to notice. ‘Come for a cuddle? A nice shag?’

  ‘Have a snooze first,’ Thea cooed, thinking just then that she really did not want to cuddle let alone shag this beery leery lump.

  ‘I don't want to have a snooze,’ Saul pouted as she shoved and pushed him to a safe place at the centre of her bed.

  ‘Do you feel OK?’ Thea asked. ‘Because there's water right here – and a bucket just there if you don't.’

  ‘I feel very OK,’ Saul muttered with his eyes closed and a frown he couldn't correct. ‘Room going dizzy.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Thea whispered under her breath while closing her nose to his. She flicked his cheeks and shook him. ‘Saul. Saul! Open your eyes and sit up. Now. Hey you! Up!’

  Saul's eyes opened in sluggish succession and he lumbered himself up into a seated position of sorts. He brought his face in the approximate direction of where he thought Thea's voice had come from and, finding she had quite a few faces, he tried to keep his glazed eyes anchored to some of hers. She didn't really know his face at all just then and she wasn't sure whether she was amused or actually a little repelled. ‘I love you, Thea,’ Saul slurred, his eyes welling, ‘marry me, Thea, marry me.’

  ‘Drink some water, Saul,’ Thea said, ‘here – sip. That's right – it's a lovely pint of beer. Sip some more. OK. Do you feel OK? Sip some more. Do you want to pee again? Yes? Right, come on then. No, you can't pee in the bucket. Oh Christ. No no! Not on the carpet – in the bucket, then. There. Good boy. Finished? Good. Oh shit, not finished – careful! OK, now back into bed. More sips of water. I mean beer. Little sips. Don't gulp. I'm going to wash out the bucket and bring it back. Are you going to puke? No? Well, I'm going to bring the bucket back just in case.’

  ‘I love you Thea and I want to live with us for ever and ever.’

  Thea patted his forehead and went to rinse out the bucket and replenish the glass of water.

  Saul had been so drunk he couldn't remember a word he'd said to Thea. Saul had been so drunk Thea hadn't bothered to believe a word he'd said.

  Peter, Gabriel

  ‘Thea? Sorry to phone so early – it's Mark.’

  ‘Hullo, Mark – I was up actually. I slept on the sofa – Saul's sleeping it off in my bed, drunken bum. Is everything OK?’

  ‘I've done something to my neck – that's why I'm ringing so early – I just wondered if you could squeeze me in? I'm in pain and I can't move it much.’

  ‘I don't have my appointments diary – I'll be at work at nine – I could call you then? I can assess you but you may need an osteo.’

  ‘Nine? Oh. It's just I have a meeting and I was wondering—’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course. Can you make eight? In fact, I could probably be there for seven forty-five.’

  ‘Thanks, petal.’

  ‘Don't be daft! Oh, is Alice there? Can I have a quick word?’

  ‘She's still asleep, Thea. My neck – you know – anyway, so she slept in the spare room. So as not to disturb me, you see.’

  ‘Sometimes spasms are only partly physiological,’ Thea advised Mark gently as she assessed his predicament an hour later. ‘The pressure of stress can greatly exacerbate even mild twinges.’

  ‘There's a fair bit going on at the moment,’ he told her.

  Thea nodded.

  ‘At work,’ Mark added, lest she should probe.

  Thea nodded again. Over the years, she'd found that simply nodding whilst looking down at her notepad, pen poised, often encouraged her clients to elaborate with greater honesty than if she asked them outright. She looked down at her notepad and waited for a moment before nodding again. But Mark said no more.

  ‘I would really like you to see one of our osteopaths,’ Thea recommended, ‘Dan and Brent are both excellent. But you have to promise me not to cancel – I know you're busy but believe me, it's a false economy to turn your back on the odd hour of osteopathy. I can ask the guys if they can schedule you in for an early or a late. Failing that, I'll ask if they know of a practitioner nearer to your work.’

  ‘Thanks, Thea,’ Mark said, ‘I appreciate it.’ He bent down gingerly to pick up his briefcase.

  ‘Lower yourself, don't bend! Lower like a child does – they squat, keeping their backs straight, they never stoop. And lift like a weightlifter – face straight ahead.’

  Thea insisted Mark put his briefcase back down and they made a few practice lowers and lifts. He marvelled at the simplicity but efficacy of the technique. He did it again. ‘Christ – thanks, Thea.’

  ‘No problem,’ Thea smiled, ‘and don't roll your neck like that!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mark said sheepishly.

  ‘Buy a packet of frozen peas on your way to work, wrap it in a towel and plonk it on your neck,’ Thea suggested.

  ‘Peas?’

  ‘Sweetcorn will do too. And take it easy, please,’ Thea said gently, ‘or just a little easier. At work and at home.’

  However, by then Mark had put his jacket on and his guard up.

  There was nothing a good full English breakfast couldn't cure and though Saul had woken with a cracking hangover, two sausages, eggs, beans, bacon and fried bread later he felt revived and clear-headed. He'd just go back and tidy Thea's flat and then make his way into town. As miserable and rainy as the previous day had been, it was now a sparkling spring day. With the aesthetic wizardry of sunlight and clear skies on a March Monday, Crouch End resembled a bustling, self-contained, relatively picturesque market town. Strangers greeted one another cheerily, mothers promenaded cutting-edge buggies boasting babies resplendent in bright knits and cute hats, pensioners dawdled happily,
catching up on the price of this and the cost of that and wasn't yesterday's weather atrocious. Pairs jogged to and from Priory Park, shopkeepers stood outside their premises grinning at nothing in particular and friends gossiped as they made their way to Banners for smoothies and comfort food. Saul thought how Hollywood would pay big bucks for such a scene; quintessentially English due to the balance of local architecture, local colour and local characters. As if on cue, a talented young television actor passed by Saul and said ‘All right, mate?’ as he went. ‘Hiya,’ Saul replied. He was in a very good mood.

  Peter Glass wasn't. Peter Glass was actually in a full-blown foul temper. He'd invested hours each day, over a number of weeks, in a potential buyer who that morning had pulled out at the last minute without so much as an apology, let alone an explanation. So the luxury trip to the Seychelles was off. And so was upgrading the Beemer.

  ‘All right, babes?’ Peter said to Thea in a hollow voice and with a face like thunder. ‘If you can massage away the aggression I feel, I'll pay you double.’

  ‘You don't need to pay me double,’ Thea assured him, ‘just lie down and I'll let your body guide me. Trust me. Try to clear your mind. Try not to talk.’

  ‘I could fall asleep,’ Peter murmured, an hour later.

  Thea looked at her watch. She had an hour's space before her next client. ‘Just relax for a while, Peter, I'll come back in a mo'.’ Actually, Thea returned forty minutes later and gently woke him up.

  One ballet dancer, a pregnant woman and a tennis coach later, Thea's last client for the day is Mr Sewell. She has continued to call him Mr Sewell though he is now a regular client and even occasionally divulges quite personal information with no warning and certainly no prying on her part. Recently, he'd expressed his concern that his neck felt no better though he was much happier in himself having returned to his wife. On his last visit, he'd actually started reciting lines from the new Ricky Gervais television series and had laughed so much the bed had shaken.