Love Rules

by Freya North

  ‘Just pop on the table, Mark,’ she says softly, ‘and lie face down.’ She heats a little geranium essential oil in the amphora and checks that the room is warm enough. She walks over to Mark and stands alongside him. She inhales and exhales and inhales again. She closes her eyes and exhales in a long, controlled, silent breath. OK, Mark, this is for you.

  Touch down. Thea places both hands on Mark's back and presses lightly; she begins to rock his body from side to side, from one hand to the other. She keeps the rhythm gentle and consistent and soon feels him yield and allow his body to travel under her guidance. Then, with Mark relaxed and tuned, Thea sweeps her hands gently from the base of his back up and around his shoulders, down again, around again. The effleurage soothes Mark to the extent that Thea can actually see the space between his ears and his shoulders lengthen as he relaxes and lets go. She kneads him sparingly. All she wants to do is instil in him a sense of calm, a feeling of well-being, make him subliminally cosseted by the care and comfort one human can dispense to another. Sometimes, when Thea massages, she experiences negative energy or tensions travelling from her client and into her, leaving her quite enervated. From other clients, the massage can even be mutually invigorating. But from Mark today she detects so little energy of any persuasion that she simply takes to stroking him. As her hands travel their persistent warmth wisely over his body, she closes her eyes and envisages sending affection and hope down through her arms, through her fingers to be absorbed by him.

  ‘Mark, when you're ready, turn onto your back,’ Thea tells him, leaving her hands on him constantly. She covers him with fresh towels and walks her way to the head of the table, keeping a hand on him all the while. His eyes are naturally half closed and she's pleased. She rests his head slightly to one side into her hand. ‘I'm going to apply a little pressure just with my fingertip to a point near your sternocleidomastoid attachment,’ she tells him, doing just that. ‘It'll feel nice when I release,’ she says, and it does. Then she straightens and cups his head in her hands, placing her fingertips at the base of his skull. ‘I'm going to do the same to points in the sub-occipital region,’ she tells him. She judges the length of his exhale to be directly proportionate to the tension she's released. Good.

  Thea strokes along his neck, down over his shoulders and along the top of his arms. She runs her hands over his scalp, uses her fingertips to walk the skin lightly along the skull, tugging at tufts of his hair like a troupe of industrious fairies on a mass weaving mission. Then with the lightest touch, she changes pace and position and treats the acupressure points on his face in a calm and measured way. She stands and tugs each of his arms in turn, stroking downwards until she reaches his palms where she massages carefully before rubbing along the length of each of his fingers to give a sudden, light fling to each fingertip. To Mark, it feels as though Thea has guided his entire deposit of stress and tension down each arm, and coaxed it out of him. He's sure that if he looked to either side of the bed, he'd see little piles of the negative stuff.

  Thea has worked on Mark for over an hour and a half and he's so still he looks dead. She wants to cry. She bites her cheek hard. ‘OK?’ she asks, implying that, should he say ‘not quite’, she'd happily work on him some more. Mark is too relaxed to find his voice but he thinks he's given the semblance of a nod. ‘OK,’ Thea confirms, ‘you take your time. As long as you like.’ She tiptoes from the room.

  When she returns a generous quarter of an hour later, Mark is sitting in one of the plastic chairs, in his suit, tie neatly knotted, briefcase propped against his leg.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Thea asks him.

  ‘I tell you, Thea,’ Mark says, shaking his head in wonder, ‘that was just what I needed.’

  ‘Good,’ Thea says, ‘but you should have a little osteo too.’

  ‘Can't you teach Alice how to do that?’ Mark asks her, laughing. ‘Go on, do me a favour.’ Thea doesn't think it funny at all, but she's not going to show it so she gives Mark a kiss and tells him to book in with Dan or Brent. As she tidies her room, she reflects on the bizarre parity. Alice doesn't ever think of giving her husband a massage though he'd love it. And Saul never wants Thea to massage him, because he says he simply doesn't get it.

  Cold Shoulders

  It was strange for Thea to experience something as momentous as exchanging contracts yet have no Alice to effervesce and celebrate with. And it was peculiar for Alice to be totally disinclined to contact Thea though she knew she could well benefit from her advice and support. As high as Thea felt, Alice was low. This zipless-fuck concept wasn't as carefree and uncomplicated as she'd planned. She was unnerved that her sassiness could have been so easily replaced by irritable insecurity directly accountable to the time it took Paul to send a text, to the length and tone of his abbreviated words. She'd even started feeling jealous of Paul's new groups, imagining some gorgeous woman or other sashaying across the Pont du Gard in front of him, or seducing him in the Cathédrale d'Images, or sharing knowledge about the dietary preferences of the flamingo. And though she'd urge herself to practise what she preached, or obey the editors of Lush at the very least, she often found herself forsaking the ‘play hard to get’ or ‘treat him mean, keep him keen’ philosophies to send Paul texts that sometimes simply said did u get my last txt?? Her mood towards her staff depended entirely on whether or not Paul had replied. If she was awaiting a response, she was impatient and unfocused. If he replied, she fizzed with energy and creativity. Mark, though, bore the brunt of the length and frequency of Paul's messages. If Alice was expecting a reply, she was sullen and distracted. If his reply was of pleasing length and raunchy content, she'd be offhand with Mark because she resented him for not being Paul. If Paul's text was short and mundane, Alice was even more moody with Mark, begrudging him for being all she had.

  Alice needed Thea, she knew how she'd benefit from the two of them ‘workshopping’ her dilemma through, blasting away unreasonable misgivings, deciding on a constructive way of thinking, a realistic path forward. More than that, Alice just missed Thea. It was lonely confiding to her own reflection; she couldn't give herself any astute answers and if she didn't want to hear certain advice, she could just turn away from the mirror and strop off. Without Thea, Alice didn't have the confidence or the motivation to confront the state of her relationship with Mark, the situation now developing with Paul and what to do with one, the other or the both of them.

  Thea quite simply missed Alice; she wanted to have a second opinion when she browsed around the White Company store on Marylebone Road, she wanted Alice to take her to that place she knew near Westbourne Park that did stunning antiqued mirrors. However, Thea was still bristling with indignation that Alice should behave like a careless tart. And Alice was exasperated at what she perceived to be a sanctimonious arrogance and complete lack of understanding on Thea's part. How could they be best friends if their moral codes were indecipherable to each other? What connection could they truly have if their ethics and standards were so diametrically opposed? There was absolutely no attraction in such opposites. The only comfort to Alice was that, despite feeling detested by Thea, she knew her secret was safe. Even through the silence and dislike, she knew Thea was unwaveringly loyal. She doubted whether Thea would even confide in Saul.

  Mark and Saul both knew their partners had fallen out. But neither of them knew the reason. Even without a reason, it seemed so daft for two grown women, two childhood friends, two soulmates, not to be speaking. But when Mark tried to ask Alice, and when Saul asked Thea, both men were given such short shrift that they decided not to mention the friend until she was back in favour again. Mark, who came back to Thea for another massage on the osteopath's advice, dared to begin: ‘Thea, why aren't you and Alice—’ at which point it felt as though his skin was being pinched into corduroy and he thought better of finishing his sentence. Certainly, he didn't dare voice his concern for his marriage to Thea. Anyway, if she wasn't on speaking terms with his wife, she probably wouldn't kno
w why Alice's temper was as it was. Saul, over a brainstorming lunch with Alice, filled her wineglass for the third time and said, ‘When the fuck are you and Thea going to kiss and make up?’ but Alice had narrowed her eyes and shot steel-cold daggers which told him most emphatically to back off.

  Sally knew her two friends weren't speaking but neither Alice nor Thea would tell her any more than a non-committal shrug would permit. Pilates became a place where Alice and Thea, if their sessions had to overlap, tried to out-Pike, out-Elephant, out-Mermaid each other. Sally could only watch – and actually wish her roll-ups were half as good as Thea's, her Swan-dives anywhere near as fluid as Alice's. So everyone around them kept quiet about the situation though they all thought it was bizarre and really quite childish.

  Black Beauty

  It was one of those balmy May days when the dull drag of winter is forgotten and the promise of summer is at last plausible. Under opalescent skies of Wedgwood blue, gluts of flowers burst from bud and juicy foliage unfurled in a gloss giving the air a clean freshness and warmth that could be tasted and smelt. The day had a clarity which bestowed splendid humour and a spring-cleaned joie de vivre on everyone. Alice strode into work in a fabulous mood actually dictated more by the weather and the wearing of sandals for the first time that year, than the kinky message from Paul which had just arrived on her phone. Saul had rattled off an article for the Evening Standard, filed his copy for the Observer early and banked a number of long-awaited cheques, all ensuring a smile of the broadest dimensions. Mark arrived at work to be called into a meeting with the CEO, VP and MD where he was promoted, given a whopping pay rise and the assurance of more staff and less travel. Thea awoke alone in her flat and turned her face towards a kiss of sunlight filtering in through a gap in the curtains. What a gorgeous day, she thought, what a gorgeous day.

  ‘Morning!’ It was Saul.

  ‘I'm on the bus!’ Thea tried to whisper into her phone while steadying herself over the bumps and lurches of Kentish Town Road. ‘Let me phone you when I'm at work.’

  ‘Is the bus crowded?’ Saul asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Thea bemoaned, ‘standing room only.’

  ‘Do you want to give your fellow passengers something to smile about?’

  ‘Saul,’ Thea chided softly, ‘let me phone you when I'm at work. It's ever so jolty.’

  ‘Thea – our offer has been accepted. We stand to exchange and complete simultaneously – in a month.’

  Suddenly, the pretty passenger with the gamine crop was jumping for joy and whooping with delight, proclaiming ‘We've got it, we've got it!’ breathlessly to everyone. ‘Our offer's been accepted!’ she was singing. ‘We're buying this great flat!’ Her fellow passengers grinned at her spontaneous emotion. Just as Saul anticipated they would when he envisaged her reacting in precisely the way she did.

  Thea out-talked Peter Glass when he came in for a session at ten. He knew the development Thea spoke of and assured her that the agreed purchase price was a good one. He couldn't really comment on her tumble of ideas for a colour scheme on a theme and variations of taupe but he let her gabble on in the hope that she'd soon return her undivided attention to his frozen shoulder.

  ‘Well, good morning, Gabriel!’ Thea greeted a somewhat taken aback Mr Sewell an hour later. ‘And how are we, this gorgeous day?’

  ‘I'm fine, Miss Luckmore,’ he said rather pointedly which went unnoticed by Thea who practically skipped her way up to her room.

  ‘Come on then!’ she smiled expansively at Gabriel. ‘Hop on the bed and let's have a look at you.’

  I know we haven't exchanged – and I know the process might be beset with hassles and stress but sod it, I have a good vibe and a long lunch hour and it's a beautiful day so I'm going to stroll all the way to the Ruth Aram shop and buy something gorgeous for our new home. A lamp maybe! Perhaps something funky and functional for the kitchen! Or a stunning piece of ceramic just because it's beautiful!

  She phones Saul to see if he wants to join her, perhaps even squeeze in a celebratory sandwich lunch somewhere, but his phone is off and she imagines he is either up against a deadline to extol the new generation Bluetooth for T3 magazine or perhaps out of range in some picture editor's office.

  No! No, he's not! He's not doing Bluetooth or pictures because there he is! Just ahead of me! Over there! Saul! Saul! O most auspicious day!

  Saul is wending his way down Berwick Street ahead of Thea. The scamp and bustle of the market absorb Thea's voice so she attempts to pick up her pace and weaves between stall-holders and browsers to try and catch up with him. She sees him turning left.

  ‘Hey! Saul – Mr Mundy!’

  He hasn't heard. And there's a bloke riding a moped on the pavement sending pedestrians scattering like skittles. Thea skips her way on and off the kerb with the deftness of Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain only it's not raining, it's gloriously sunny. She turns the corner just in time to see Saul disappearing into a doorway some yards ahead.

  Damn. Quick. Let me try his phone again. Bugger – still off. He must have gone into some meeting. Bluetooth and pictures or what have you.

  Momentarily disappointed, Thea decides she'll stroll along this street anyhow because it won't be too much of a detour and, although it's mostly sex shops and dodgy video clubs, there may be some interesting shops further along.

  Here. This is where Saul is having his meeting. In here.

  Strange.

  Doesn't look like an office.

  There's no front door!

  Well, there is, but it's been propped open. But there's certainly no sign of a reception area with a cold-water dispenser and the company logo on laser-etched glass. The open doorway reveals just a bare hallway and a staircase, with gloss paint chipped like a tart's fingernails.

  There are two signs taped to the door jamb, each beneath a buzzer.

  BLACK BEAUTY 1ST FLOOR

  MODELS! top

  Thea stands at the threshold and backs away. How odd – because she's sure this was where Saul went. Positive, in fact. Perhaps it's all very C. S. Lewis, she thinks to herself – you go in one place and come out quite somewhere else. She checks the buildings to either side. One is a minicab office with a sleepy Ugandan sitting on the doorstep with a clip-board on his knee. The other is a business selling perspex of all colours, thicknesses, shapes and sizes. It's closed, though. Back 1 Hour the note says. No, this building in between is definitely where Saul went in.

  Thea hovers back outside the building. Black Beauty and Top Models. Fleetingly, she imagines Kate Moss and her pals sitting upstairs watching daytime television and the thought is so incongruous she grins. But anyway, it's ‘MODELS! top’, not ‘top models’, so Thea lets the image go.

  All it says is ‘BLACK BEAUTY 1ST FLOOR’ and‘MODELS! top’. But there must be someone else, another business, in there because Saul's gone in.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Thea approaches the Ugandan, relaxed on a rickety chair, tapping a Biro on his clipboard.

  ‘You want a cab, lady? Where you going?’

  ‘No, thanks. I'm just. Do you know what else is in that building?’ Thea asks. The man glances and shrugs. ‘Is there a small studio or company that makes gadgets?’ Thea asks. ‘You know, boys' toys and the like?’ The minicab man chuckles. ‘Is there something to do with publishing in there?’ Thea persists.

  ‘No. Just the girls,’ the man tells her, ‘just those girls.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Thea, frowning. How peculiar. She stares at the building. There's probably a writer's tiny garret right at the top. Saul's probably gone to commission some freelancer or other. ‘Is there a tiny office right at the top?’ she asks. The minicab man shrugs and shakes his head. Thea reads this as the man not actually knowing the answer. The perspex shop is still closed. Maybe they have a small storeroom in the next building and Saul needs some perspex.

  BLACK BEAUTY.

  Wait! Oh my God, Black Beauty!

  Thea spins an explanation so plausible and heart-wa
rming that she starts swooning at Saul's thoughtfulness.

  He's researched it! It's some book specialist devoted to Anna Sewell's great tome! He's buying me a first edition!

  Is he?

  Is he, Thea?

  Is that what he's buying in there?

  She sees that the minicab man is putting his chair inside and shutting up shop, walking off towards the market. The street is quiet. There's another man, sauntering up the street, jangling a bunch of keys. Perspex for sale. What kind of a trade is that? How much perspex must you sell in a day to make a living? How long has Thea been there? She has no idea. How long has Saul been in there? She just can't figure it out.

  ‘Exuse me,’ she approaches the perspex man as he's unlocking the shop door, ‘what's next door?’

  ‘It's a house of ill repute, my dear,’ he says theatrically, lightly.

  ‘And what else?’ Thea asks. ‘Are there any writers in there too? Or small quirky businesses? Anything with anything to do with magazine publishing?’

  ‘No,’ the man says, ‘just the girls. Try a couple of streets along – there's a few book places and the like around there.’ He enters the shop. Thea remains on the pavement. She's starting to feel sick and confused. Come on, think. There must be an explanation. Why is Saul in there? What's he doing? When is he coming out?

  BLACK BEAUTY 1ST FLOOR.

  MODELS! top

  Where is Saul? Where is he? First floor? Or on top?

  There's only so much thinking Thea can do because, after all, there's only the girls in there. And Saul. In painfully slow motion, Thea's life is beginning to fragment into splintered images and fractured memories, half-formed theories and hastily rejected signs and clues, all of which wreak havoc with her ability to acknowledge fact.