Love Rules Read online

  By the close of their first year, Thea was deeply in love with Saul and Alice loved being married very much. Alice rejoiced in believing that she knew everything there was to know about Mark. That there were no surprises was a blessing. She didn't envy Thea always learning something new about Saul, be it grey flecks to his eyes, or his expulsion at fifteen from boarding school, or his threesome with two Danish girls in his twenties on his first press trip. No, Alice was happy to embrace predictability at the expense of thrills. Thrills, her experience had taught her, were far too costly. If her head was now not for turning, it followed that her heart could not be for breaking.

  Mark continued to be all she'd had a feeling he'd be – that hunch on the back of which she had proposed in his kitchen through a mouthful of carrot. He was a husband perfect for her. Loving, straight and responsible. And, now that she'd managed subtly to supervise his entire wardrobe, dapper too. Nice even brown eyes, unblemished education and career history, no deviations from the sexual norm. They didn't argue, there was nothing to fall out about. Tolerance was a key quality of Mark's and it sat well with his belief in the attraction of opposites. He never reacted when Alice over-reacted, he gladly sprang to his duty to calm and cool her down. Anyway, such times usually transpired only when work interfered. And it flattered and touched Mark that Alice should care so much and need him so. Best of all, he loved the baby-voiced, doleful-eyed ways she had of pleading with him not to stay late at work, not to fly to Hong Bloody Kong again.

  Though Alice herself adored her job and was as ambitious and committed to her career as Mark, it seemed the pressures of Mark's job were actually more challenging to Alice than to him. No matter how demanding his day, how fraught the financial world, how difficult the deal, he always came home with an easy smile, eager and energized by his role as husband. The frequent travel he undertook was strenuous for him, yet it appeared to be far tougher on Alice. He just had jet lag to contend with, the vagaries of business etiquette around the world, the precarious threads that deals hung by, the tedium of chain hotels no matter how luxurious; his timetable was so full there was rarely an opportunity to think, let alone relax. Alice, however, was left with only half her home; all the trimmings of marriage but with no husband. It wasn't that she actually moped for Mark, nor that she felt forsaken. It simply wasn't much fun playing home alone.

  Their house in Hampstead, with all its gadgets and gorgeousness, was meant to be their Wonderland. However, Alice didn't feel in Wonderland when she was on her own; she felt she shrank in the house, as though she had downed some Carrollian Drink-Me potion. Her luxury kitchen suddenly seemed stage-set oversized with its echoey French limestone floor, cavernous American fridge, catering-standard range cooker and abundant bespoke units. Had she not sourced the designer bath precisely on account of its curves and capaciousness being calibrated for two, not one? The surround-sound system connected to the vast plasma screen in the sitting room was too technical for her. Their bed was so enormous it seemed downright daft to sleep in it alone when Mark was away, so Alice would take to her old double bed, now in the smaller of their two other bedrooms. Consequently, she usually ate heartily at lunchtime on the days when Mark wouldn't be home, having just a packet of crisps or a KitKat or two in the evening, curling up on his lounger watching a DVD on the Mac in his study until she was too sleepy to take a bath which would have taken too long to run anyway.

  Alice did not like it when Mark travelled. She didn't like it when he travelled because she didn't like living alone. She also didn't like it when he travelled because she didn't like it when he returned. She didn't like it when he travelled because she didn't like it when he returned because she couldn't prevent herself from being snappish and ungracious. She didn't like it when he returned because, though he was the one justified in being scuppered by jet lag and drained by the pressure of transatlantic deals done or lost, he was always calm and delighted to see her. She was the one who was inexcusably ratty. She'd sullenly turn down dinner, in or out, claiming no appetite. She'd yawn that she was too tired to talk on any of his thoughtfully chosen topics. She'd go to bed early and pretend to be asleep; feign headaches and exhaustion when he deserved a soothing back rub or craved an affirming blow-job. She'd pretend to be too deeply asleep even to acknowledge, never mind reciprocate, his affectionate kiss goodnight.

  Mark always brought her something – from fabulous Hong Kong kitsch (a luminous limited-edition Hello Kitty digital watch) to trinkets from Barney's, New York; from gorgeous toiletries brazenly swiped from the housekeeping trolley at Hotel Costes in Paris, to the catalogue from a Paul Klee exhibition just opened in Chicago. Invariably, Alice initially accepted the gifts with a startling lack of grace, ignoring her conscience until the next day when she'd phone or email or text Mark to say she loved him and that she was wishing away the hours on her Hello Kitty watch until home time. And then she'd prepare a gorgeous supper and have Mark in stitches with anecdotes from work. She'd run a bath for two with Costes bath foam and have candles lit in the bed-room. She'd lavish attention on his body, faking her own orgasm if necessary, ensuring Mark went to sleep with an exhausted smile on his face.

  One of the mags Alice published ran an article defining Reverse Punishment Syndrome – ‘he's trying to be nice but you're just nasty’. Perhaps that's me, she thought. But the piece went to repetitive lengths (she'd scold the features editor) to tell her not to bollock her bloke for having a few beers down the pub with the boys, not to punish her fella for playing footie with the lads every single Sunday, not to hassle her man for inviting his mates round for Xbox marathons. Mark, however, didn't play football, didn't own an Xbox, pubs weren't his thing and he preferred a good burgundy to beer. She could never accuse him of choosing over her. She never had cause to doubt that she was absolutely the love of his life, the axis around which his world revolved.

  ‘Is it that you don't like being on your own? Do you resent his job? Because you often work long hours too. Or is it that you simply miss him when he's not around? They're inter-linked, undoubtedly, but fundamentally separate issues,’ Thea asked, whilst wrestling with the home-cinema system one night when Mark was in Chicago.

  ‘You actually choose to have nights off from Saul, don't you?’ Alice digressed. ‘You choose to spend time apart.’

  ‘I like my flat. I saved for ages. I like to escape into my own little slice of Lewis Carroll Living,’ Thea qualified, ‘and you've avoided a direct answer. Look, do you really no longer have anything as dependable and old-fashioned as a video?’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Alice.

  ‘Jesus, how many remote controls does a girl need?’ Thea despaired, fiddling with another one.

  ‘You'd think just the one,’ said Alice.

  Thea had been in love previously, but prior to Saul, love had lacked balance. It was only now, through the equilibrium and reciprocation achieved between the two of them, that she could see this. In the past, she had invested far more affection and trust, loyalty and generosity, than was ever returned to her. She'd attributed virtues and qualities not present to past boyfriends, in the deluded hope that if she believed they were faithful, loyal and as in love with her as she was with them, then perhaps they would be. Her dogged veneration of the concept of Romantic Love saw her turn a blind eye even when transgressions had leered back at her directly. Though her heart had been hurt, she had never let the pain harden her; she never questioned her belief that true love makes the world go round, she'd never lost hope that love could conquer all.

  Before she met Saul, Thea had believed that the deeper the love the more wrought with complexity it ought to be. However, she also thought that great art was only born of angst until Saul took her to a Matisse exhibition at Tate Modern. And so it was with Saul that Thea discovered to her amazement that love could be the simplest thing in one's life. Being in love with Saul introduced her to the balance necessary for longevity. With this heaped magnificently on one side of the scale, Thea found all the other
elements and concerns of life were invested with correct weight and proportions on the other. She was in love with Saul and he was just as in love with her and the plain fact was enough to keep a steady equilibrium in her life. All the love she gave him, he gave right back to her.

  She loved Saul's spontaneous visits to the Being Well armed with orange juice or the new issue of Heat; how he'd pop in for a kiss en route to a meeting, drop off a raisin-and-biscuit Yorkie on his way back from an editorial brainstorming session. She loved how he would occasionally materialize behind her in the lunchtime queue at Pret a Manger, murmuring ‘they say that banana cake is an aphrodisiac’ or ‘gissa bite of your baguette, love’. His text messages arrived at all hours and she never knew whether they'd be chatty, romantic or downright dirty. Sometimes he'd make love to her with great tenderness, taking time to stroke her, absorbed in just looking at her, watching the effect that altering the angle or a subtle variation in pace could have on the flush to her cheeks or the dilation of her pupils. And sometimes he'd fuck her most carnally, his eyes screwed shut as he screwed her, clenching his teeth as he grabbed her buttocks and bucked forcefully into her until he came. Sometimes, he was as sated purely through cunnilingus as she was; though she'd sleepily offer to return the favour, he'd hush her with a goodnight kiss, turn out the light and spoon tenderly against her. Thea didn't mind that he was grumpy when he woke up, that his farts were noxious and that he could snore for Britain. It didn't bother her that his timekeeping was lousy, that he'd snap at her if she talked during films, that their taste in music had few overlaps, that sometimes he bolted his food. She was glad to love him enough to allow him his personality. She had no higher ideal to project onto him. ‘Rounded with rough edges,’ she defined to Alice, ‘he's not perfect and so he's ideal.’ At last, Thea had fallen in love with someone she had no inclination, no need, to deify. Alice's wish for Thea had only ever been that someone would find her who deserved the depth of the love she had to give.

  Thea and Saul could have frantic late nights gallivanting around the bars of Soho, or they could plunder Villandry and go home for extravagant carpet picnics. They could be the loved-up couple at dinners hosted by friends, or they could arrive together at parties but socialize separately, with the occasional grin or wink over to each other. They'd have backgammon tournaments which became quite tense, Scrabble sessions that were downright serious or raucous evenings watching DVDs of Spinal Tap or the Blues Brothers, aided by shots of home-made Mars Bar vodka. Then there were the evenings when they were so engrossed in their own thing that they hardly knew the other was there; the Saturdays when Thea ironed for most of the day and Saul tapped away at his laptop in her bedroom; the Sundays spent in affable silence over the newspapers. There were also Saul's evenings at the Swallow with Ian or Richard that Thea had no intention of gatecrashing. And evenings when Saul smiled at the thought of Thea all by herself, unplugging her phone so she could watch ER uninterrupted.

  Thea read everything Saul wrote, but only once it was in print.

  ‘Shall I start putting you in my columns?’ Saul mused.

  ‘What – Michael Winner style?’ Thea looked up from the Sunday Times. ‘Christ!’

  Saul laughed. ‘I was thinking more à la A. A. Gill, hon.’

  But he didn't. Barefaced Bloke's readers had heard no more about the Gorgeous Thief since that article published the day they first kissed. Saul Mundy had a public voice and a private side. And when he finished writing an article with lad-dish overtones for one mag, or a column infused with sarcasm for another, or a review so cleverly barbed it was downright spiky, what he found most satisfying was to log off, look up and see Thea. Engrossed in a book, or quietly sipping a cup of tea, or embroiled in a text-messaging marathon with Alice, or simply daydreaming.

  ‘She's my mate,’ Saul qualified one evening to Ian, ‘in every sense of the word. Soulmate, best mate, bed mate.’

  ‘Flatmate?’ Ian posed.

  Saul sipped thoughtfully at his pint. ‘Not yet,’ he said cautiously, ‘but there again, we've only been together a year.’

  A Year Between the Sheets

  ADAM

  January, Issue 8

  Jack Nicholson cover

  Is this the coolest man in the world?

  The year in preview – wear it, see it, hear it, buy it

  Health & fitness: six weeks to a six-pack

  Motors – penis extension or life support?

  Sex – do it

  Money – make it

  Property – live it

  Win! Gadgets and gear up for grabs

  ADAM

  February, Issue 9

  Nicole Kidman cover

  Nicole, we love you, marry us

  Hot property – buy abroad, get a tan, make a profit

  Fitness: back your back

  Hand-made shoes and bespoke suits, every wardrobe should have them

  Sex – it's good for you, fact

  Tool kits and WD40: every woman loves a handyman

  Plus! Reviews – we've seen 'em, read 'em, heard 'em, tasted 'em and played 'em

  Win! Sail into the sunset: two weeks on a luxury yacht

  ADAM

  March, Issue 10

  Sean Connery cover

  Connery – the real McCoy

  There's something about Mary, Isla and Jen – supermodels with brains and bod

  Prison – it's a step closer than you'd think

  Double your money in half a year

  Bachelor pad or disaster area: architects, designers, cleaners show us how

  Love handles? Man boobs? Stop it with the names and get rid of them in 4 weeks

  Sex – come together or drift apart

  Win! Top seats at Top 10 sporting fixtures

  ‘Thea, I've blocked out your eleven-o'clock slot,’ Souki put her hand over the telephone receiver and told Thea, who was arranging magazines for the waiting room and flowers for the reception. ‘New client – sounds desperate.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Thea.

  ‘That's fine,’ Souki told the caller. ‘May I take your name? Mr Sewell. Lovely, we'll see you in a couple of hours. Yes, Baker Street Tube. That's right. Goodbye.’ Souki filled in the appointments diary and turned to Thea. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘I was half hoping Saul might pop by with lattes all round,’ Thea remarked.

  ‘Two days on the trot might be wishful thinking,’ Souki said. ‘Do you think we could offer Saul free fortnightly massage in return for daily lattes?’

  ‘I'll put it to him,’ Thea said, ‘though he claims to hate massage. Says it makes him feel uncomfortable and exposed.’

  ‘Just wait till he puts his back out through squash or something – he'll be begging for it,’ Souki declared. ‘Earl Grey or Red Bush?’

  ‘RB, please. So who's the eleven o'clock?’

  ‘A Mr Sewell – said he's done his back in,’ Souki informed Thea, ‘but as Brent and Dan are fully booked, I reckoned yours were the second-safest hands.’

  Mr Sewell arrived ten minutes early. He was far younger than Thea had expected. In fact, he looked like Peter O'Toole in his Lawrence of Arabia period, which was a very pleasant surprise. Though dressed smartly, the pain from his back caused his suit to hang oddly, as if he'd forgotten to remove the hanger. Likewise, his face had an exaggerated angularity caused by teeth clenching; what appeared to be extraordinary blue eyes were dulled.

  ‘Usually, clients who refer to themselves as Mr or Mrs Such-and-Such are older,’ Thea remarked by way of small talk as she led the way to her room at the top. He didn't say his name was Gabriel until Thea took his details and asked for it outright. She noted him shift gingerly in the seat, a greyness flood his face as he did so. If pain was this visible, the poor man must be in torment, she thought. In her experience, men in pain either exaggerated its intensity or downplayed it entirely.

  ‘Tell me about the pain,’ Thea said, pen poised.

  ‘Oh, it's nothing,’ Mr Sewell lied.

  From
Mr Sewell's personal details, Thea considered his lifestyle and its possible ramifications on his current predicament. Gabriel Sewell was thirty-eight years old with a home in Clapham and an office in Mayfair. He was an actuary by profession – Thea didn't know what this entailed but ascertained it was sedentary and high-powered. He appeared to be relatively fit, playing five-a-side once a week, plus regular golf and occasional cycling. It seemed he was fairly healthy, good diet, good weight, just a social smoker and a regular but not heavy drinker.

  ‘So,’ Thea said, ‘tell me about your back.’

  ‘I'm sure it's nothing,’ Mr Sewell began.

  But it wasn't nothing. It transpired that leaving his wife over the weekend and hauling suitcases out of the loft and personal possessions out of the marital home had conspired to cause Mr Sewell's spasm.

  ‘OK,’ Thea said after working on him for an hour, ‘I'll leave you for a moment. Take your time.’

  She hovered outside her room, listening to silence followed by a sigh and the sound of Mr Sewell dressing. She knocked and after a moment, entered. He was sitting in the chair, gazing out over rooftops. His expression was unreadable but to Thea's trained eye, the tenseness in his neck had dissolved and the greyness of his complexion had lifted. She asked how he felt, if the treatment had helped, if the pain was diminished, but Mr Sewell expressed any gratitude in a monosyllabic way.

  ‘I'd like you to come again,’ Thea advised, ‘towards the end of this week, preferably. I'd also like you to see one of our osteopaths for some manipulation.’