Love Rules Page 4

  When the short let expired six months later, Saul bought the place, having unexpectedly fallen for the charms of city-centre living and having learnt to cook at an evening course run by Divertimenti a stroll away. Twelve months on, Saul has become a dab hand at property improvement and is quite the house-proud DIY-er. He partitioned the expansive area with a curved wall of opalescent glass blocks, dividing the space by a sinuous line into attractive and practical zones. Privacy in an arc for sleeping; an ample and quirkily curved section in which to relax and a clever paisley-shaped bud concealing his home office. He'd mosaiced the bathroom, laid funky rubber flooring in the kitchen, and given great thought to lighting. He loved it.

  And he loved the location. He hadn't stepped on the Northern Line for eighteen months. He swiftly attained an enviable knowledge of the capital's hidden secrets and the added advantage of living so centrally was that soon enough he was known and warmly welcomed at them all. Consequently, he was never ripped off at a convenience store. He had no need for a car and therefore never had parking fines or the Congestion Charge hanging over him. Marco, who owned the sandwich shop and deli, let Saul park his scooter under cover for free. He was always guaranteed a table for breakfast at Bernard's Café, usually with the day's papers presented to him too. At lunchtime, Marco always over-filled Saul's sandwich and if it was Maria serving, she'd slip in a chocolate brownie for free. He never suffered a lousy curry. Or a dodgy Thai. Or disappointing sushi. Even if he was out of change, Dave on the corner would still have Saul's Evening Standard for him, ready folded. He was able to secure just what he wanted, at the best possible price, during the sales, before crowd-swamping made shopping unbearable. He never had to resort to an All Bar One. He'd never been in a Pitcher & Piano. He didn't have to fight his way through bars thronging with over-excited and over-made-up office girls, or over-indulged and over-the-limit City smart arses. He could have the liveliest and latest of nights out without ever being ripped off by a minicab, he could just stroll home. So, when Saul's friend Ian Ashford called and suggested a night out, Saul was able to say that he knew a great little place to meet.

  The Swallow, nestled between a printing shop and an iron-monger's along one of the little streets forming the tight clasp east of Great Portland Street, was an old-fashioned hostelry. It appeared unprepossessing enough from the outside to safe-guard against clientele other than locals and regulars. The drab paint, the windows seemingly in need of a basic wash to say nothing of new frames, were a shrewd exterior to protect an interior that was actually bright, cosy and spruce. The place was not big and resembled an elongated sitting room; the bar itself was confined to one corner and cramped enough for the staff to be unable to serve side by side necessitating an intricate but effective pas de deux. Whilst one pulled a pint or reached for a whisky glass or discussed the runners at Kempton Park, the other would look over his shoulder to take the next order. And then they'd change position with a courteous glide. A coal fire murmured away constantly from November until March. From May until September, the back door was permanently open to a small patio complete with its own grapevine, increasing the pub's interior capacity of twenty-eight seated and six standing to a further twelve standing. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, sausages and mash were available. At other times, peanuts and crisps were complimentary.

  At the Swallow, though no one actually knew what anyone actually did or where they lived, the atmosphere was congenial and every now and then, a sense of community emerged. Arthur gave everyone a great tip for shares to be bought in a new Internet start-up. Lynton offered Marlboro cigarettes for less than half the shop price. When Barry's flat was broken into, his home was restocked courtesy of the staff and clients at the Swallow. Eddie's cousin owned a lock-smith's concession and sorted out new security. Anne ran up two new pairs of curtains for Barry because the burglars had ripped down his to use as sacks. Lynton knew someone who did CD players on the cheap and as they owed him a favour, he secured one for Barry for free. But Saul earned himself complimentary pints for a month. Not that free drinks were Saul's motivation to provide Barry with more CDs than he'd owned in the first place, an electric shaver, an electric tooth-brush that retailed at twice the price of the shaver, a digital camera, an Alessi teapot and a lava lamp.

  ‘Blimey, mate,’ Keith the landlord had marvelled, pulling Saul a Guinness on the house, ‘is all that kosher?’

  ‘You got a little shop or something?’ asked Barry, hugely grateful but also quietly wondering what else Saul had. ‘Or you got the back of a lorry?’

  ‘Knock-off?’ Lynton quizzed, defensive but interested.

  Saul had laughed. ‘It's kosher, Lynton, your patch is safe, mate! I'm a writer,’ he shrugged, knowing he'd told them before at some point. ‘I'm sent stuff all the time to test and review. Mostly, they don't ask for it back. I've had a 42-inch plasma since the summer.’ Barry glanced up hopefully from behind the ziggurat of CDs. ‘They've only just asked for it back,’ Saul continued, ‘they're talking about installing a home cinema for me to test next.’ Saul was called everything from lucky geezer to jammy bastard and the wish-lists of the staff and clients at the Swallow were discreetly presented to him.

  So, when Ian Ashford phoned Saul, Saul suggested the Swallow as perfect for a mid-November, mid-week drink, with perhaps sausages and mash if they fancied.

  ‘Jesus, it's been a while.’ Ian shook Saul's hand warmly, nodded and grinned. ‘What'll you drink?’ he asked, glancing around the Swallow and nodding approvingly.

  ‘I'll have a Stella, thanks,’ Saul replied, reciprocating Ian's amiable nodding with a friendly punch to the bicep. ‘Good to see you,’ Saul said warmly, ‘it's been bloody ages. Where've you been?’

  ‘Otherwise engaged,’ said Ian. He watched Saul take a long drink. ‘Literally,’ he added. He winked, sighed and took a swig of beer. ‘Engaged.’

  ‘Work been a bitch, then?’ Saul enquired.

  ‘Work?’ Ian said. ‘I'm engaged.’ Again he winked and raised his eyebrows along with his glass when he saw the penny drop for Saul.

  ‘Christ!’ Saul exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell,’ he raised his glass and drank urgently before chinking Ian's, ‘bloody hell – and there was I thinking you've been up to your eyes in some crucial trial at the Old Bailey when all the while you were waltzing up the road to eternal love and heading down the aisle to domesticity!’

  ‘You sound just like your column,’ Ian protested, ‘don't you go featuring me.’

  ‘Here's to you and Liz. Congratulations,’ Saul said, with genuine affection.

  ‘Er, I'm engaged to Karen,’ said Ian. ‘Lizzie and I broke up.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said. Though he hadn't expected Ian to be engaged, he certainly hadn't reckoned on it being to anyone other than Liz.

  ‘I left Liz for her,’ Ian said lightly.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said darkly.

  ‘I know,’ said Ian guiltily, ‘I know.’ He sipped at his beer and looked into the middle distance. ‘I always thought it would be Lizzie. Then I met Karen and there was no contest. No conscience, even. It's what you'd call a “no-brainer” – I had to be with her. Simple.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said, his vocabulary sorely limited by the shock of Ian's news. He downed his drink thirstily. ‘Another pint?’ He went to the bar, ordering sausages and mash at the same time. ‘How's work?’ Saul asked Ian on his return, a packet of crisps between his teeth.

  ‘Oh fine,’ said Ian, ‘manic. Karen's a lawyer too so she totally understands the stress and long hours issue. She works in Litigation. At Tate Scot Wade.’

  ‘Right,’ said Saul, ‘right.’ He didn't want to dislike Karen before he'd even met her, he didn't want his affection for Liz to colour his acceptance of her. But he couldn't help but resent Ian's surprise fiancée for dominating the conversation thus far and for having monopolized his friend in recent months.

  ‘How about you?’ Ian asked. ‘What's happening?’

  ‘More work t
han I can do – but I can't turn any of it down,’ Saul laughed. ‘I love it. Mostly.’

  ‘Karen's a fan of your column,’ Ian said, ‘we both are.’

  ‘Which one?’ Saul asked, genuinely flattered.

  ‘ES magazine – it's so much more than a consumer low-down. It's like a little slice of your life – very self-effacing and engaging. Well written, too.’ Ian chinked his glass. ‘I chuckle but you have Karen in stitches.’

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ Saul said, ‘cheers.’

  ‘And you still have your regular slots in the men's mags?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Saul, ‘GQ have expanded my section. I do the gadgets pages for that new mag, Edition, my columns for the weeklies and the odd bit of roving reporter here and there, some editorial consultancy for launches on the side.’

  ‘Don't suppose you've any iPods knocking around?’ said Ian, who could easily afford one but loved the idea of a freebie. ‘Any cool press trips? Golf in the Algarve? Scuba anywhere?’

  ‘Just the one iPod,’ Saul said, ‘and as for press trips, there was Bermuda for sailing and Sweden for sledding. By husky. And a lost weekend in Prague with Sonja from the Tourist Office.’

  ‘You jammy bastard,’ Ian laughed.

  ‘Three thousand words, though I had to censor most of it, thanks to Sonja,’ Saul said, as if it was an occupational hazard.

  ‘And how about you?’ Ian asked again, with a concern Karen had taught him how to access. Saul tucked into his sausages, nodded and shrugged. He'd rather have his mouth full than talk. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Ian asked, partly because Karen had told him to.

  Saul chewed thoughtfully. He shook his head. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said, wishing for more mash.

  ‘Anyone on the horizon?’

  ‘Why?’ Saul laughed. ‘Has Karen a queue of luscious friends?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Ian, ‘yes.’

  Saul shrugged. ‘Cool,’ he said, ‘why not. There hasn't been anyone since Emma. I'm not sure if I count the tryst with Sonja.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Ian said, ‘we're talking a good eighteen months, mate. Sounds like celibacy to me.’

  Saul shrugged again. ‘You know me,’ he said quietly, ‘I can be quite choosy.’

  ‘Mind you,’ Ian theorized, ‘your social life is pretty lively and there are always relatively funky work do's on. I bet you don't even notice the absence of a girlfriend.’

  Saul considered Ian's overview. ‘Actually, it's not so much that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I'm quite into the idea of a steady partner – even the concept of commitment. However, I just can't be bothered with doing the singles-circuit-dating games. It's too contrived.’

  ‘Too time consuming,’ Ian agreed, ‘and expensive.’ God, he thanked his luck for Karen. ‘Mind you, celibacy must be a bit bloody frustrating.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I do what a lot of other blokes do,’ shrugged Saul.

  Ian shrugged back. He also made a mental note to provide Karen with a current description of Saul to circulate amongst her friends. He'd heard Karen refer admiringly to similar hairstyles as ‘bed hair’ and no doubt she'd declare the colour of Saul's to be like caramel or something. He noted his friend still had a thing about trendy footwear and approved his Oris watch as an indication that Saul's career was going very well indeed. Armani soft black jeans. And a shirt he'd tell Karen was Paul Smith. They were already compiling their guest list for the wedding. It would be cosy if by then Saul attended with a girlfriend who happened to be a friend of Karen's. Ian glanced at his watch. ‘I'd better be going, mate. Does this place not have last orders?’

  ‘It's when the last person orders,’ Saul informed him.

  ‘It's good to see you,’ Ian said, ‘let's not make it so long, next time. Come over to ours. Karen is a great cook. You'll love her. I'll call you.’

  Saul sat on alone in the Swallow with another pint. Lynton sat by himself too. And Barry was on his own tonight as well. They all nodded amiably at each other but were quietly content to sit separately. That was what Saul loved about the Swallow, its concept of relaxed companionship, that it wasn't necessary to cramp around the same table to be in warm company. Saul looked over to Eleni, snuggled against her boyfriend. He reckoned he was their age or thereabouts. When Anne, the wife of the landlord, had brought over the two plates of sausage and mash, she'd ruffled Saul's hair maternally. He reckoned she was close to his mother in age.

  Saul walked around the corner back to his flat. He scanned through the draft of the article he'd be writing the next day and then logged off his laptop, content. There was nothing watchable on television. He thought he ought to run a bath – he'd been sent products by Clarins For Men to test. All that talk of women and wives and girlfriends and his own barren situation had left him quite hollow and horny. So he decided to do what a lot of other blokes do. He'd lie in a bath later. He grabbed his jacket and went back out into the night.

  Alice Heggarty

  I keep singing the corniest of songs. ‘I'm Getting Married in the Morning!’ In the daftest of voices. ‘Going to the Chapel and We're Going to Get Ma-ha-ha-rid.’ The daftest of songs in the silliest of accents. I even sang ‘Nights in White Satin’ in the cab today. It struck me, for the first time, that it was actually ‘nights’ and not ‘knights’. And then I was absorbed for at least an hour wondering why it had never previously crossed my mind that a knight got up in white satin would be pretty odd in a heterosexual love song.

  Anyway, I am going to be married in the morning. Thanks in no small part to the girls on Dream Weddings magazine and Mark indulging me, it's going to be a fairy-tale wedding. I'm feeling deliriously excited – but a bit stressed too. I'm even feeling a bit pissed off – like I want everyone to continually pat me on the back and acknowledge how much hard work I've put into it all. We only got engaged in March, after all. Eight months later, and I've researched and secured the flowers, the dresses, the venue, held auditions for the band, even written the vows. I want it to be the best day of my life. And Mark's too. And I want it to go down in the annals of the guests as the best wedding they've ever been to.

  I must pack for honeymoon. Initially I wanted the destination to be a surprise, but I pointed out to Mark that I'd be a stroppy cow if I packed salopettes and we arrived in Bermuda. Actually, I just pressed and pestered him because I really did need to know. It's not that I'm a control freak, though I suppose I am, it's just that I know myself well enough to admit that I'm a nightmare if I'm disappointed. So, if I was going to be disappointed, at least I could've had the chance to get over it in advance. Shit, OK, if I have to admit it, I might have subtly persuaded Mark to change the plans if need be! Anyway, bless him, Mark must have picked up on all my not-so-subtle hints and he is whisking me away to St Lucia. A helicopter to the Jalousie Plantation between those two iconic Piton mountains you see in the films, in the brochures. They know we're honeymooning so hopefully they'll lay on all sorts of little extras. I am going to be princess for a fortnight. And why not – because when we get home, I'll be just boring old Mrs Sinclair!

  They gave me a great send-off at work. They must have had quite some whip-round as they've gone for the Gaggia coffee machine from the wedding list. Anyway, all my mags will be fine – they can spare me for a fortnight but if they need me, I've told them they can phone the Jalousie.

  I'm getting married in the morning. Bloody bloody hell. Ding dong. I really really am. I'll be thirty years old. And fifty-one weeks. I, Alice Rose Heggarty, am going to marry Mark Oliver Sinclair in approximately twenty-three hours' time. How do I feel? Still a touch peaky from my hen-night! I feel ready, actually. Everything is going according to plan. All I need to do is turn up and say ‘I do’ and look ravishing. I want Mark to feel that he's the luckiest bloke alive. I feel good. There really is no better man for me to marry. Lovely dearest Mark. He'll look after me and cherish me and keep me safe. None of those other wankers ever did. It's so lovely not to worry. It's a novelty for me. It's so wonderful to be
loved so unequivocally. Unconditionally. No one could possibly love me more – so what more could I possibly ask for? Tomorrow I'm going to be the bride of his dreams. I'll make sure I cry a little when I say ‘I do’ because I know he'll love that.

  I'm so happy Thea is staying over with me tonight. I can't wait to snuggle up with her and have hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisce about our olden days. My best, beautiful friend. My bridesmaid. My only bridesmaid. Me being me, I'm glad out of the two of us I'm the first to wed. Just recently, though, I've been hoping that perhaps she'll not be too long behind. Whereas I'm now the first to admit I used to fall in love with a type – and the wrong one – I've seen that my path to happiness necessitated me walking off course. And in doing so, I came across my kind, gentle Mark. Who'd have thought it? Who'd have thought!

  I think, at our age, after the highs and lows experienced through our twenties, the time comes to alter your focus, a shift in perspective. I decided to turn my back on a view which actually gave me little joy. I want Thea to take a leaf out of my book – we're similar and yet so different. I hated ever being single – I used to wait until a replacement was a dead cert before breaking off an already failed relationship. Thea, though, would rather be all on her tod than dally with someone she doesn't experience her elusive spark for. It's actually infuriating – I've introduced her to a couple of Mark's friends who are really nice, successful, balanced blokes. But in each instance Thea has said ‘He's really nice – but he doesn't do it for me.’ I know she's hardly on the shelf, but still I don't think she should be so choosy. I wish for her all that I'm headed for. Though, if I'm honest, as nice and successful and gentlemanly as Mark's friends are, I concede they are just the tiniest bit dull. Just the tiniest. Well, I'm not marrying them, I'm marrying Mark Oliver Sinclair.