Freya North - Love Rules

‘So you keep saying,’ said Thea. ‘Are you sure it’s not knock-off?’ and she scrutinized the cuffs suspiciously.

‘Fuck off,’ said Saul because he knew she’d stay. He headed off down the hill, thanking God for hangovers and for friends’ flats and for phones at 38,000 feet. As he walked back up Primrose Hill, a roll of Refreshers in his back pocket, her smile floated down to him.

‘Refreshers, milady,’ he announced, proffering them to her.

‘I only like the yellow and pink ones,’ she said.

‘Suck or crunch?’

‘Crunch.’

‘Me too.’

They crunched and hummed and stifled the burps that scoffing the entire packet in a matter of minutes created.

‘I’m thawing out now,’ Thea said, ‘and I ought to go home, I’m exhausted.’

‘Thea,’ Saul said, ‘take my jacket. Seriously. Every man should have one Sir Walter Ralegh moment in his life. Please allow me mine. My mum would be so proud.’

Thea giggled at the thought of this man rushing home: Mum! Mum! I was a gentleman today, I lent my jacket to a chilly waif. Do I get more pocket money? Can I stay up late? ‘But I’m fine,’ she continued gratefully, ‘my car is just over there.’

Saul shrugged and nodded. ‘Yeah, but if I lend you my jacket, you’ll have to return it,’ he concluded with a hopeful trump card. Thea glanced at him and knew she blushed. ‘Perhaps same place, same time, a week from now?’ he suggested, unfolding and folding the foil from the sweets.

‘OK,’ said Thea, thinking to herself how Alice’s mags would tell her to decline and play hard to get, or to suppress her grin for demure procrastination at the very least. But sod Alice’s magazines. ‘Same time, same place, next Sunday then,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said Saul, smiling openly. He slid his hand into the jacket pocket, felt over and under Thea’s fingers and retrieved his keys. Then he pulled the zip down halfway and slipped his hand into the inner breast pocket, taking his mobile phone. He could feel Thea’s breath on his wrist as he pulled the zip up. He looked at her and thought he might suddenly find himself kissing her. But he shook hands with her formally instead.

‘Until next week, then,’ said Saul, standing.

‘Next week,’ Thea confirmed, making to move off.

‘By the way, where do you live?’ he asked.

‘Crouch End,’ she replied, walking off a step or two. ‘You?’

‘The West End, actually,’ he said, heading down the hill. ‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m a masseuse,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘You?’

‘I write.’

Saul spent Monday against a deadline for an article on the new generation iPods whilst trying not to be interrupted by engaging images of Thea. On Tuesday with no deadlines looming, Saul searched ‘massage north london’ on Google but was led to questionable sites he didn’t dare enter for fear of jinxing his PC with a sexually transmitted computer virus. By Wednesday, Saul thought sod it, it’s only a jacket and it was a freebie anyway. Thursday came and he strolled to Armani to check prices on leather jackets. Jesus, that Thea better show up with it. He filed his column for the Observer and accepted a commission from the Express magazine. Saul spent Friday daytime avoiding thinking about jackets and Thea and Primrose Hill, and wrote all day. He went out in the evening with friends and confided to one that he’d met a girl in a park who looked cold and sad and said she had a hangover so he’d lent her his Armani jacket.

‘The brown leather one?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You twat!’

On Saturday night, Ian Ashford invited Saul to meet Karen. And Karen had invited her friend Jo to meet Ian’s friend Saul. And Ian and Karen had also invited Angus and Anna so that Saul and Jo wouldn’t feel it was all a bit of a set-up. And dinner had been fun and Saul reckoned that if Fate was Friend not Foe, Thea would fit in well with his circle. And Jo was smitten and hoped Saul would phone her within the next few days.

Thea felt somewhat at a loss without Alice. Sally Stonehill was a close friend but Thea longed for Alice’s take on the situation, for the dozen scenarios good, bad and downright fanciful she’d hatch. Thea was appalled at herself for daring to quietly resent Alice – or Mark rather – for their inconveniently timed honeymoon. However, Sally delighted in Thea’s challenge and told her to return to Primrose Hill as arranged, but to hide behind a tree early and double-check Saul was worth handing back the gorgeous jacket. ‘But if he’s wearing black leather gloves – run,’ said Sally seriously. ‘Psycho.’

Sally’s husband Richard thought Saul sounded shady, with or without black leather gloves, and told Thea not to go. Richard reckoned Thea should give the jacket to him instead and put a lonely-hearts in Time Out if she was that desperate.

‘Or my mate Josh,’ Richard suggested, ‘he’s still single.’

‘I’m not that desperate,’ Thea declined, while Sally made throwing-up faces behind Richard.

On the Tuesday, Mark’s American cousin emailed Thea politely suggesting dinner when he was next over on business. Thea was still unable to conjure a memory of him but replied accidentally-on-purpose forgetting to give her phone number as requested. The next day, she went to Prospero’s Books in Crouch End on the off chance that a book by a bloke called Saul might catch her eye. There appeared to be none on the shelves.

‘Sally,’ said Thea, ‘have you heard of a writer called Saul someone?’

‘Bellow?’ Sally said. ‘But your Saul may have a nom de plume, of course.’

‘Say he’s an axe-wielding homicidal maniac,’ said Thea, ‘and the police find bits of me all over Primrose Hill on Monday morning?’

‘Well, as I said, steer clear of black leather gloves.’

‘Maybe I won’t go,’ Thea said gloomily.

‘Say he’s not a book writer,’ Sally mooted, because she liked the sound of Saul and his sweets, ‘perhaps he’s a journalist.’

‘Maybe I’ll go,’ Thea said, non-committally.

On Thursday, Thea phoned her mother in Chippenham and suggested lunch on Sunday.

‘Darling, I’m going to the Craig-Stewarts’ for lunch this Sunday,’ her mother said, a little baffled that her daughter was willing to drive down just for the day when Christmas was only six weeks away. Feeling slightly demoralized and in need of unequivocal advice, Thea wondered what Alice would say. She reckoned Alice herself would hide behind another tree on Primrose Hill and keep watch. If she wasn’t otherwise engaged. More than engaged – fundamentally married and lying on the white sands of St Bloody Lucia.

‘You’re still all right to babysit Molly tomorrow?’ Lynne phoned Saul on Saturday evening as he was leaving for Ian’s. ‘We can’t take her to the Clarksons’ wedding.’

Saul had forgotten. But actually, babysitting Molly was a very good idea. It was a cunning Plan B. He’d be on Primrose Hill whether or not Thea decided to turn up. ‘No problem,’ he told Lynne.

‘We’ll drop her round at yours first thing,’ said Lynne gratefully.

Nothing conspired against Saul and Thea planning their trips to Primrose Hill a week to the day that they’d first met. Neither had nightmares the night before. Both had slept well and awoken feeling fine. The weather was glorious, a degree or two warmer than the previous week and sunny too. An autumn day in winter, as precious as an Indian summer in autumn. Thea decided she’d check on Alice’s flat en route to further justify her trip. At Alice’s flat, she took the liberty of borrowing her friend’s cashmere jumper the shade of bluebells, leaving her own boring navy lambswool polo neck in return. She also helped herself to a spritz of Alice’s Chanel perfume in case her own had faded by now. Thea checked her reflection and gave herself an approving grin. She had an inkling that this might be fun; a long-held belief in serendipity said it might be a good idea. She zipped up her jacket and folded Saul’s over her arm. She held it to her face and inhaled. Then she stiffly told herself not to be so daft.