Love Rules (15 page)

‘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.’

‘Fine,’ Mr Sewell said, ‘OK.’

‘I'll book you in downstairs,’ Thea said, leading the way.

‘Thank you, Miss –?’ Mr Sewell waited to be informed.

‘Thea,’ Thea assured him, ‘Thea's fine.’

He nodded and left.

‘Thea darling! I'm late, I know – I'm sorry, honey, but I've had a bitch of a morning. A total
bitch
. And my back's killing me. Total fucking nightmare.’

Thea's twelve o'clock arrived quarter of an hour late with
his usual flurry of excuses. Because he was a regular, she would overrun her lunch hour to honour a full session for him. ‘Don't worry, it's not a problem, Peter,’ she acquiesced, ‘come on up and let's get cracking.’

‘I thought only osteos could do that,’ Peter joked.

‘
Let's get petrissaging
doesn't have quite the same ring to it,’ Thea said over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.

Peter Glass had been a client of Thea's for a year or so. He came in now for ‘monthly maintenance’ as he termed it, though he regularly phoned for ‘crisis sessions’ in between. This was meant to be a maintenance visit but it was obvious from his stilted gait that a crisis now superseded it.

‘How are you, Peter?’ Thea asked him, wondering how long it would take the serene atmosphere of her room to calm him. Peter was usually busy to the point of being manic – an upmarket estate agent earning on commission only, with a complex love life, a love of material goods and a propensity for changing his car as frequently as his girlfriend.

‘Work's mental – good mental. Life's crazy – cool crazy. New squeeze, new Beemer.’

‘What's Beemer?’ Thea asked.

Peter laughed. ‘BMW – Beemer, you know? Like Merc? Alpha?’

‘Skoda?’ Thea said.

‘You don't!’ Peter exclaimed.

‘I don't,’ Thea assured him, ‘I have a Fiat Panda.’

‘You
don't
!’ Peter exclaimed with genuine horror.

‘Eleven years old,’ Thea said proudly. ‘Now, how are you?’ She glanced at the clock, knowing that he'd talk at her throughout the session anyway.

‘Nightmare,’ Peter groaned theatrically but with justification. ‘Do you want me down to my Jockeys?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Thea, skimming her notes on Peter's last session, ‘and then face down on the table.’

‘How's your love life, babes?’ Peter enquired, his voice muffled as Thea started the massage.

‘This feels tight.’ Thea ignored his question, pressing into his lower trapezius until she felt it yield.

‘If I was single, I'd wine and dine you, honey,’ Peter told her with an appreciative groan.

‘If I was single, I'd turn you down,’ Thea responded though immediately wished she hadn't.

‘So you
do
have a love life,’ Peter commented, ‘but do you have a love nest? I can show you some gorgeous properties.’

‘You haven't been doing those stretches I showed you, have you?’ Thea chastised, glad to change the subject.

‘Not enough hours in the day, babes,’ Peter rued. ‘Stretching takes too long.’

‘Peter!’ Thea admonished. ‘That series I showed you takes a maximum ten minutes, on weekdays only. You can do them
anywhere
.’

‘Not long but
slow
,’ Peter qualified, ‘I mean they feel like they take too long because they're so slow. All that holding and breathing. I don't do slow – not in my life.’

Reluctantly, Thea understood. He was a character, Peter Glass, a wide boy and charmer but self-deprecating and thus likeable. For all his bravura and bullshit, bragging of Beemers and calling every woman ‘babes’, he was a decent bloke contending with vicious pain.

‘You do make me feel better,’ Peter told her, knotting his Gucci tie. ‘If I could afford the time I'd come to you every bloody week. Twice, maybe. It's only here that I slow down and unwind a little while you untie all those crap muscles of mine.’

‘Let's book you in for next week,’ Thea said.

‘Cool, babes,’ said Peter, ‘but I may have to cancel last minute.’

‘Zay say zat avocado makes a lady ripe for lurve. Zay say zat carrot cake makes a lady hot. Zay say zat cheesy crisps make a lady juicy.’

Thea stood in the queue at Pret a Manger, thrilled at the surprise of Saul whispering in her ear, with his improbable accent and bizarre theories on foodstuffs.

‘Lady,’ he continued, murmuring throatily, his voice an octave lower than his regular English accent, ‘zay say zat a lady who likes avocado and cheesy crisps and cake of carrot, she is lady who do much sexy sex.’

‘Piss off,’ Thea whispered, giggling. Saul stood close behind her and kissed insistently behind her ear and along the curve of her neck. ‘Stop it,’ Thea hissed, ‘we're in public.’

‘Exactly,’ whispered Saul. ‘God, I'm horny.’

‘I'm on a short lunch,’ Thea apologized, now feeling quite horny herself.

‘I'll walk you back,’ Saul said, ‘as long as the tent pole in my trousers doesn't get me arrested en route.’

It had snowed overnight and though the pavements were clear of it, a dusting still sprinkled the shrubs, iced the lawns and cushioned the benches in Paddington Street Gardens. Dogs trotted through the park with elevated action and children scampered around trying to snowball all spare snow.

‘It always seems bizarre to be planning summer issues when it's February and freezing,’ Saul commented, ‘but that's my afternoon – top beaches and barbecue tips. And a haircut – look at me, Christ!’

‘After my morning of men,’ Thea told him, ‘I have an afternoon of girls – my ballet dancer, two pregnant women and my little old lady. But I'd really better make tracks and warm my hands or I'll lose all my clients.’

‘And then you'll come to mine?’ Saul asked. ‘Movie? Villandry carpet picnic? Rude sex?’

‘Reverse order, preferably,’ Thea said. She looked at Saul
and bit her bottom lip with coquettish intent. ‘Who'd've thought that cheesy crisps were an aphrodisiac.’

Saul took Thea at face value and didn't dare say he'd made it up. ‘Let's sneak up to your room for a quickie,’ he said instead, ‘you know you want it, you dirty thing!’

‘You're incorrigible. I'm not remotely tempted,’ Thea scolded him playfully, kissing him teasingly with her tongue before flouncing into the Being Well with a provocative wiggle.

‘Christ, I need a shag,’ Saul muttered to himself, putting beaches and barbecues on the back burner, the haircut on hold.

ADAM

April, Issue 11

Vic Reeves/Bob Mortimer cover

• Why British comedy rocks
  

• Rock – why British rock is comedy
  

• Sex – rock hard
  

• Vinnie Jones – still rock hard
  

• Travel – Gibraltar, Brighton and Australia – and other famous rocks
  

• Sport – rock climbing
  

• Win! Some rocks, courtesy of De Beers
  

ADAM

May, Issue 12

Emmanuelle Beart/Vanessa Paradis double cover

• It's in the Cannes – the sexiest film festival, now and then
  

• Secrets, lies and big big bucks – what keeps the film industry rolling
  

• Muscle in – steroid abuse: coming to your high-street chemist soon
  

• Sex addiction – bona-fide illness or top excuse
  

• Air guitar, shadow boxing and imaginary golf swings – good for your health
  

• Property how-to: it doesn't cost much and it won't hurt your back
  

• Win! A line in Danny Boyle's new film
  

Saul sat in Alice's office and they both swivelled in the chairs, Saul tapping a Biro gently against his teeth, Alice furrowing her brow and twitching her lip, while they brainstormed features for future issues.

‘How about,’ Alice mused, ‘sex advice through the eyes of – hang on – a porn star, a sex therapist and a—’

‘Housewife,’ Saul suggested.

‘Brilliant,’ Alice said, her fingers scuttling over her key-board.

‘I was thinking,’ Saul said, ‘the Tour de France for the July issue –
the world's best athletes or drugged-up cheats.
’

‘Yep,’ said Alice, ‘I like it. How's the August issue going?’

Saul twitched his lip. He looked sidelong at Alice, swivelled a complete revolution, rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his chin and then leant forward. ‘I'm going to hear by the end of the week if we've got Bowie for the cover,’ he said nonchalantly.

‘Oh, Good Lord,’ Alice exclaimed, blushing visibly, clasping her hand to her heart. She reached across her desk and grabbed Saul's wrists, her eyes darting around his. ‘Seriously?’ she whispered. ‘Because you know you really must never joke about something like that.’ Saul raised an eyebrow in affirmation. ‘Oh, Good Lord,’ Alice exclaimed. She slumped back in her chair. ‘I'm coming to the photo shoot,’ she declared. ‘Have you told Thea?’

Saul shook his head. ‘It's not confirmed,’ he cautioned, ‘and the shoot will be in New York.’

‘Well, I feel a business trip coming on,’ Alice proclaimed, ‘and I'll need an assistant, of course.’

‘I'm far too busy,’ Saul declared.

‘Not you, idiot boy,
Thea
!’ Alice retorted, quietly wondering if an enduring crush on an ageing icon was in any way unsuitable for a married woman. She swiftly decided it was not.

‘Anyway, Bowie or not, the issue's coming on fine,’ Saul assured her, ‘it'll be the biggest yet and the ad team are storming their targets already.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Alice. ‘Bowie. Oh, my God. Right. Yes. Moving on – how about something on relationship dynamics, you know, who has power.’

‘Who has the balls, who wears the trousers,’ Saul said,
‘that's good – I'll try and commission someone like Jeff Green to write it. Oh, Richard Stonehill is putting me in touch with a guy who has a self-build company – I thought that would make an interesting piece.’

‘Certainly,’ said Alice, ‘and Ben from the music division is working on Liam Gallagher. Come on, let's go for lunch. Thea said you had an amazing weekend in Brighton. You were lucky with the weather – May bank holiday is usually a washout.’

Saul gathered his things and followed Alice through the building. He smiled to himself, recalling Thea that previous weekend, stripping off nonchalantly on a quiet spot on the beach. It was only when she was down to her knickers that he clarified it was Bournemouth, not Brighton, that had the nudist beach.

‘Saul thinks we'll have Bowie for the August issue,’ Alice told Mark as he loaded the dishwasher. ‘Can you believe that?’

‘Believe what, darling?’ Mark asked distractedly.

‘That we'll have Bowie for the August issue,’ Alice frowned.

‘Well done,’ Mark said, straightening up and rubbing the small of his back. ‘I think I'll take some paracetamol.’

‘So I may go to New York for the shoot,’ Alice said, though she feared tempting fate by being presumptuous.

‘New York?’ Mark said, rummaging through his briefcase for painkillers. ‘No, San Francisco next week, home via Chicago.’

‘I give up,’ Alice muttered, turning her back on Mark and her attention to the
Evening Standard
, flipping noisily through the pages.

‘Alice,’ Mark protested quietly, ‘I just really want to knock the Gerber–Klein deal on the head – precisely so there won't be so much travelling.’

‘Until the next deal,’ Alice said under her breath. ‘Actually,
I was talking about
me
, Mark –
I
may have to go to New York.’

‘For work?’ Mark asked.

‘Yes, Mark, we're shooting Bowie for the August issue and he's personally requested I attend,’ Alice said with cutting nonchalance, though she was now convinced she'd probably jinxed the deal completely.

‘Well, that's a feather to your cap,’ Mark said ingenuously, wondering why his wife looked cross when her news was so good. He swallowed the paracetamol. ‘John and Lisa have invited us to dinner next Friday,’ Mark changed the subject brightly, ‘and Leo and Nadia want to know if we'd like to accompany them to the Barbican the following week –
Madame Butterfly
.’

Alice tried to bite her tongue but she missed, snapping at Mark instead. ‘Oh, great. Dull dinners with your boss and sodding opera with your dreary clients.’