Love Rules (21 page)

‘Oh here, this is for you,’ Saul said. ‘It's only silver – but I thought it was very you. The jeweller is Ian's sister.’

Outside Waitrose, Thea looked at the ring. It was inscribed.

∞
I have spread my dreams under your feet
∞

‘
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
,’ Thea said quietly, completing the stanza. She loved that Yeats poem. She looked at Saul, elated, awash with love and brimful of excitement for their future. Their dreams were shared, their future spread ahead. For Thea, not even the most sumptuous wedding in the world, or the most gorgeous flat on the
market, or the most expensive ring from Tiffany, could actually better the dizzying happiness she felt just then.

‘Well done, mate,’ Richard said to Saul, slipping his racquet into its cover.

‘But you
slaughtered
me,’ Saul laughed as they headed from the court to the showers.

‘I meant about Thea, you prat!’ Richard said with a friendly shove. ‘Sally told me you're buying a little love nest together.’

‘We've signed up our flats with Cohen & Howard,’ Saul called over the shower cubicle.

‘Wise,’ Richard affirmed. ‘Did they drop their commission?’

‘You bet,’ Saul said, ‘I mean, both properties should be a doddle to sell. And we both bought at the right time.’

‘Well, if you need an architect,’ Richard laughed.

‘Discount?’ Saul joshed, grabbing a towel and throwing one to Richard.

‘Yeah, right,’ Richard laughed. ‘Anyway, what are you looking for and where?’

‘I thought I'd have a tough job suggesting Thea relinquish her Crouch End affections,’ Saul mused, ‘but actually she's really into the idea of central London.’

‘There are some great developments near Covent Garden,’ Richard informed him, ‘the Drury Lane end. I know of one not yet released – I could try and organize a viewing.’

‘That would be cool,’ Saul thanked him, ‘I know Thea likes the idea of Bloomsbury too. But she's seen too many Merchant Ivory films.’

‘I have to say, the area you're in at the moment is fabulous,’ Richard commented, heading out from the changing room.

‘I'll drink to that,’ said Saul, clanging shut the locker and following him out of the changing room.

‘You'll drink to me trouncing you at squash first,’ Richard
laughed over his shoulder, as they headed for the bar, ‘and then we'll drink to you and Thea.’

‘And then we'll wet your baby's head,’ Saul elaborated.

‘And then we'll raise a glass to my wife,’ Richard said.

‘I can't believe we haven't been out to celebrate Juliette's birth,’ Saul marvelled, ‘we must be talking four months or so.’

‘Christ, I had to negotiate hard with Sally, let me tell you,’ Richard sighed. ‘I get tonight off only on the guarantee of a midnight curfew and the assurance of only mild wooziness as opposed to utter inebriation.
And
she's factored into the equation a lie-in on Saturday
and
her own night out with Thea and Alice next Wednesday.’

‘She drives a tough bargain, your wife,’ Saul commented, raising his glass to her nonetheless.

‘I have my two beautiful girls,’ Richard declared with a happy shrug, ‘they have me wrapped around their little fingers – but I'm a pretty happy captive.’

Hullo, little home. Hullo, my little slice of Lewis Caroll Living. I've entrusted you to some wide-boy estate agent with a dodgy goatee beard. Lance from Cohen & Howard's Muswell Hill office. He says you'll be a breeze to sell. And I have no idea why I feel guilty. Like I'm abandoning you to some unknown fate, like I'm turning my back on you after all the security you've given me. But I like to think of some other Thea chancing upon you, living here and loving it until life moves her along too. Saul says I mustn't become emotional about selling. I walloped him for that – what a daft thing to say. Of course it'll be an emotional process. Do you know he says it would be better for me not to meet potential purchasers? He ganged up with Lance on that one. Saul says he knows me, he says if potential purchasers don't live up to my exacting expectations, I won't sell to them even
if they offer the asking price. But to me, that's obvious – to him, that's daft. Lance looked horrified.

This home is an extension of me – an expression of who I am and how I've been; a living photo album, an entire diary of my last five years. All the things these walls have seen! All the comfort I've felt here, the safety of it all – the stains from my tears, the marks of my happiness. I could write a novel about it! I can't possibly sell to someone who won't love this place as I have. I'll always love Crouch End and my memories of my gorgeous first flat will remain vivid and cherished. I was very, very happy here. When I was a single girl. All that time ago.

The first person who walked through Thea's front door made an offer within twenty-four hours. The second person who viewed the property half an hour later, made an offer the next day of the asking price. Lance warned the third person before they went to see the flat that he'd already had two offers within twenty-four hours of the property being on the market. That person saw Thea's flat and offered the asking price there and then, before they'd even stood in the hallway with all the doors closed for maximum Lewis Carroll impact. Thea didn't quite know why she declared she needed a night to think about it. And nor did the potential purchaser, who promptly raised his initial offer of the asking price by a full five thousand pounds, guaranteed a speedy exchange of contracts and volunteered details of his lawyer, his surveyor and his mortgage company. ‘Let me sleep on it,’ Thea pleaded with Lance.

‘Well, sweet dreams, darls,’ he said to her, ‘but you'd better get an early night because I'm telling you, they'll be on the phone as soon as the office is open tomorrow morning.’

That evening, Thea thought how Peter Glass calling her ‘babes’ was more classy, more genuinely affectionate than Lance's ‘darls’. But she couldn't let that influence her decision.
She just wanted a night all alone in her home before she gave the go-ahead. She sent some goodnight kisses in a text message to Saul but it was to Alice that she sent a text: fuck fuck fuck do i sell sell sell??? Tx

The reply was immediate: yes yes yes Axxxxxxxxx

bloke = nice gay guy who sez flat is DIVINE!

Thea sent back.

sounds perfct!;–) Alice wrote.

r u watchng ER? Thea texted back

yes! Alice replied, Carter damn cute

Luka cuter! Thea responded.

fone during ads? Alice wrote.

k xxx texted Thea.

‘So, basically, if I accept the offer the whole thing could be done and dusted within a few weeks.’ Thea switches the phone to her other ear and changes the subject after a lengthy and thorough dissection of
ER
.

‘Look, I know this purchaser isn't in a chain and he's offering top dollar and he's a nice sensitive gay bloke who loves your colour schemes and is into the whole Rapunzel vibe, but don't be pressurized to rush it through,’ Alice advises her, tucking the phone under her chin while she runs a bath. ‘You and Saul mightn't find somewhere for ages.’

‘Yes, but I can move into his place,’ Thea theorizes.

‘True, but all your stuff would have to go into storage and it is
his
place,’ Alice reasons, ‘I mean, it may be cool and funky but it's not big.’

‘True,’ Thea agrees, ‘true.’

‘You should go for a speedy exchange of contracts,’ Alice recommends, ‘and then a slightly longer completion – at least that way you have the security of the purchaser's deposit.’

‘Makes sense,’ Thea agrees, ‘I'll sleep on it. Anyway, how are you? Are you packed?’

Alice groans. ‘No,’ she sighs, ‘I mean, what the fuck am I meant to take?’

‘I don't know,’ Thea says, ‘what does one wear on an all-expenses-paid management-bonding trip? I've never been on one – it's not really a perk in my line of work.’

‘It's hardly a perk,’ Alice groans, ‘it's a pain. I mean, we managers all know each other well enough anyway. Why we have to traipse out to France for five days I don't know. I'd get more of a feel-good factor from a hefty bonus or an increase in holiday entitlement.’

‘Well, at least you can shop,’ Thea says.

‘We're in the middle of fuck-knows-where,’ Alice says sulkily, ‘the nearest town is Arles which is more famous for Van Gogh or Cézanne or someone, than for Prada.’

‘Well, at least you may come back with a tan,’ Thea says.

‘I looked at the weather forecast there just today.
Il pleut
.’

‘Come on, Alice,’ Thea says, ‘it'll probably be a laugh.’

‘They've told us to pack “cagoules” – the closest I have is my Agnès B mac and I'm
not
taking
that
!’

‘I have a cagoule,’ Thea confesses cheerily, ‘you could borrow it if you like.’

‘Is it repulsive?’ Alice asks.

‘Fuck off! It's Berghaus, it's cutting edge and it cost a lot.’

‘Could I borrow it then?’ Alice asks a little sheepishly. ‘That would be great – oh, but what colour is it?’

‘Black and red,’ Thea tells her and Alice can sense she's raising her eyebrows.

‘Well, my walking boots are black Gore-tex,’ Alice muses.

‘See, you
can
be colour coordinated
and
appropriately dressed,’ Thea concludes.

‘Languedoc, here I come,’ Alice says with negligible enthusiasm, ‘whoopee-doo.’

‘When do you leave on Friday?’

‘Some ungodly hour,’ Alice moans, ‘back next Tuesday. I
can think of better ways to spend a long weekend, but there you go.’

‘Text me while you're there, won't you?’ Thea says.

‘If I get a signal in the middle of Cézanne country,’ Alice says darkly.

‘Is Mark away anyway?’

‘Ironically, no – so it's his turn to rattle around the house on his tod,’ Alice says with a note of triumph. ‘Listen, can you give that cagoule to Saul – he's coming in for a meeting on Wednesday so he could bring it in for me.’

‘No problem,’ Thea says, ‘and Alice – shall I accept the offer then?’

‘Yes, yes, you should,’ Alice says encouragingly, ‘it's time to get the ball rolling, Thea my dear. Time to trade in your little bit of Lewis Carroll Living for something more grown up.’

Alice envisages Thea sitting there, curled on her sofa, looking around her flat, nodding reflectively. She'll text Thea before she goes to sleep, she decides, tell her again that she should go for it. That it's the right decision. That she'll be quids in, in every respect. For now, Alice will drizzle an extravagant amount of Penhaligon's bath oil into her bath and luxuriate – after all, she may well be restricted to lukewarm showers in the depths of Cézanne country.

La Grande Motte

The group flew into Montpellier airport. All of Alice's colleagues had packed rucksacks, two or three even opting for a size small enough to pass as hand luggage. Because it had been traumatic enough for Alice to pack a cagoule, there was no way she was going to forsake her Mulberry grosgrain holdall for a backpack. Her bad mood blackened when her luggage arrived on the baggage reclaim damaged. Off she flounced to the baggage-handlers' office to complain.

‘Come on, Alice,’ Steven Hunter from the music division called over to her on behalf of the group, ‘the coach is waiting.’

With her hands still stroppily on her hips she spun on her heels and glowered to all asunder. ‘Coach?
Coach
? Oh, for Christ's sake.’

However, she was happy to concede that with its air conditioning, the lounge-style seating, various refreshments and superb suspension, the coach was a far cry from that which she was expecting: the juddery, slurching vehicles upholstered in the colours of vomit she recalled from school trips. Her appeasement was short-lived and her lifted spirits dove again on arriving at the hotel.

‘It's not a hotel,’ she hissed to Jeanette Baker from the lifestyle division. ‘It makes Center Parcs look like Gleneagles.’

‘You're such a snob!’ Jeanette teased her. ‘Who cares if it's Butlins de la Camargue – the plonk'll be plentiful and we'll be happy campers.’

Alice raised her eyebrows at herself and smiled. ‘Do you reckon we'll have mini-bars in our rooms?’

‘Rooms?’ Jeanette exclaimed. ‘You do know we're having to bunk up?’

‘Bunk up?’ Alice asked.

‘Share,’ Jeanette elaborated, ‘in groups of three.’

Alice laughed heartily and gave Jeanette a jocular nudge. While the lady with the clipboard who'd accompanied them from the airport bustled through to the hotel reception, Alice coolly took stock of the situation. The group consisted of twenty respected managers each on a high and esteemed rung of their company, all justly honoured by PPA, BSME or ACE awards, soaring circulation figures and massive advertising revenue to their credit. In addition, most were married, all were in their thirties or beyond, on top salaries with share options and positions on the board. Of course they were going to have their own rooms, with mini-bars and satellite television.

Oh no, they weren't.

‘I thought you were joking,’ Alice almost wept to Jeanette, an expression of pleading panic furrowing her face.

‘Well, I have my iPod and speakers and Jacquie Duckworth bought duty-free gin and two hundred Marlboro Lights – so our dorm will be rocking,’ Jeanette tried to enthuse.

‘You bet,’ said Jacquie, her duty-free carrier bag clanking in proof. ‘Who needs a mini-bar?’

‘You're on!’ said Alice, hoping her enviable collection of
Bobbi Brown cosmetics would be seen as a valid contribution.

‘No, you're not,’ Ben Starkey butted in darkly, ‘they've already designated who's in which room.’

‘You are
joking
!’ Alice exclaimed hoarsely, while Jacquie almost dropped her fags and lost her bottle.

‘He's not,’ Jeanette said glumly, trudging off with the publisher of the crafts titles and the director of circulation.

The accommodation was set in the grounds, in rows of gaily painted breeze-blocked cabins, optimistically called chalets. As Alice trudged towards hers, she was suddenly aware of the natural beauty of the landscape and that it was quite at odds with the ugliness of the hotel complex. The sea could be heard but not seen and the big sky of the Petite Camargue, by then streaked with a colour close to apricot, seemed somehow higher and lighter than that above London. Beyond the hotel grounds, inky pine forests fringed the dunes that led to the coast and a distinctive salty tang from the lagoons and marshes permeated the air. However, Alice's appreciation of her new surroundings was negated on arriving at Chalet B27. Pea-green on the outside, the breeze-blocks inside had been painted the colour of lemon curd, jumping to a hue close to tomato ketchup in the bathroom. It was by no means cramped, in fact it was spacious, with an additional toilet and a large hallway doubling as a lounge with peculiar seating modules made from foam blocks covered with bright fleece fabric. However, in the bedroom Alice felt irritated by the organization of space. Why insinuate that the three beds were afforded privacy by placing them at acute angles, partially screened by ugly furniture? Why not just build stud walls and be done with it? Alice rarely smoked and gin was not her tipple, but as she attempted to unpack how she craved a swig from Jacquie's bottle, a lungful of Marlboro Lights.