Love Rules (34 page)

‘Promise me,’ Thea warned him. ‘Thea!’ Richard protested, regarding her quizzically. ‘What's your problem?’

‘It was unbelievably upsetting,’ she declared, leaving the car, not checking the passenger door was shut properly, for-getting to thank Richard for the ride.

Thea savours a Lewis Carroll Moment in her hallway, encircled by closed doors. She can't decide where she wants to be,
so she sits down where she is, for a long while, until she's quite calmed down. She stays where she is, takes her mobile phone and thinks about calling Alice to tell her what Richard has said. It's strange, what she heard from Richard is ultimately more illuminating than it is shocking. And though the details are deplorable, fundamentally it has been helpful.

I almost feel I now have reasons to forgive Saul; the information by which I can understand him a little better. Facts that should lessen the revulsion and shock of it all. Plausible explanations that could appease my turmoil. Perhaps I should be relieved, perhaps I should try and philosophize that actually it has nothing to do with me – he's just being a bloke. Maybe I should believe that his emotional fidelity to me is sacred to him. That everything really can be quite all right.

‘But if Richard Stonehill can choose
not
to use hookers,’ Thea shouts, ‘why can't Saul?’

Ryanair's 10.10 a.m.

At Carcassonne, all Paul Brusseque knows, as he boards a Ryanair flight he's managed to find the fare for, is that there's this hot chick in England who's occupied his thoughts most of the time. Yeah, so she's married, but so what – from what he can deduce from the little information she's given him about husband and home, he reckons it must be on the rocks. Or else wide open. Something like that. Whatever. If she's up for some no-strings action, he isn't going to get his morals in a knot about it.

Tix. She had said something about sending him tix 2 uk. But she's a tease, this Alice Heggarty, a playful, tease of a flirt. Her text sex has tantalized him to distraction, to desiring the real thing enough to go for broke and board a plane for it. So he's her bit on the side, her bit of rough, her toyboy, her big boy, her fantasy incarnate. So what. It's a damn sight better than being a boring old fart of a husband who most likely can't satisfy her or probably cheats on her the whole time anyway. Is he in love with her? The husband? He'd be a crazy fucker not to be. Is Paul in love with her? Or is he just crazy about fucking her? Crazy enough to scrounge two days' leave and scrape together an air fare to surprise her. Sit
back and enjoy the flight. But it's cool to go with the flow. It would be boring to always let your head rule your heart.

‘Much better to think with your dick,’ Paul laughs to himself.

Paul arrives at Stansted and wonders which way London is. And where he can change his euros. And when he should contact Alice. And how – text, telephone or just turn up? And where is he going to stay?

Alice's phone made her jump. She thought she'd put it onto silent mode. Her instinct was to hide the document she was reading on her computer. Silly, really, because the caller wouldn't know what was up on screen. In fact, even someone looking over Alice's shoulder would merely note the
Guardian
website and an archive article on British sex workers. Alice doing research. Inspired by her trip to Soho with Thea over lunch. Very up
Adam
's street, after all.

However, Alice's phone ringing through a message surprised her. Paul. She might've known. He texted her around this time most days. It was strange but in the light of Thea's situation, Alice's pleasure in her extramarital dalliance had dulled a little. Paul's texts were still an ego boost and her replies remained fruity, but it was as if it was all now so fanciful as to be virtually harmless. It was a virtual affair, after all, because she hadn't actually seen or even spoken to him for a good three weeks. Last month, in fact. For Alice, the texts provided light relief from the demands of the day, an ego boost at opportune moments and a little light sauce into the blandness of her home life. Having a secret was still fun; quite safe fun, actually. It was all words and no action and where's the harm in that?

There is an enduring irony that actually there's a time and a place for spontaneity and if they are out of sync, the impact
and attraction are severely compromised. Had Paul sprung his surprise visit the previous week, she would have fizzed with the outrageous arrogance of it. She'd have played hooky from work or she'd have smuggled him up to her office or she'd have lied to Mark and invented an industry drinks party that would take up all evening. But Paul's text arrived an hour after Alice had returned to her office from her trip to Soho with Thea. His text bleeped through just as Alice was trawling articles on the Internet, absorbing the facts and figures of the socio-economics of prostitution. Over 50 per cent of men have paid for sex; 50 per cent of those pay for it regularly. Of those, 75 per cent are ABC1 men, 30–60.
Adam
's circulation was ABC1 men, 30–50. Alice calculated that the majority of
Adam
's readers had paid for sex, and a fair proportion use prostitutes often. And then she considered her colleagues and wondered who had and who does and who wouldn't. And she couldn't decide; she just couldn't decide. But the statistics indicated that a percentage had to be punters. She wondered whether to impart this information to Thea. Would it help to know that Saul was not a deviant? That he wasn't acting alone? That he wasn't even in much of a minority? Or would it actually be of little comfort and no constructive use at all?

fancy a fuck?

Paul's message raised a short smile until Alice wondered if he'd ever paid for it.

where r u?

She'd reply later. For now, she put her phone onto silent mode. She bookmarked the webpage, logged off the Internet and turned her attention to spreadsheets and her division's budgets. Twenty minutes later she checked her phone.

Oh Paul, haven't you anything better to do today than bombard me with texts? Go and climb Mont Saint Victoire, or something.

nice weather!

Alice glanced out of the window. It was a nice day.

go climb a mountain / have a wank! Alice texted back. me v busy xxx

Her phone rang. ‘Alice Heggarty,’ she answered, her eyes fixed on a spreadsheet.

‘And just how
busy
is “busy”?’ Paul was asking.

‘Listen, you!’ Alice chided. ‘I've a job to do!’

‘How about a blow-job?’ Paul riposted predictably.

‘Go and have a
wank
– go and climb a
mountain
! Bugger off.’

‘Well, there are no mountains in London,’ Paul mused, ‘and Leicester Square is not the place for a wank.’

Alice was struck silent. Paul was chuckling. Paul was
here
? There in Leicester Square? How could that be? She hadn't sent him tickets. She hadn't sent for him full stop. It never crossed her mind that he'd come unless she called. In an instant, she had to assess that affairs are not about control at all, but a teeter on the knife edge of chaos.

Paul loved every second of Alice's silence – he envisaged her shocked and delighted, rapidly rearranging all her after-noon meetings and planning the fastest route to him. He wasn't sure where Liverpool Street was in relation to Leicester Square.

‘You're
here
?’ Alice managed to exclaim at last.

‘Yup,’ Paul proclaimed.

‘But when?’ Alice asked. ‘And how long for? And why didn't you say? I'd've sent tickets.’

‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Paul said.

Alice scanned her diary. She had very little on that after-noon and only momentarily did she wonder whether this was a godsend or not. She had no deadlines to oversee, no one to let down and thus no lies to tell – no excuse, really, not to take the afternoon off. Rapidly, she reasoned that the
fact that the path to proscribed passion was today paved her way with no obstacles whatsoever was a Sign. It was Fate giving her the nod to go forth and fornicate. She felt almost protected. Surely if it was wrong, it wouldn't be so easy.

Where, when, how?

Crouch End?

Today was absolutely not the day to ask Thea to assist Alice's adulterous proclivities.

‘Take the Northern Line to Camden Town and meet me in the shoe shop opposite the Tube in twenty,’ Alice whispered covertly, leaping back into her role as adulteress.

Paul hadn't a clue what she meant. ‘Is the Tube in Twenty a store too?’

Alice was a little irritated. ‘Stupid! The
Tube
– the underground station – in twenty
minutes
.’

‘Oh – OK! Cool.’

He'd annoyed her and the thrill of what was meant to be furtive had been diluted and that made her cross.

Is it a Sign pointing the other way, then? A dead-end street with an unmissable No Entry sign?
As she packed her handbag, she decided to leave all sobering thoughts and responsibility behind in her office.

It's a quiet day, it's a lovely day, no one will know, why deny myself pure physical pleasure?

Alice was slightly irked to arrive at the shoe shop before Paul. She'd wanted to sashay in with a toss of her hair and beckon him over with the magnetism of her raised eyebrow alone. Instead, she found herself browsing shoes she'd never wear, glancing at her watch and wondering if the shop had done research into whether blaring hip-hop actually increased sales.

Paul was fifteen minutes late. ‘Sorry, baby – that Northern Line is mental! I went too far up and had to jump off at Tough Nell's Something.’

‘Tufnell Park,’ Alice corrected. ‘Hullo.’

‘Hiya. Cool trainers,’ Paul remarked, picking up a pair. ‘How much is £70?’

‘Well, let's see,’ Alice said coolly, ‘I reckon it's about seventy pounds.’

Paul laughed. ‘I mean in euros,’ he apologized.

‘Are you seriously going to buy them?’ Alice asked, glancing at her watch. She wasn't in a rush but she was bored of the shop.

Paul had a good look at the trainers. They were funky. But £70 was probably expensive. ‘Nah,’ he said, putting them back and giving Alice a squeeze. ‘You look fab.’

‘Come on,’ said Alice though she wasn't quite sure where they were going.

They meandered into Inverness Street and walked slowly by the fruit and vegetable stalls. ‘What do you want to do?’ Alice asked Paul, assuming he didn't really want to buy apples or carrots.

He raised his eyebrow lasciviously and Alice smirked back. ‘But let's get something to eat first,’ Paul countered prosaically, ‘I'm hungry.’

Alice watched him wolf down spaghetti bolognese and diverted her gaze as he chatted with his mouth full. She paid before he could order dessert. She wanted to cut to the sex. Paul Brusseque wasn't meant to be about friendly chit-chat and perusing trendy trainers. He wasn't meant to be a somewhat naive tourist in London. He wasn't meant to turn up late or be bamboozled by the London Underground system and the Euro–Sterling exchange rate. He was only meant to be about raw sex. He should grunt, not chat. He should be naked and manly – not fixated by trendy footwear. Ultimately, he should be her lover; rampant and masculine – not a cheery friend.

Had they been in the West End, she might have been tempted to blow a fortune on a hip hotel room for the afternoon. But
they were in Camden Town with not a boutique hotel in sight, let alone walking distance. ‘We'll go to mine, it's just up the road,’ Alice told him, hailing a cab by whistling through her fingers, which charmed Paul no end. So he told her how cool he thought she was. And kept asking her to whistle like that again. And Alice wished he'd just be quiet. His sex appeal was ebbing away and she was desperate to fuck him before it disappeared entirely.

Come back, Paul, back to how I remember you.

But Alice, this
is
Paul. You want Paul as you've imagined him, as you've reinvented him since your trip to France. After all, a fleeting dalliance deepened by the economy of text messaging leaves plenty of room for fanciful embellishment.

By Belsize Park, to prevent Paul wittering on, Alice started kissing him. He was, after all, still extremely kissable on the surface. She closed her eyes to the familiarity of Haverstock Hill and transported herself back to Les Baux. Back to Clapham. The times and places where Paul had kissed her before. He tasted the same and his expert oscillation turned her on again, much to her relief.

In silence, she paid the taxi and led the way up the steps to her house. She didn't want to note Paul's reaction. No doubt he'd be gobsmacked by the beauty of her home and she didn't want to see the effect on him, didn't want to invite questions, didn't want to think about betraying her husband under his own roof.

‘Christ, Alice,’ he marvelled in a hush. She plugged his mouth with her tongue while closing the front door with a kick.

‘Hullo, Mrs Sinclair.’

Oh, fucking hell.

Wednesday. The cleaner came on Wednesday afternoons. ‘Hullo, Carmen,’ Alice said to the robust Brazilian lady, relieved to detect that Carmen hadn't witnessed her snogging Paul, ‘how are you?’

‘Very good, Mrs Sinclair, thank you! I am doing ironing now – the house is very clean.’

‘Thank you, Carmen.’ Introduce Paul. Think of something. ‘This is Paulo – he has come to look at the, at the –’
At the what, for heaven's sake? He's come to look at my tits, Carmen. I wanted him to screw me on the freshly laid linen on my bed, Carmen.
‘– at the main bathroom.’

‘You change your bathroom, Mrs Sinclair?’ Carmen looked horrified. ‘But it is very beautiful bathroom. Very new. Very clean.’

‘Pressure,’ Alice said, ‘he's come to check the pressure. This way, Paulo. Follow me.’

Alice took Paul into the bathroom. She thought about pressure and allowed herself an exasperated glance in the mirror. Actually, the water pressure was wonderful, thanks to Mark's insistence on hi-tech pumping. ‘Paulo,’ Alice said loudly just in case Carmen could hear or was remotely interested, ‘this is what I mean.’ She ran the bath taps and the water gushed impressively and conspiratorially loudly. Alice turned to Paul and placed her finger over his lips. She unzipped his jeans whilst unbuttoning her blouse. She wanted to fuck and go. She wanted to have sex with him and then she wanted him to go. He fondled her breasts and took his mouth to them greedily while she enmeshed her fingers in his hair and regarded their clinch reflected in the mirror. They looked good. It was a sexy sight. She pulled his face up to hers and they tongued voraciously. Slowly, she knelt and eased down his jeans, pulled down his boxer shorts and took her mouth immediately to his glorious hard-on. She almost gagged. He'd had a long journey. He'd raced around central London. He needed a shower, ideally. A wash at the very least. But there wasn't the time for that. All Alice wanted was fast, urgent sex. ‘Do you see what I mean, Paulo?’ she suddenly called, for Carmen's benefit.