Love Rules

Thea Luckmore

Thea Luckmore’s twelve-o’clock client, a fit man in his mid-thirties, groaned under her. She kept the pressure steady and insistent until she could feel him yield, sense the tautness of his body ebb away, the grimace on his face ease into an expression of relief. She rolled his flesh between her fingers. Under her hands, he now felt as soft as his appreciative sigh. She lightened her touch and changed rhythm and direction as a wind-down. Finally, she placed both palms on his bare back, between his shoulder blades, and inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes, feeling warmth interchange between them. She exhaled quietly but deeply and opened her eyes.

‘OK,’ she said softly, lifting her hands away very slowly, ‘there you go.’ She wondered if he had fallen asleep.

‘Can’t move,’ he muffled, his face buried in the bed, ‘amazing.’

‘I’ll leave you to rest and get dressed,’ said Thea as she closed the door quietly behind her and went to wash her hands. She ran her damp fingers through her hair, giving her short, gamine crop what her mother termed ‘an Audrey Hepburn nonchalance, darling – if Audrey had been mouse-brown’. Thea hadn’t had hair long enough for a pony-tail since Headfuck Boy of her student days.

‘God, that was good,’ her client grinned, handing over £50 though he would gladly have doubled it. ‘Can I have you again next week?’

The session had drained Thea; her bones felt soft and her joints felt stiff. Often, the clients for whom her treatment had the most extreme results were those whose negative energy she absorbed in the process. Which is why they felt so energized and she felt so sapped. She flicked her hands as if trying to fling something away, shook her arms and legs and splashed cold water on her face. She could climb on the bed and sleep for an hour, which was tempting, or she could pull herself together and step out into a gorgeous spring day. Thea Luckmore always tried to do what she felt was right, even if it wasn’t quite what she felt like. So she opened the sash window to air the room and went out for a brisk walk. With an extravagantly stuffed sandwich from Pret a Manger, she strolled to Paddington Street Gardens and had an impromptu picnic with a copy of Heat magazine for company and light relief.

Her phone showed two missed calls from Giles. And a voicemail message. Thea felt burdened. Giles was nice enough. ‘But not nice enough,’ Thea explained to a pigeon who was bobbing at a respectful distance within pecking reach of any crumb she might dispense. ‘I’ve tried telling him that I value our friendship too much to jeopardize it by taking it further, but he saw that as a challenge rather than a gentle let-down.’ Filling from her sandwich dropped to the ground. The pigeon, it seemed, didn’t care for avocado. Patiently, it continued to bob and coo. ‘I like him but I don’t fizz for him. No spark – no point.’ A slice of tomato was tried and rejected so Thea gave the pigeon more bread. ‘I’m just going to have to be blunt with him. Tell him he’s simply not my type. Not that I really have a type.’ She watched the pigeon wrestle with her chewy granary crust, fending off the pestering of other birds. ‘Just a feeling.’

Thea wasn’t expecting her six o’clock to come early – she’d expected him to be at least ten minutes late. She’d developed a theory, based on ample evidence over the years, that her clients tended to be early in the winter months, when inclement weather and darkness by teatime saw them jump in cabs to arrive early yet apologetic, as if sitting quietly in the waiting room, thawing out, was somehow taking a liberty. Come the spring, her clients would stroll to her, or jump off the bus a couple of stops early. They were simply not in so much of a rush to be indoors from outside. With this March being one of the warmest on record, Thea’s clients were not turning up on time. Apart from this one. It was unexpected. But not half as unexpected as seeing Alice in reception too. Alice and the client were standing side by side awkwardly, both fixing her with a beseeching gaze like puppies in a pet shop competing for her attention. Thea mouthed ‘one minute’ to her client and with a tilt of her head, she beckoned Alice through to the kitchenette. Maintaining the mime, she raised one eyebrow to invite an explanation from Alice who thought, just then, that her best friend would make a very good headmistress. Indeed, Alice suddenly felt a little bashful, turning up and surprising Thea while her six o’clock loitered. She proffered a clutch of magazines. ‘Here,’ she said in a contrived, sheepish voice and a don’t-beat-me look on her face, ‘these are for your waiting room.’

‘Are you all right?’ Thea enquired in a discreet whisper.

‘Fine,’ Alice tried to whisper back but found that her smile of prodigious proportions caused her voice to squeak. ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘I’ll be an hour,’ Thea told her, glancing at the clock and seeing it was now six, ‘perhaps quicker. He may not need the full session today.’

Alice waited in the kitchenette while Thea led her client upstairs, small talk accompanying their footsteps. Then she returned to the waiting room and removed magazines by any rival publisher, arranging her copies of BoyRacer, HotSpots, GoodGolfing, FilmNow, YachtUK, and Vitesse. Something to cater for all of Thea’s clients, she hoped. She sat and waited, fidgeting with her hair, twisting her pony-tail up into a chignon, then French plaiting it, letting it fall in billows around her shoulders. She smiled, remembering how, when they were young and horse mad, Thea would marvel that Alice’s flaxen hair really was like a pony’s tail.

‘It’s so thick and amazing!’ Thea would say.

‘It’s a bother,’ Alice would rue, ‘I’d prefer your soft silky hair.’ Thea would brush Alice’s hair smooth, utilizing a technique they’d been taught at the riding school – holding the bunch in one hand whilst softly, gradually, rhythmically, sweeping strands away. Finally, she’d take the bunch in one hand and spin it before letting it fall, wafting down into a tangle-free fan.

‘If we were ponies, you’d be a palomino and I’d just be a boring old roan,’ Thea had said, without rancour.

‘Then pull out any dark hairs!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘Apparently, palominos can’t have more than twelve dark hairs in their tail.’

Even now, Thea automatically searched Alice’s hair. Though, if there were any rogue dark hairs to pluck, Alice gave her West End colourist an earful. She was still flaxen, but the glint and shine of her pre-teen hair now required strips of tinfoil and banter with the colourist about holidays and soap operas, for two hours and a small fortune every two months.

Thea’s six o’clock all but floated down the stairs at ten to seven and paid cash for the Cloud Nine privilege. Alice waited behind a copy of BoyRacer until Thea came to her.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Nearly,’ Thea replied, ‘I just have to tidy my room.’

‘Shall I come?’ Alice suggested. ‘Help?’

‘If you want!’ Thea laughed.

Thea’s room, at the top of the building, though small in terms of square footage, appeared airy and more spacious because of the oddly angled walls and Velux windows. It was also painted a very matt white which appeared to obscure the precise surface of the walls and gave the small room a sense of space. Underfoot was a pale beech laminate floor. A simple white small melamine desk with two plain chairs in white frosted plastic were positioned under an eave. The bed was in the centre of the room. Shelves had been built in the alcove and they were piled with white towels. Three baskets, lined in calico, were placed on the bottom shelf and filled with potions and lotions in gorgeous dark blue glass bottles.

‘It’s lovely since it’s been redone,’ Alice said. ‘Did all the rooms get the same makeover?’

Thea nodded. ‘New beds too. It’s a great space to work in – our client base has soared.’

Alice pressed down onto the bed as if testing it. Then she looked beseechingly at Thea. ‘Go on, then,’ Thea sighed, raising her eyebrows in mock exasperation, ‘just a quickie.’

‘Is that what you say to your clients?’ Alice retorted. ‘Seriously,’ she whispered, ‘do they never get the wrong idea?’

‘What?’ Thea balked. ‘And ask for “extras”?’

‘Most of your clients seem to be gorgeous sporty blokes,’ Alice commented.

‘Fuck off!’ Thea objected. ‘I’m a masseuse, I specialize in sports injuries, I barely notice what clients look like – all I’m interested in is the body under my hands and how I can help to put it right. Anyway, sporty beefy isn’t my type.’

‘Yes, yes – you don’t have a type,’ Alice said, ‘just a feeling.’ She and Thea caught eyes and laughed. ‘Well, I tell you, I wouldn’t mind copping a feel of some of your clients.’

‘Well, you’re a filthy cow,’ Thea said, ‘and I’m a professional with standards.’

‘Have you let Giles into your pants yet?’ Alice asked, taking off her top.

‘No way,’ said Thea, ‘not my type.’

‘You’ll be a virgin again soon,’ Alice remarked as she silently slipped her shoes off and unzipped her skirt. She eased herself onto the bed, lying on her stomach. She placed her face into the hole of the padded doughnut-ring at the head end.

‘OK,’ Thea said softly, ‘let’s have a feel of you.’ She placed her hands lightly on Alice and then began to work. Within moments, it felt to Alice as though a troupe of fairies was travelling all over her back, lifting her shoulder blades and dusting underneath, doing synchronized roly-polys down her spine, breathing relief in between her vertebrae, unfurling the muscles around her neck, marching over her biceps, soothing her scapulae, giving her hip-joints a good spring clean. She hadn’t had a massage from Thea in ages. Guiltily, she recalled how dismissive she had been when Thea had announced years ago that despite her first-class geography degree, she was going to train as a masseuse.

‘Pilates has had a really positive effect on your back,’ Thea declared, bringing Alice back to the present, ‘but you should check the ergonomics of your desk, chair and screen at work.’

Slowly, Alice sat up. Her face was flushed and her eyes were gently glazed with relaxation. ‘You’re a genius,’ she declared woozily, ‘you have healing hands.’

Thea, however, snorted almost derisively. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, ‘they’re just “helpful hands” – if you want truly healing hands, you want to have Reiki with Maria. Or Souki’s acupuncture. Or have Lars tutor you in the basics of Feldenkrais. My massage is more a satisfying after-dinner mint to the main course served by the other practitioners.’

‘Would you just give yourself some bloody credit, girl,’ Alice said, almost angrily. ‘You didn’t see the look on your last client’s face. Blissed-out is an understatement.’

‘I didn’t need to,’ Thea shrugged, ‘I felt his back say thank you all by itself.’

‘Can I make one tiny suggestion?’ Alice asked. ‘Ditch the plinky-plinky rainforest music in reception. It made me want to yell and wee simultaneously.’

Later that night, Thea sat up in bed, flicked on the bedside light and looked at the clock. It was in fact the early hours of the next day. She couldn’t sleep and she knew the worst place to be was her bed. She pulled on her fleece dressing gown and padded out of the room. The brutal change from soft carpet to cold floor tiles still unnerved her though she’d lived with it for four years. By the time she reached her small kitchen – a matter of only a few steps – her feet had acclimatized to the tiles. She made a cup of tea and went through to the sitting room and the comfort of carpet once more. Her mother liked to say that the flat was placed around a sixpence and it made her quite dizzy. The perpetually cold central hallway, small indeed and basically circular, was the hub off which the other rooms radiated. The bedroom, the kitchen, the sitting room, the bathroom. Standing in the hallway with all the other doors shut and surrounding you was a slightly disorientating experience. But Thea loved it. ‘It’s my little slice of Lewis Carroll Living,’ she’d proclaimed to her mother when begging her for a loan for her deposit. Viewed from the pavement, the side of the building where Thea’s flat was located was a turreted, cylindrical add-on to an otherwise unremarkable Victorian exterior.

‘A satisfying expression of Gothick-with-a-k,’ Thea’s usually serious and conservative older brother had declared with surprising approval, ‘don’t you think so, Alice?’

‘I reckon your sister just wants her Rapunzel moment!’ Alice had said.

Thea scrunched her toes into her shaggy rug and sat down, hugging her knees. She didn’t drink the tea – the ritual of making it and cupping her hands around it had been the thing. She saw her mobile phone on the sofa and reached for it. It was on and a text message was unopened.

u r happy 4 me?!! Say u r!! xxx

course I am!!! Thea replied. brill news – u deserve hap-ev-aft! Xxx

Though Alice’s news was undoubtedly brilliant, Thea was still somewhat overwhelmed by the shock of it. She thought back to Alice linking arms with her and hauling her off to Blandford Street for sushi.

Guess what!

What?

You’ll never guess!

What?

Guess!

What? Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me! That bloke from your ad agency?

I’m getting married!

That bloke from your ad agency?

No, silly. No! Mark Sinclair!

Mark Sinclair?

Yes!

Mark Sinclair?

Yes! Yes!

Mark Sinclair?

Yes, Thea, Mark Sinclair!

Does he know?

Alice hadn’t met someone. She’d found someone. Those had been her words and she was effervescing with excitement, exclamation marks now peppering her speech.

‘I found someone! I’m getting married. Fucking hell! Can you believe it! I’ve found someone!’

Initially Thea was gobsmacked into jaw-dropped silence but Alice’s animation was infectious. Though baffled by the simple facts that Alice was now engaged, that Mark Sinclair was fiancé, and though stunned by the speed of it all, Thea soon spun into Alice’s excitement. She sketched wedding-dress possibilities on serviettes while Alice, flushed and gesticulating, re-enacted the entire proposal before launching into list-making.

‘You know what? I can’t believe I didn’t think of him earlier. I mean, I’ve known him for ever! I’ve always loved him. Because he’s always always been there for me.’

Thea agreed. Mark Sinclair had always always been there. She knew him, of course, without really knowing him at all. The lovely guy who always made Alice feel better, who had always been there for her when some cad or other had done her wrong. With hindsight, Thea recalled the gaze he’d bestowed on Alice now and then over the years which, at the time, she’d interpreted as brotherly affection. After all, it was Mark who had shared with Thea the job of looking after Alice when some Lothario had broken her heart again. Mark who had gladly taken Alice out to lovely restaurants or opening nights at the theatre when she was without a date and down in the doldrums. Mark who’d been at the other end of the phone as Alice’s late-night insecurity guard. Mark who assured Alice that not all men were bastards, that there were fish in the sea aplenty and she was the prize catch. Thea had been grateful to him for this. Without ever really having had the forum to tell him so. Well, she could now. Here was one man she’d never have to take to one side to threaten that if he hurt her friend she’d kill him. He was the absolute antithesis of Alice’s previous pick. That’s why it was such a shock. Such a revelation.

And yet it made sense. Since breaking up with Bill, Alice had indeed had a quiet, sometimes pensive few months. Maybe she had made a conscientious decision to practise what she published. Perhaps it really was as easy as reassessing her wish list. Blinking and seeing that the man to marry was standing right in front of her. Learning it’s not who you love, it’s how.

‘But how long have you been seeing him? I mean, how come I didn’t know you’ve even been seeing him?’

‘Two weeks. Don’t shout at me, Thea!’

‘Two weeks? And now you’re engaged?’

‘Be happy for me – or you can’t be bridesmaid.’

‘Of course I’m happy for you, idiot. Ecstatic. I’m just shocked. Two weeks?’

‘He’s perfect. What was the point of waiting? Kind, considerate, calm – there are no safer hands in the world for handling me.’

‘Are you madly in love with him? With Mark Sinclair?’

Alice looked at Thea. ‘You do know that feeling of “madly in love” is merely phenylethylamine, Thea?’ Alice said with a sigh. ‘It’s just a natural amphetamine – which is why it’s addictive. It’s the same hormone that’s released during high-risk sports and eating chocolate.’

‘Whatever,’ said Thea, ‘but you need to be in love with someone to actually marry them.’

‘So fiction and films would have us believe,’ Alice said. ‘There’s more to marriage than being head over heels. In fact, my feet are firmly rooted and my head is now out of the clouds and firmly on my shoulders – that’s why I know it’s going to work. I’m ready for this.’

‘And you do love him,’ Thea said.

‘Everyone loves Mark,’ Alice smiled, ‘he’s one of life’s good guys.’

‘And you love him,’ said Thea.

‘I’m the love of his life. And he’s my love for life. That’s why we’re marrying. What more could I ask for?’

Now, contemplating quietly in the conducive early hours, Thea likened it to Alice having a good tidy-up and coming across something she’d forgotten all about. Like something never worn, bought on impulse, never even tried on, pushed to the back of a cupboard, then rediscovered. A perfect fit, it transpired. A delightful surprise. What disconcerted Thea was that she hadn’t ever thought that when Alice did her tidy-up, she’d find Mark. What unnerved her most – and she could now admit it in the silence and privacy of her space – was that she was actually slightly taken aback. Alice had brought Thea the best news in the world. But for the first time in their friendship, she’d done so without the need to ask Thea’s advice or seek her opinion first.

Mark Sinclair

Mark Sinclair had an aptitude for diplomacy and an instinct for manners. They hadn’t been drilled into him at home, he hadn’t learnt them at school or been trained in them after university. They were simply part of his personality and throughout his thirty-two years they had won him friends and influence. These qualities, combined with a head for figures and a heart with a strong work ethic, saw his rapid promotion through the hierarchies at ADS Internationale for whom he worked as an investment analyst. He was invaluable to them. He could speak languages, keep calm under the pressure of City finance, didn’t get drunk over business lunches, never fell out with colleagues or associates, travelled uncomplainingly and trained his immediate team into an efficient, likeable unit. The company had no need to incentivize him and every reason to reward him which they did, handsomely.

Whoever met Mark, wished to befriend him. It helped that he was fluent in Spanish and French, passable in German and Italian, and that his work took him abroad frequently. A full Filofax and a packed Palm Pilot kept track of his worldwide friendships. He was a terrific host when people came to London. He’d stock the fridge for them, tailor a list of sights to see, and provide his membership cards for a variety of museums. He’d meet them after work, having secured great seats at theatres or enviable tables in top restaurants. Mark was also a wonderful guest – as comfortable sleeping on the bottom bunk of his godson’s bed in Didsbury as he was staying in palatial grandeur in a suite at the Peninsula, Hong Kong. He loved hiking hard in Skye with his old friends the McLeods and he enjoyed putting the world to rights in French with his new friend at the Paris office, Pierre. He went on safari by himself in Kenya and made Jeep-loads of new friends there. He was a Friend of the Royal Academy of Arts and soon made friends at the Royal Academy. He had friends who’d invite him to Glyndebourne and others he’d accompany to Glastonbury. Mark Sinclair was open-minded, kind-hearted and plain good company. He hated confrontations and far preferred to bite his tongue than fall out with anyone he cared for. An even keel was what he aimed for. Which is why he had so many friends but not actually one best one.

Alice looked at Mark expectantly. She smoothed her white shirt, flicked her hair back, cocked her head and regarded him again.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked, while patting his pockets to double-check on keys, wallet, mobile phone. ‘Shall we go?’

‘But how do I look?’ Alice said, standing her ground a little petulantly. ‘Will they approve? Do you think I should wear a skirt instead?’

‘You look gorgeous,’ Mark assured her, congratulating himself on the earrings he’d bought her. ‘You look – brown?’

‘Thea did my fake tan,’ Alice said, with no embarrassment. ‘I felt a bit pale and peaky from my cold last week – I don’t want your mum to think you’re not looking after me. Do you think your parents will approve? Do you think they’ll like me? I hope your mum is a good cook – I’m starving.’

‘Of course they will,’ said Mark, ‘who wouldn’t. Come on. Mum’s Sunday Roast is legendary – but don’t touch the white wine. They only do Liebfraumilch.’

Gail Sinclair busied off to the kitchen to prepare the dessert, turning down Alice’s keen offer to help. Gail was delighted. Better still, she was charmed.

‘Charmed, absolutely charmed,’ she practised quietly to herself in the kitchen whilst decanting Marks & Spencer custard into a jug and carefully transferring their cherry Bakewell onto her best cake dish. Charmed, she continued in a whisper, Alice is delightful, Hazel. Absolutely winning to look at. A magazine person. She brought us copies – a real variety, Mary. She dotes on Mark, Carole – absolutely dotes on him. Chris and I couldn’t be more happy.

‘She’s a cracker,’ Chris Sinclair, who’d never mastered the art of the whisper, told his son; while Alice sat to his right and tried to look as though she wasn’t eavesdropping. Gail heard, even though she was at a clatter changing their everyday crockery for the best china. Chris thinks she’s a cracker, Joyce, and I know you’ll agree once you’ve met her.

Alice reckoned Chris to be in his mid-sixties, dapper despite the patterned sweater and corduroy slippers. Thinning silvery hair cut neatly, bright eyes, elegant hands and a healthy complexion due to his love of golf and gardening. She reckoned Gail to be five years younger, her hair cut into a short, neat style appropriate for her age, any grey expensively masked by an overall coppery sheen. While Mark talked to his father about PELS and Gail poured Marks & Spencer’s coulis into another jug, Alice thought how best to describe Mark’s parents and his childhood home to Thea. ‘Refreshingly nice,’ she would probably say, ‘just normal, nice people.’ She stifled giggles into her serviette, predicting how she and Thea would then analyse the mothers of boyfriends past. Callum’s mother who wore the same Whistles jeans as her own but a size smaller, Finlay’s mother who’d insisted Alice call her Mrs Jones despite allowing them to sleep together. Tom’s mother who was insanely jealous of his affection for Alice and would thus drape herself over him quite alarmingly for the duration of their visits. But Mark’s parents seemed to be simply nice, ordinary people.

‘You look like your dad,’ Alice suddenly announced though it momentarily halted conversation and fixed Gail’s cake slice mid-air. Alice was happy to predict that in thirty years or so, the man seated opposite her, whom she was soon to marry, would look a little like the gentleman currently seated to her left.

Charmed, Gail thought to herself again, charmed.

Chris and Mark browsed the Sunday papers while Gail poured coffee and Alice effervesced over the beauty of their garden.

‘God, I completely love your verbena.’

‘Viburnum,’ Gail corrected lightly. ‘Have you a garden?’

‘Well, at the moment, I’m restricted to what the lifestyle mags call patio living,’ Alice said. ‘It’s basically a small, glorified back yard covered with cream gravel and pots with plants that die on me on an annual basis. And twisty wire furniture that looks amazing, cost a bloody fortune and is bloody uncomfortable.’

Gail looked at Alice without expression at much the same time that Alice thought to herself shit! Is ‘bloody’ swearing? And Mark jerked up from the Sunday Times thinking oh shit, she bloody swore.

‘Perhaps once you’re married, you’ll find a house with a garden,’ Gail said diplomatically. ‘Herbaceous borders pretty much look after themselves and perennials do just what they’re meant to do.’ She took a thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘They needn’t be expensive either.’ See, no need for ‘bloody’.

‘Lovely idea,’ said Alice warmly, helping herself to another chocolate because she noted that Gail was on her third.

‘Now, I want to hear all about the proposal,’ Gail said expectantly, ‘all the romantic details.’

‘Mum –’ Mark remonstrated, raising his eyebrow at his father for sympathy and assistance.

‘Did he get down on bended knee?’ Gail asked. ‘Did he take you to a restaurant and have the maître d’ present you with a diamond ring?’ Mark groaned but Alice giggled. She thought Gail probably had the makings of a rather good mother-in-law. ‘Perhaps he whisked you off to Venice for the weekend and popped the question aboard a gondola?’

‘Last week,’ Alice grinned over to Mark who was attempting to disappear behind the Sunday Times, ‘at Mark’s flat. He was cooking that amazing chorizo and butterbean casserole thing with the six cloves of garlic. We had a glass of Rioja. I was eating a carrot.’

Gail had never been a fan of garlic, let alone Spanish peasant fare, but she tried to look enthusiastic.

‘It struck me, it simply struck me that it was the best idea ever,’ Alice said dreamily.

‘Yes, but how was the question itself popped?’ Gail persisted. ‘Mark’s father whisked me to Paris expressly to propose.’

Alice grinned. ‘It was quite matter of fact, actually,’ she said, ‘I had to turn down the radio to be heard. It all made such perfect sense. Even though I had a mouth full of carrot, I just looked at Mark and said “Marry me, Mark, marry me.” He looked at me as if he was having difficulty understanding my language. So I swallowed the carrot, repeated the question and added “please”. Still he stared. And then he said yes.’

Gail stared at Alice as if she had difficulty understanding her language. Chris just stared. ‘What’s that on your shirt?’ Gail exclaimed, looking horrified. ‘On the collar and cuffs? It’s brown.’

‘What?’ Alice looked at her collar and cuffs. ‘Oh bugger!’ she declared. ‘It’s fake tan. I’ll bloody kill Thea.’

‘Do you think they liked me?’ Alice asked Mark as they drove away.

‘Of course,’ Mark assured her, concentrating on the road, biting his tongue on being cut up by a man with a sharp haircut driving a car that was obviously meant to look like a Porsche but was glaringly not. Alice gazed out of the car. She pressed her cheek against the passenger window. She needn’t have had the fake tan – the wine at lunchtime, the effort of being on best behaviour had made her feel quite warm. She looked at the trees, some bursting into leaf, others in full blossom. She’d learn the names of lots of plants by the time she next met Mark’s parents. And she’d try not to swear.