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Thea and Saul

Thea Luckmore had a remarkable constitution when it came to alcohol. Guts of iron, Alice called it. For some, this would be their downfall. For Thea, it was no big deal. She didn’t regard it as a skill, or a gift; nor as a demon to keep at bay, or an affliction to be wary of. She could simply drink as much as she liked, become talkative and effervescent until the small hours yet maintain the presence of mind not to snog indiscriminately, to remember where she lived, to take off her mascara before she went to sleep and to awaken with energy, a clear head and a fresh complexion. Just occasionally, however, a hangover befell her which reminded her that alcohol could be rather a bore. A hangover for Thea bore no relevance to the amount drunk the night before, it was attributable solely to champagne. And at Mark and Alice’s wedding, Veuve Clicquot flowed as if it were lemonade.

So, while Alice was trying to procure an upgrade from Club to First on her first morning as a married woman, Thea was creaking open an eyelid, groaning and praying for numb sleep. When Alice and Mark left Heathrow, First Class, two hours later, Thea managed to creep carefully to her bathroom, take two Nurofen and tolerate an invigoratingly cool shower. Although it felt as if the inside of her skull and the rims of her eye-sockets were being maliciously rubbed with industrial sandpaper, that sawdust had stuck her tongue to her tonsils and that her stomach would never absorb any kind of food again, Thea was staggered to see from the mirror that she looked as if she’d had eight hours’ sleep, a macrobiotic supper the night before and a challenging Pilates session.

She gave herself a stern look and vowed never to drink champagne again. She let the telephone ring and listened to Alice leave a message.

‘Thea? I’m on the plane! I am 38,000 feet high! We’re in First Class. Which isn’t the reason I’m calling – well, it is. But also, would you mind popping into mine while I’m away – twitch the curtains and all the etceteras? Thanks, babes. Oh! By the way, one of Mark’s cousins from America thought you were “hot”. And I’ve given him your email address – apparently, he’s over in Britain on business quite often.’

‘I can’t remember him,’ said Thea, wondering if a warmer shower might be good for the cold sweat now gripping her.

‘And if you can’t remember him, he was the one you danced with on Top Table to “Lady’s Night”.’

‘I was dancing on Top Table? Oh my God.’ Thea groaned.

‘You also danced with Jeff, one of my features editors. But despite his passion for mascara and glossy lippy, I don’t think you were aware that he is in fact gay. And shorter than you. Anyway, must fly – oh, I already am! There’s in-flight massage! Bye, darling, bye.’

A purpose was a very good idea. Thea had a purpose to the day. And after she checked on Alice’s flat, she walked sedately to the top of Primrose Hill. The air was cold and cut through the fog in her head. The wind sliced across her face and elicited tears which refreshed her eyes. She was under-dressed for the weather but every time she shivered, she found that her nausea quelled. So she stood on the top of Primrose Hill, tears coursing down her face, shuddering violently at irregular intervals. And that was when Saul Mundy first saw Thea Luckmore, all silent tears and harsh, spasmodic shuddering. She was staring in the vague direction of St Paul’s Cathedral but to Saul it seemed she was gazing deep into the nub of whatever it was that irked her so. It immediately struck him as peculiar that a seemingly unhinged person he’d never met was in fact capturing his attention. Even more bizarre was his instinct to take off his jacket and place it around her shoulders. He wanted to buy her soup. To sit her down. Though disconcerted, he felt compelled to linger. She seemed oblivious to her surroundings yet at the mercy of the elements. Trembling. Tears. Pale.

‘Hullo,’ said Saul, whether it was a good idea or not, ‘chilly, isn’t it.’ He couldn’t believe he’d chosen the weather as his opening gambit, but he was not in the habit of striking up conversation with a complete stranger, albeit an attractive woman who appeared intriguingly sorrowful. The only other thing he thought of saying was ‘nice view’, but he managed to resist.

Thea didn’t dare turn her head for fear of upsetting the fragile balance she’d achieved. Even glancing down the hill, five minutes before, had made her feel dizzy.

‘Look, excuse me for asking,’ Saul continued, ‘but are you all right?’ Fuck, now I sound like a bloody Samaritan.

‘Thanks,’ Thea mumbled, ‘I’m fine.’

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ Saul said, though it would appear he was doing just that. She said nothing. She didn’t look at him. This was so not his style and yet on he rabbited, grimacing at himself for sounding like an insipid do-gooder. ‘I just don’t like to see people crying and shivering and alone on a cold November afternoon.’

Oh for fuck’s sake, thought Thea, can’t I just have my hangover in peace?

‘I’m fine, OK?’ she grumbled. ‘I have a sodding hangover. That’s all. Go and rescue souls somewhere else, please. The devil’s had mine and I’m a lost cause.’

Saul tipped his head back and laughed. ‘I take back all my sympathy then,’ he joshed. ‘I was going to offer you my jacket. But hey, it’s Armani. And anyway, your suffering is self-inflicted, enjoy!’

Carefully, Thea turned to regard the sartorial Samaritan. And she caught her breath. She had just discovered another component for Luckmore’s Elixir for the Over-Indulged. Fresh air. Nurofen. Primrose Hill altitude. And a rather handsome guardian angel. ‘Who are you? Some zealot Methodist?’ she sparred back.

Again the man laughed. ‘I’m Saul,’ he answered, extending his hand which, to his surprise, she took, ‘and Jesus Christ do you have the coldest hands. I can’t lead you to the Lord because I don’t know the way myself. Just take my damn jacket, would you?’

‘I’m Thea and if it’s all right with you, I will just have a quick go of your jacket.’ Saul placed his jacket around Thea’s shoulders. She thanked him with a slight smile that obviously caused her a little discomfort but was rewarding for him. ‘It was my best friend’s wedding yesterday. Champagne,’ she said by way of an explanation and shrugged.

‘And today you are resolving never to drink again,’ Saul said, knowingly.

‘Did you know they have telephones on planes,’ Thea marvelled. ‘Alice phoned me from 38,000 feet.’

‘Technology, hey!’ teased Saul, who’d made a few calls from even higher altitudes in his time.

‘Amazing,’ said Thea, earnestly.

‘Sit down,’ Saul said lightly, as if the park bench was his own for the offering. ‘You’ll find some Opal Fruits in my jacket pocket. They’ve changed the name to something else so if you’re decades younger than me you won’t know what an Opal Fruit is.’

‘I’m thirty-one,’ Thea said, sitting down gratefully, ‘and I only like the red or yellow ones.’

The sugar rush from the sweets worked wonders. She must patent this cure. Fresh air, Nurofen, Primrose Hill altitude, a handsome guardian angel bearing Opal Fruits. It worked – Thea found she could turn her head with ease. Saul sat beside her. She gladly zipped up his jacket and settled into it. It was soft brown leather, lined with something warm. ‘Gorgeous jacket,’ she said gratefully.

‘Don’t you run off with it,’ Saul cautioned, eyeing it as if regretting his generosity.

‘Yes yes, it’s Armani,’ said Thea. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure – I am not capable of running anywhere today.’

‘Are there any sweeties left?’ Saul asked and Thea delighted in his childish terminology.

‘Two greens and a red,’ said Thea.

‘Well, I’ll be having the greens then,’ Saul said with exaggerated selflessness.

Thea sucked the red Opal Fruit and hummed. ‘Starburst,’ she said, ‘that’s what they’re called now. What a rubbish name for them.’

‘Opal Fruits,’ Saul sang the advert of old.

‘Made to make your mouth water,’ Thea sang back.

‘Er, would you like to go for a drink?’ Saul suggested.

Thea looked as if she might cry. ‘I shall never touch alcohol again,’ she declared, ‘even the term “hair of the dog” makes me feel nauseous.’

‘Why do Americans call it “norshus”?’ Saul pondered, unsure whether Thea had turned him down outright.

‘I don’t know,’ Thea mused, ‘norshus nauseous.’

‘But there again, why do they say “math” and “sports” and we say “maths” and “sport”?’ Saul digressed. ‘Anyway, how about I buy you some carbohydrates and protein cooked in a pan over a flame?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I was worried the term fry-up might make you nauseous or even norshus,’ Saul said, ‘but I can recommend a nice greasy sausage, two eggs slightly runny, a mound of chips, a squirt of brown sauce and a blob of red as an excellent cure for the common hangover.’ Thea groaned and paled visibly. Saul was amused but also disappointed. He quite fancied a cooked breakfast. Even at almost teatime.

‘Perhaps more sweeties?’ Thea suggested.

Saul regarded her and she regarded him straight back. She was accepting his advance. He’d struck lucky on Primrose Hill. Good God. ‘You’d like me to buy you some sweets?’ he verified. He looked at her. Those eyes aren’t watering, they’re sparkling, the minx. ‘Opal Fruits?’

‘Do you know what I’d really like? Refreshers! Do you remember them? They come in a roll, little fizzy things. Like compacted sherbet. If you chew a few at once, they fizz up and fill your mouth and bubble through your lips.’ And Thea settled further into his jacket, dipping her face so that the collar came over her nose. I can’t believe I’m being chatted up on Primrose Hill. ‘Anyway, that’s what I’d like: Refreshers.’

‘Can I trust you to sit still and not bugger off in my jacket?’ Saul asked. ‘It’s Armani.’

‘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.

‘Come on, Molly,’ said Saul, ‘best behaviour, now.’

Thea didn’t have time to hide behind a tree. As she approached the crest of Primrose Hill, she could see Saul was already there, jacketless and grinning. She picked up her pace and walked towards him, quickly congratulating herself on how handsome he was, axe-wielding homicidal maniac or not. She saw he was gloveless and at that point she smiled and waved. However, when he waved back, it appeared he was carrying a belt in his hand. She was just about to read great tomes into this, wondering what definition Sally would give belt-brandishing, when Molly appeared. Hurtling. Yapping. Running tight rings around Thea. Thea screamed.

‘Molly!’ Saul half-laughed, half-shouted, loping down the hill towards them. ‘Get down, your paws are all muddy and Thea – And Thea. And Thea – is crying.’

‘Get the dog away!’ she sobbed. ‘Get it away.’

Saul was not used to being torn between the needs of two women. But there was no way that, just then, on Primrose Hill, he could relinquish either. All he could do was call out both their names, imploring Molly to come and Thea to stay. He wanted Molly to be still and Thea not to bolt. What would Barbara Woodhouse have said? Heel? Down? Crazy hound? Paul bloody McKenna would be better.

‘Molly!’ Saul hollered. ‘Heel! Come! Down! Stay! Sit, you crazy hound!’ To Molly this was double Dutch, to the bona-fide dog owners within earshot, this was comedy. Molly was now careering around at speed, zipping through people’s legs, barking joyously and returning to yap and skittle and leap at Thea who stood stock still, her fists squeezed together and clasped under her chin.

‘She’s not mine,’ Saul shouted as if that made the situation better. Molly was now transfixed by the backside of a King Charles Spaniel some way off and Saul crept over to capture her.

By the time Molly was safely on her lead, Saul could but watch Thea hurry out of the park. Beyond earshot. With his jacket.

‘That’ll teach me to talk to strangers,’ Saul told Molly. ‘I should know to steer clear of hysterical types who drink.’ He decided to think of her no more. Nice jacket, though. That was a shame.