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January, Issue 8
Jack Nicholson cover
Is this the coolest man in the world?
The year in preview – wear it, see it, hear it, buy it
Health & fitness: six weeks to a six-pack
Motors – penis extension or life support?
Sex – do it
Money – make it
Property – live it
Win! Gadgets and gear up for grabs
ADAM
February, Issue 9
Nicole Kidman cover
Nicole, we love you, marry us
Hot property – buy abroad, get a tan, make a profit
Fitness: back your back
Hand-made shoes and bespoke suits, every wardrobe should have them
Sex – it’s good for you, fact
Tool kits and WD40: every woman loves a handyman
Plus! Reviews – we’ve seen ’em, read ’em, heard ’em, tasted ’em and played ’em
Win! Sail into the sunset: two weeks on a luxury yacht
ADAM
March, Issue 10
Sean Connery cover
Connery – the real McCoy
There’s something about Mary, Isla and Jen – supermodels with brains and bod
Prison – it’s a step closer than you’d think
Double your money in half a year
Bachelor pad or disaster area: architects, designers, cleaners show us how
Love handles? Man boobs? Stop it with the names and get rid of them in 4 weeks
Sex – come together or drift apart
Win! Top seats at Top 10 sporting fixtures
‘Thea, I’ve blocked out your eleven-o’clock slot,’ Souki put her hand over the telephone receiver and told Thea, who was arranging magazines for the waiting room and flowers for the reception. ‘New client – sounds desperate.’
‘Sure,’ said Thea.
‘That’s fine,’ Souki told the caller. ‘May I take your name? Mr Sewell. Lovely, we’ll see you in a couple of hours. Yes, Baker Street Tube. That’s right. Goodbye.’ Souki filled in the appointments diary and turned to Thea. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘I was half hoping Saul might pop by with lattes all round,’ Thea remarked.
‘Two days on the trot might be wishful thinking,’ Souki said. ‘Do you think we could offer Saul free fortnightly massage in return for daily lattes?’
‘I’ll put it to him,’ Thea said, ‘though he claims to hate massage. Says it makes him feel uncomfortable and exposed.’
‘Just wait till he puts his back out through squash or something – he’ll be begging for it,’ Souki declared. ‘Earl Grey or Red Bush?’
‘RB, please. So who’s the eleven o’clock?’
‘A Mr Sewell – said he’s done his back in,’ Souki informed Thea, ‘but as Brent and Dan are fully booked, I reckoned yours were the second-safest hands.’
Mr Sewell arrived ten minutes early. He was far younger than Thea had expected. In fact, he looked like Peter O’Toole in his Lawrence of Arabia period, which was a very pleasant surprise. Though dressed smartly, the pain from his back caused his suit to hang oddly, as if he’d forgotten to remove the hanger. Likewise, his face had an exaggerated angularity caused by teeth clenching; what appeared to be extraordinary blue eyes were dulled.
‘Usually, clients who refer to themselves as Mr or Mrs Such-and-Such are older,’ Thea remarked by way of small talk as she led the way to her room at the top. He didn’t say his name was Gabriel until Thea took his details and asked for it outright. She noted him shift gingerly in the seat, a greyness flood his face as he did so. If pain was this visible, the poor man must be in torment, she thought. In her experience, men in pain either exaggerated its intensity or downplayed it entirely.
‘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 keyboard.
‘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.’
‘Alice!’ Mark exclaimed, unprepared for her reaction. ‘I thought you liked Lisa – you said she’s a marvellous cook. And you’ve been saying recently how you’d like us to go out more, do things.’
‘I’m more than just your corporate wife, you know,’ Alice said, unfairly as Mark had never treated her as such. Mark, bewildered that a dinner invite and concert tickets could have such an adverse effect on Alice, started cleaning the coffee machine.
With her back towards Mark, she lowered her voice. ‘I’m thirty-two, Mark. I don’t want to do boring dinner parties and stuffy concerts all the time.’
‘Come on,’ Mark said, ‘it’s hardly all the time.’
Alice turned to face him, her hands on her hips. ‘That’s true,’ she said, ‘because the rest of the time you’re invariably away.’
‘Alice, that’s not fair,’ Mark objected, ‘I work hard because I work for us.’ He waved his hand around vaguely to signify their home.
‘And I’m just the little wifey keeping your home fire burning?’ Alice asked spikily.
Mark ran his hands through his hair, though they were full of coffee grains. He was hurt. But very clear. ‘You know what, Alice,’ Mark said, ‘for me that is precisely one of the joys of marriage – knowing you are my home. Wherever I am in the world, whatever time it is, no matter how stressful my day or how hectic my schedule, there’s this underlying warmth and security which makes sense of everything – the knowledge of my wife, my home.’
Alice flounced off to bed early, in the spare room, in her old bed. She dreamt of New York and David Bowie; that she and Thea brought roses to the shoot, which liquefied into green gloop. In the small hours, she awoke with her heart racing, acutely aware of the hurt and confusion she’d caused the man who loved her most. She felt ashamed. Mark’s love was unconditional and she told herself that she should aim to love him likewise. She waited a while and then tiptoed to their bedroom, to their vast bed and said sorry.
Mark was finding it difficult to sleep. His back hurt, the Gerber–Klein deal was a lingering headache and it pained him that he’d upset Alice. He welcomed her with open arms and a tender kiss to her forehead.
Alice had seemed distracted at Pilates, cutting her session short to sit quietly in the reception area, browsing back issues of Hello magazine. Even suggesting the bistro on a balmy May evening had taken Thea some doing. Assessing the menu, she remarked that Alice seemed tired.
‘I’m not tired,’ Alice said.
‘Hungry?’ Thea asked, beckoning the waitress.
‘Not particularly,’ Alice said, glancing at the specials board.
‘Oh, my God, are you pregnant?’ Thea gasped because Sally had recently announced that she was and she looked tired and had gone off Pilates and chips.
‘I am most certainly not pregnant,’ Alice declared flatly.
‘Is it work?’ Thea presumed.
‘No, Thea,’ Alice said, ‘it’s Mark.’
‘Mark?’ Thea balked, ignoring the chips, which had just arrived. She stared at Alice who was gazing into the middle distance of the restaurant. ‘Alice?’
‘Yes,’ said Alice, prodding the pasta without looking, ‘Mark.’
‘What’s he done?’ Thea demanded, heaping Greek salad onto her fork.
‘Nothing,’ Alice said despondently, twirling the pasta to such a degree that it unwound from the fork completely.
‘Nothing?’ Thea repeated, with her mouth full.
‘Yes, nothing,’ Alice sighed, lifting her empty fork and putting it in her mouth, ‘and that’s the point. It’s just nothingy.’ She shrugged. ‘All work and no play make Mark a dull, dull boy.’ Though she felt instantly disloyal, she was just a little relieved too. ‘I’m scared that I’m bored,’ Alice confided, looking genuinely alarmed. ‘I’m worried, Thea. Actually, perhaps it’s not Mark. Perhaps it’s me.’
Thea didn’t want to hear this and didn’t know what to make of it, let alone how to comment. ‘Mark is all that you’ve wanted and he is all that you need, he’s what you never had and you married him precisely for his commitment and his soberness,’ she told Alice sternly.
‘But his commitment is to work and he’s so sober it’s a bore,’ Alice muttered. ‘Corporate dinners and bloody opera, Thea, that’s the sum of it.’
‘What are his workmates like?’ Thea asked, trying to be positive.
‘Mark doesn’t have “mates”, Thea,’ Alice said, ‘he has colleagues and clients. They’re fine – I mean, a similar age – but dull.’
‘Well, I love Mark,’ Thea said warmly. ‘Let’s organize some evenings together, the four of us. How about salsa? Or that hysterical pub quiz you and I used to go to? I don’t know, ice-skating at Ally Pally?’
Alice shrugged. ‘Can you honestly see Mark salsa dancing? Do you really think he’d leave work on time for a pub quiz?’
‘Come on,’ Thea said gently, ‘perhaps you’re a little stressed yourself – work?’
Alice laughed harshly. ‘I have David Bowie as my cover boy – how can I be stressed?’
‘Maybe Mark’s stress is rubbing off on you?’ Thea tried, knowing she didn’t sound convincing.
‘Mark is ticking along just fine, Thea – it’s me,’ Alice whispered. ‘Suddenly he seems so much older than me.’ She couldn’t say it so she mouthed it, staring at the table. Boring.
Thea didn’t want to hear this. Mark Sinclair was Alice’s salvation, the yin to her yang. Alice, it seemed to Thea, had done the grown-up thing when she married Mark; she’d set the standard and embraced the rules. Alice being unhappy made Thea feel discomfited. That Alice was bored caused Thea to worry. As her best friend, she didn’t think twice about reprimanding Alice.
‘You need to remember all your reasons for marrying Mark,’ Thea told her, ‘and you need to remember that your playboy exes actually made you miserable. You need to think logically about marriage, Alice, because by definition, you’re in it for the long haul. Of course there are going to be fluctuations in temperature – cold currents, heatwaves, warm periods. Maybe you should look on it as just being a little unsettled at the moment,’ Thea concluded, hoping to sound reassuring, ‘and know that it’ll abate and be fine.’
‘I’m starting to feel stifled, Thea,’ Alice said quietly, wondering when her best friend had become a meteorologist and marriage counsellor. ‘There seems to be no frisson between me and Mark. No fizz. It’s all gone a bit flat.’
‘Alice, I’m the diehard romantic here but even I can acknowledge that there’s more to marriage than raunchy sex or just being in love,’ Thea said. ‘Anyway, I thought you said frissons and fizz were just phenyl-something.’
‘Phenylethylamine,’ Alice muttered. She felt irritated. It wasn’t as if Thea was even living with Saul, so on what authority could she lecture? ‘I mean, of course I want to grow old with Mark – I just don’t want to be old while I’m still youngish.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Thea said, because she really couldn’t start thinking it could possibly be anything other. She believed in the mystical sanctity of being in love; she didn’t like the way Alice dissected it into chemical components, albeit light-heartedly. But just then, Thea prayed for surges of adrenalin and dopamine and that phenyl-something for her best friend, so that Alice could feel love flushed and happy to be Mrs Sinclair once more.
Later that night, after sending a text message to Alice assuring her that everything would be OK and that she was there for her, Thea rang Saul to say goodnight. He wasn’t in and his mobile was switched off. She tried again ten minutes later. And then ten minutes after that, when his mobile was back on.
‘Hullo,’ said Thea, hearing traffic in the background, ‘where are you?’
‘I’ve just nipped out for a pint of milk and some chocolate biscuits,’ Saul said. Thea was surprised he hadn’t come across the milk she’d replenished that morning and the KitKats and Hobnobs. ‘Oh,’ Saul faltered, ‘did you? Thanks. How was Pilates?’
‘Good,’ Thea said, settling into bed for a chat.
‘What was it tonight – Rioja and chips?’ Saul laughed, obviously walking briskly.
‘Alice seemed a bit tired, actually,’ said Thea, ‘off her chips. Tell you what, why not call me from the land line in a mo’?’
Actually, it took half an hour for Saul to return Thea’s call when it transpired he hadn’t nipped to that corner shop but actually one further afield.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she asked him.
‘Shoot,’ said Saul, clattering around his flat.
‘Mark –’ Thea started. ‘You get on with him, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Saul, ‘who wouldn’t.’
‘But you really get on well with Richard, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Saul qualified easily, ‘Richard’s a really good bloke.’
‘Is Mark not a good bloke, then?’ Thea asked.
Saul paused. ‘Mark’s more of a nice guy than a good bloke,’ he explained.
ADAM
June, Issue 13
1st Anniversary special edition
Beautiful Britain cover
Celebrate!
It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it: Britain’s top-selling men’s mag one year on
Models, actors, singers, whatever – the best of British
Power couples – who has the balls may not be who wears the trousers
High street or haute couture – who can tell?
Build muscle, lose fat, eat like a horse, no catch
She told me she was 16 – and other nightmare scenarios
Wear it, hear it, read it, see it – cutting edge and lead the pack
All the news-stands at Heathrow Airport were awash with the anniversary issue of Adam. Because Alice hadn’t been able to justify a trip to New York for the Bowie shoot and because Mark himself had stayed longer than anticipated in the States, he was whisking his wife off to Marbella for the weekend as a consolation prize, a gesture. And also, a celebration – he’d finally secured the Gerber–Klein deal. He’d propped her passport and plane ticket against her toothbrush when he’d left early for work.
Mark picked up a copy of Adam and bought it. Alice looked puzzled. ‘I bring copies home, Mark.’
‘Ah, but I want the pleasure of buying my own. Anyone who’s anyone buys Adam,’ Mark said sweetly, ‘it’s the ultimate accessory. Anyway, a little subliminal marketing never goes amiss – I can always tuck my copy of the Economist inside the cover.’
Alice smiled and went in search of a paperback. She needed a break. They both did.
ADAM
July, Issue 14
Tour de France cover
Superhumans or simple junkies – peddling and pedalling with the peloton
The porn star, the housewife, the sex therapist – three women set you homework
Beach buff – crash course to boost confidence and tone
Next year, we’ll be mostly wearing … the fashion industry laid bare
I earn, I live, I’m broke – stretch it without feeling the pinch
The best – and worst – jobs in the world
The house that Jack built – self-build successes … and nightmares
Win! £50,000 of watches waiting
ADAM
August, Issue 15
Double cover: David Bowie/Iman
Beautiful couple – Mr and Mrs Bowie, as good as it gets
A shark ate my homework … and my arm – facing near-death with a sense of humour
All buy yourself – online investing made simple
Cooking – have her begging for more
I’m 30 and I know I’ll never have sex again
Liam Gallagher, icon or scally?
Property – buy or rent, sell or let?
Scrutinized! New releases – buy it, or don’t. Trust us
Alice and Thea were concentrating on Sally’s abdomen. Sally sighed and poked herself in different spots. They all stared for a while longer. She stood, shifted around, sat down heavily and placed her palms all over her bump. ‘Perform – or I’ll dock your pocket money!’ Sally growled at her belly.
‘Was that something?’ Thea gasped.
‘No,’ Sally said. ‘But that is! Quick, give me your hands!’
Thea and Alice had their hands against Sally’s stomach and stayed that way for quite some time to no avail. ‘I know, I’ll eat some pickled onion crisps – that usually has the wriglet cartwheeling.’ But she’d eaten her way through an industrial supply recently and there were no packets left.
‘Let’s do the ring test,’ Alice suggested. ‘Sally, give me your wedding ring – and Thea, let me have your necklace. Then we dangle it over Sally’s bump and if it swings back and forth, it’s a boy. Circles – and it’s a girl.’
‘Oh, my God, it’s twins!’ Thea declared as the ring swung this way and that.
‘Flatulence, more like,’ laughed Sally.
Alice took the necklace from Thea. ‘Seriously,’ she said with a face so straight the other two laughed, ‘it works – my grandma told me.’
‘Your grandma also told you if you ate your crusts your hair would curl,’ Thea reminisced, ‘but despite living on toast you still had to resort to that terrifying perm when you were sixteen.’
‘Shut up,’ Alice said, ‘watch – the ring is going round and round. You’re having a girl. Oh. Hang on. No, it’s not. What’s it doing now? It’s a boy.’
Soon enough, they were swinging the ring over the cat (who was male, according to the ring, though her kittens born two years previously would seem to disprove it), a picture of Prince Charles on the Radio Times (‘Boy!’ Alice proclaimed triumphantly) and Richard’s shoes (‘Boy! See!’ Alice laughed). Even the floorboards had gender according to the swing of the ring.
‘When are you and Mark going to breed?’ Sally asked Alice, telling herself not to panic that the ring didn’t appear to move at all when she dangled it.
Alice took the ring and assessed the sex of a cushion tucked up Thea’s jumper. ‘I don’t know,’ she said cautiously, ‘I mean, when we were engaged we’d talk dreamily of babies and sandpits and Winnie-the-Pooh. When we bought the house we allocated “kids’ rooms”. But actually, we haven’t mentioned it.’
‘There again, I’ve been married to Richard for nearly seven years,’ Sally said, ‘and you two are still pretty much newly-weds.’
‘Coming up to two years, actually,’ Alice corrected. She gave Sally back her ring and hooked Thea’s necklace around her neck. ‘I guess I don’t feel ready. I guess Adam’s been my baby. I guess you have to have sex to conceive and my husband is invariably in a different time zone and continent to me.’
‘Mark would make a lovely father,’ Sally projected. ‘How about you and Saul, Thea?’
‘Us?’ Thea said, looking up from a pregnancy magazine. ‘We’re not even living together, let alone married.’ Her glum pout surprised Alice.
‘But you’ve been together for ages,’ Sally declared.
Thea shrugged.
‘You’re not waiting for him to ask, are you?’ Sally probed, as if the notion was so old-fashioned as to be far-fetched.
Thea shrugged again.
‘Ever the romantic, our Thea,’ Alice said fondly, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘So?’ said Thea, resolutely.
ADAM
September, Issue 16
Willem Dafoe cover
The quiet hero – Dafoe defines cool
Sex – learn the language of talking dirty
Perfect ‘V’ – hone your physique in a month
Divas, sparrows, angels, fruitcakes – female rock goddesses
Yeah man, I was there: Woodstock, Isle of Wight, Glastonbury
Big Brother – 130 CCTVs log your daily movements
Fast-food nation – terrifying facts that’ll have you reaching for the alfalfa
Toys, gadgets and gizmos – we don’t need them, but we love them
ADAM
October, Issue 17
The Survivor’s Guide. Underwater cover
How to love and have lust survive
How to do platonic sex and have the friendship survive
How to dive with sharks and survive
How to play the stock market and survive
How to cook a banquet and have your guests survive
How to renovate your house – and have the building survive
How to win a survival course in the Pyrenees
Mark stroked Alice’s stomach, turned away from Newsnight and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. ‘When is Sally’s baby due?’ he asked.
‘Couple of months,’ Alice told him, her eyes on the vast television screen, ‘I think her due date is Boxing Day.’
‘You’d look glorious pregnant,’ Mark anticipated. Alice was quiet. ‘Maybe we should think about trying?’ Mark said. ‘We are married, after all. And we are ageing rapidly. And we do rattle around this big place. And I don’t know about you but maybe the cogs of my biological clock are starting to turn.’
Alice wanted to cry and she hadn’t a clue why. She invented a coughing fit and rushed to the kitchen for a long drink of water.
ADAM
November, Issue 18
Mick Jagger cover
Old enough to be your dad, cool enough to be your mate, rich enough to buy a continent – Sir Mick, we salute you!
Stay or stray? When love loses lust
Lizzie Jagger – what would her dad say?
Undercover in Afghanistan
Armani or Burton – who suits you?
Fitness – prepare now for your mum’s Christmas cooking
Sex and drugs – don’t try this at home
Money – save or spend: is it worth it?
Kiki had worked in the West End for three years, from the time she came to Britain from Indonesia at the age of seventeen. She liked it. The money was good. Her colleagues were now as close as family. Her clients were mostly fine. Her accommodation exceeded her expectations. She felt she had much to be thankful for because she knew she was much luckier than some. Kiki chose not to take much time off, limiting herself to one morning and one afternoon a week but never a whole day. It didn’t seem worth it; her plan was to save and not spend and she didn’t hate her job enough to run from it whenever she could. She’d seen quite early on how not much business came in on Monday afternoons and Sundays so these were the times she decided not to work.
In the first year of her life in London, she had spent her Sundays and Monday afternoons too overwhelmed by the scale of the capital city, the pace of it all, to do much else than go from McDonald’s to McDonald’s, splitting a meal between establishments and giving herself an allowance that stretched to a further soft drink and two cups of tea to fill her free time. It wasn’t that Kiki became braver, but as time passed the city seemed smaller; her awe simply dwindled and her penchant for McDonald’s ceased altogether. As her English improved and she found Time Out fairly easy to read, she took to venturing further afield. She started with the major museums and galleries, then she sought out smaller collections, traversing London from east to west, north to south as she did so.
She went on a tour of the Thames Barrier and walked around Hampstead with a group of strangers and a guide dressed as Charles Dickens. She lay on her back alongside other visitors at an installation at Tate Modern and craned her neck during a walking tour of the financial district. She went backstage at the Royal Opera House and down into the orchestra pit at the Barbican. She pressed the buttons in the Science Museum and rode the small train at Kew Bridge Steam Museum. She walked around a candlelit restored Huguenot property in Folgate Street in reverential silence and sang ‘My Old Man Said Follow the Van’ raucously at a living Music Hall museum. From fans to dolls, musical to medical instruments, from wine to buses – it seemed to Kiki there was a museum to celebrate everything.
Kiki had never heard the shipping forecast. The radio at work, when on, was set to Heart FM and softly at that. But she’d read about an exhibition called ‘The Shipping Forecast’ showing at a gallery space within Spitalfields market and, though she didn’t know her North from her South Utsire, it was a rainy October Sunday so she decided to go along.
‘At school, Alice and I did a project called The Shipping Forecast in our second year,’ Thea told Saul. ‘It was our first and – if I don’t count our David Bowie collage – our last foray into mixed media.’ Saul laughed and unfurled his umbrella to protect them both from a sudden squall. ‘Don’t laugh,’ Thea protested, ‘we sewed and stuck and modelled and carved all the stations on the forecast. We spent ages on it. And though we spelt German Bight incorrectly and treated Lundy Fastnet as a single location – overall, it looked good.’
‘So do those burgers,’ Saul salivated as they walked through Spitalfields, ‘look at the size of them.’
‘Culture first,’ Thea said, ‘then I’ll buy you lunch.’
The exhibition was small; just one photo per location, but the space was cleverly subdivided by walls and screens to create a journey for the viewer. This also served to give a sense of private viewing time in front of each image, the chatter of the market merely a muffled background thrum. Saul was leaving Dogger and Thea was approaching Biscay when Kiki moved away from South-east Iceland.
‘Hullo.’
Thea glanced round but the greeting appeared to be directed at Saul. She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head, regarding the girl. She knew her from somewhere. ‘Hullo,’ Thea said.
‘Oh, hi!’ the girl exclaimed, blushing. She bade Saul and Thea goodbye and off she went, with the shy smile that had enabled Thea to place her.
‘It’s clicked,’ Thea said to Saul.
‘Sorry?’ Saul said. ‘Great photo, this one of Rockall – look at the quality of the light.’
‘The girl – that girl,’ Thea continued, thinking the photo Saul referred to was actually quite ordinary.
‘What?’ Saul looked confused and was moving over to Bailey.
‘That girl,’ Thea said, ‘just then – who said hullo to you and me.’
Saul pointed to the photo of Malin. ‘Now this,’ he said, still pointing, ‘this I like.’
Thea stood alongside him and slipped her hand into his. ‘I prefer that one behind there, of Portland,’ she said, guiding Saul through with her hands in the back pockets of his jeans. ‘She works a couple of doors down from the Being Well – in that dodgy sauna-massage place!’
‘Really?’ Saul said, peering at the Hebrides.
‘You’ve probably seen her without realizing it,’ Thea said, ‘en route to visiting me.’
Saul turned away from Cromarty. ‘Shall we go for that burger now?’ he suggested, putting his arm around Thea’s shoulders and guiding her away from Viking back through to the market.
ADAM
December, Issue 19
Julia Roberts as Christmas Fairy cover
All we want for Christmas is Julia
Christmas parties – seasonal snogging, festive favours, misplaced mistletoe
Christmas bonus – mine’s bigger than yours
Christmas crap – we sift through the tat so you don’t have to
Christmas cheer – your round
Christmas dinner – dos
Christmas carols – don’ts
Christmas present – free CD: the year’s hottest sounds
Christmas past – how to do a great New Year’s Eve
‘Do you know, I’ve been married for exactly two years and this is the first time I’ve used this particular Le Creuset casserole,’ Alice declared to Thea, peeling a label from the lid.
‘Is that because you’re a ready-meal kind of girl,’ Thea teased her, ‘or because you eat out an inordinate amount?’
Alice laughed. ‘Actually, it’s because I put one of absolutely every Le Creuset product on the wedding list so I simply have had no need of this dish thus far.’
‘I assume this corkscrew was a wedding present too,’ Thea grumbled, ‘it’s so state-of-the-art I haven’t a clue how to use it. In fact, I’m assuming it is a corkscrew, right?’
Alice gave Thea the onions to peel while she wrestled with the corkscrew. ‘Bloody thing,’ she said at length, ‘I’m sure the regular old one is at the back of a drawer.’
‘And which drawer would that be?’ Thea remarked, eyeing the impressive run of them.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Alice sighed. ‘You rummage through those over there and these here, and I’ll wade my way through those and these.’
‘Bingo,’ Thea said after a good five minutes’ clattering, fulminating and rediscovering items Alice had thought she’d lost. She uncorked the Rioja and poured two glasses, adding a slosh to the sauce bubbling gently in a small Le Creuset saucepan. ‘When’s Mark back?’
‘Friday,’ Alice said.
‘Christ, that’s cutting it fine for Christmas shopping, isn’t it?’ Thea declared.
‘That’s why he’d better find time to shop in Singapore,’ Alice reasoned, ‘or else I’ll make him suffer for it during the January sales.’
‘Did I tell you I’m going to Saul’s folks for Boxing Day?’ Thea said, sitting herself up on one of the many work surfaces while Alice arranged orange slices and cinnamon sticks on top of the chicken. ‘It’s weird, in London, and as I know him, Saul seems so self-contained, so independent, at harmony with his environment – as if he’s always been this age, living in his pad, doing his job.’ She raised her legs so Alice could retrieve a zester from a drawer beneath her. ‘Yet back in Nottingham there are graduation photos and junior-school woodwork examples and tennis trophies belonging to someone called Saul Mundy who I don’t know. And parents. I find them peculiar too – though actually they’re completely normal and really pretty nice. I simply can’t connect Saul to them.’ Thea shifted slightly so that Alice could check the recipe propped up behind her. ‘It’s as if seeing him in his family home rids him of some of the identity I associate with him.’
‘Mark hasn’t changed a jot,’ Alice said fondly, shutting the oven door and wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘It’ll be an hour and a half, shall we have some nibbles while we wait?’ Alice and Thea sat and chatted, sipped wine and munched tortilla chips. ‘The bloke in my wedding photograph is identical to the photo on his parents’ mantelpiece of the twelve-year-old collecting his Junior Chess Champion medal from Peter Purves,’ Alice said, stretching out on her sofa and placing her feet on Thea’s lap. ‘Mind you, I suppose I’ve known Mark for almost as many years so there are unlikely to be surprises or skeletons.’ They chinked wineglasses and suddenly she missed him very much. ‘I feel bad,’ she confided. ‘He goes away and I denounce him – yet then I think of his Junior Chess Champion medal or the way he folds everything away every night and I long for him.’
‘Friday is only the day after the day after tomorrow,’ Thea soothed.
‘I’ll probably be a stroppy cow when he’s back,’ Alice said, resigned, ‘poor old Mark.’
‘Mark thinks he’s the luckiest bloke in the world,’ Thea told Alice.
‘I think we should do our New Year’s resolutions tonight, you and me,’ Alice declared, ‘because we won’t see each other till next year, after all. I kind of wish Mark hadn’t booked Paris for New Year’s Eve – but there’s no way I can complain, let alone cancel.’
Over a fabulous Moroccan chicken casserole with saffron rice and roasted butternut squash, and Christmas crackers from Heals, Alice laid out her hopes for the next year.
‘I want to win Publisher of the Year,’ she listed, straightening her paper crown, ‘I want Adam to outsell GQ.’
‘Those aren’t resolutions,’ Thea told her, testing the plastic whistle that came in her cracker, ‘they’re goals.’
‘Top of my wish-list,’ Alice shrugged, reading the cracker joke and deciding swiftly it wasn’t worth repeating out loud.
‘What about you and Mark?’ Thea asked.
‘I suppose,’ Alice said cautiously, ‘it would be to spend more time together. But then that was my aim last year. I suppose, it’s for me to be less narky with him. And to develop a taste for opera.’
‘And thoughts of babies, perhaps?’ Thea suggested.
‘I’m going to see Sally tomorrow,’ said Alice, changing track but not the subject. ‘I bought the dearest present for baby Juliette.’
‘Well, if you do have any thoughts about babies,’ Thea said, ‘for goodness’ sake tell Sally not to tell you her birth story.’
‘Shitting a watermelon?’ Alice asked.
‘With spikes on,’ Thea whispered.
‘Anyway, I’m not thinking of having babies,’ Alice whispered back.
‘But Mark is,’ Thea said quietly.
Over Marks & Spencer’s Christmas pudding and fresh lychees, Thea divulged her thoughts for the coming year. ‘I’m going to redecorate my flat – a room a month,’ she said, ‘and I’m going to go running every other lunch hour. I’m going to do my tax on time and pay my credit cards off each month.’ She chinked Alice’s wineglass.
‘And Saul?’ Alice asked. ‘Where do you see the both of you this time next year? Will you have wed and bred?’
Thea fell silent. She pressed the back of her fork down hard onto the pudding, squashing it flat. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m hoping for some sense of planning. A strategy.’ She took a second helping of Christmas pudding and ate a couple of spoonfuls thoughtfully before peeling another lychee. ‘You know lychees are known as “babies’ bottoms” too?’ she remarked.
‘It still doesn’t make me broody,’ said Alice, analysing the fruit.
‘I don’t doubt Saul’s love for me,’ Thea explained, ‘but we never really assess it. Neither of us has a problem with commitment – but we haven’t ever sat down and analysed where we’re at. We just stroll from day to day, ambling along, hand in hand.’
‘It sounds idyllic to me,’ said Alice, ‘and anyway, you know how it’s sometimes counterproductive to analyse a relationship – the whole “let’s talk about Us” syndrome.’
‘I know. Believe me, from experience, I do know that. But I wouldn’t mind hearing Saul proclaim that I’m the girl for him.’ Thea shrugged at Alice.
‘I know what it is,’ Alice said, pouring them both some Cointreau. ‘You have no shadow of doubt that Saul is indeed your knight in shining armour. But what you want is for him to behave like one,’ she declared.
‘Rose between his teeth, bended knee – the lot,’ Thea laughed, her fist to the table. ‘God, you know me well – if you weren’t already married, I’d suggest you and I wed.’
‘Would you say yes, then, if Saul asked?’ Alice probed.
‘I don’t need him to ask me to marry him,’ Thea said, ‘that’s not the point at all.’
‘You are funny – funny peculiar,’ Alice said, ‘you’re such a sucker for extreme romance and yet marriage just isn’t on your agenda, is it?’
‘But you’re just as funny peculiar,’ Thea sparred, ‘because you can explain the sensation of love in chemical terms yet you marched down the aisle in a traditional frock with a great big grin on your face.’
‘Perhaps it’s because my parents set me an excellent example of marriage, but yours didn’t,’ Alice said.
‘Perhaps,’ said Thea, ‘but fundamentally, I regard being in love as so intrinsically, mystically sublime that the man-made institution of marriage seems irrelevant. I think the awesome aspect of true love is trivialized by signing a piece of paper.’
‘Well, I think marriage is an excellent idea,’ Alice declared. She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose where you don’t see marriage as being the point of love, I don’t see love as being the point of marriage,’ said Alice.
‘But you do love Mark,’ Thea cautioned, ‘don’t you?’
‘Of course I do!’ said Alice. ‘Will you please stop going on at me about that.’
