Freya North 3-Book Collection: Love Rules, Home Truths, Pillow Talk

‘Here’s to you and Liz. Congratulations,’ Saul said, with genuine affection.

‘Er, I’m engaged to Karen,’ said Ian. ‘Lizzie and I broke up.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said. Though he hadn’t expected Ian to be engaged, he certainly hadn’t reckoned on it being to anyone other than Liz.

‘I left Liz for her,’ Ian said lightly.

‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said darkly.

‘I know,’ said Ian guiltily, ‘I know.’ He sipped at his beer and looked into the middle distance. ‘I always thought it would be Lizzie. Then I met Karen and there was no contest. No conscience, even. It’s what you’d call a “no-brainer” – I had to be with her. Simple.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said, his vocabulary sorely limited by the shock of Ian’s news. He downed his drink thirstily. ‘Another pint?’ He went to the bar, ordering sausages and mash at the same time. ‘How’s work?’ Saul asked Ian on his return, a packet of crisps between his teeth.

‘Oh fine,’ said Ian, ‘manic. Karen’s a lawyer too so she totally understands the stress and long hours issue. She works in Litigation. At Tate Scot Wade.’

‘Right,’ said Saul, ‘right.’ He didn’t want to dislike Karen before he’d even met her, he didn’t want his affection for Liz to colour his acceptance of her. But he couldn’t help but resent Ian’s surprise fiancée for dominating the conversation thus far and for having monopolized his friend in recent months.

‘How about you?’ Ian asked. ‘What’s happening?’

‘More work than I can do – but I can’t turn any of it down,’ Saul laughed. ‘I love it. Mostly.’

‘Karen’s a fan of your column,’ Ian said, ‘we both are.’

‘Which one?’ Saul asked, genuinely flattered.

‘ES magazine – it’s so much more than a consumer low-down. It’s like a little slice of your life – very self-effacing and engaging. Well written, too.’ Ian chinked his glass. ‘I chuckle but you have Karen in stitches.’

‘Cheers, mate,’ Saul said, ‘cheers.’

‘And you still have your regular slots in the men’s mags?’

‘Yes,’ said Saul, ‘GQ have expanded my section. I do the gadgets pages for that new mag, Edition, my columns for the weeklies and the odd bit of roving reporter here and there, some editorial consultancy for launches on the side.’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve any iPods knocking around?’ said Ian, who could easily afford one but loved the idea of a freebie. ‘Any cool press trips? Golf in the Algarve? Scuba anywhere?’

‘Just the one iPod,’ Saul said, ‘and as for press trips, there was Bermuda for sailing and Sweden for sledding. By husky. And a lost weekend in Prague with Sonja from the Tourist Office.’

‘You jammy bastard,’ Ian laughed.

‘Three thousand words, though I had to censor most of it, thanks to Sonja,’ Saul said, as if it was an occupational hazard.

‘And how about you?’ Ian asked again, with a concern Karen had taught him how to access. Saul tucked into his sausages, nodded and shrugged. He’d rather have his mouth full than talk. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ Ian asked, partly because Karen had told him to.

Saul chewed thoughtfully. He shook his head. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said, wishing for more mash.

‘Anyone on the horizon?’

‘Why?’ Saul laughed. ‘Has Karen a queue of luscious friends?’

‘Actually,’ said Ian, ‘yes.’

Saul shrugged. ‘Cool,’ he said, ‘why not. There hasn’t been anyone since Emma. I’m not sure if I count the tryst with Sonja.’

‘Blimey,’ Ian said, ‘we’re talking a good eighteen months, mate. Sounds like celibacy to me.’

Saul shrugged again. ‘You know me,’ he said quietly, ‘I can be quite choosy.’

‘Mind you,’ Ian theorized, ‘your social life is pretty lively and there are always relatively funky work do’s on. I bet you don’t even notice the absence of a girlfriend.’

Saul considered Ian’s overview. ‘Actually, it’s not so much that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m quite into the idea of a steady partner – even the concept of commitment. However, I just can’t be bothered with doing the singles-circuit-dating games. It’s too contrived.’

‘Too time consuming,’ Ian agreed, ‘and expensive.’ God, he thanked his luck for Karen. ‘Mind you, celibacy must be a bit bloody frustrating.’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘I do what a lot of other blokes do,’ shrugged Saul.

Ian shrugged back. He also made a mental note to provide Karen with a current description of Saul to circulate amongst her friends. He’d heard Karen refer admiringly to similar hairstyles as ‘bed hair’ and no doubt she’d declare the colour of Saul’s to be like caramel or something. He noted his friend still had a thing about trendy footwear and approved his Oris watch as an indication that Saul’s career was going very well indeed. Armani soft black jeans. And a shirt he’d tell Karen was Paul Smith. They were already compiling their guest list for the wedding. It would be cosy if by then Saul attended with a girlfriend who happened to be a friend of Karen’s. Ian glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be going, mate. Does this place not have last orders?’

‘It’s when the last person orders,’ Saul informed him.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Ian said, ‘let’s not make it so long, next time. Come over to ours. Karen is a great cook. You’ll love her. I’ll call you.’

Saul sat on alone in the Swallow with another pint. Lynton sat by himself too. And Barry was on his own tonight as well. They all nodded amiably at each other but were quietly content to sit separately. That was what Saul loved about the Swallow, its concept of relaxed companionship, that it wasn’t necessary to cramp around the same table to be in warm company. Saul looked over to Eleni, snuggled against her boyfriend. He reckoned he was their age or thereabouts. When Anne, the wife of the landlord, had brought over the two plates of sausage and mash, she’d ruffled Saul’s hair maternally. He reckoned she was close to his mother in age.

Saul walked around the corner back to his flat. He scanned through the draft of the article he’d be writing the next day and then logged off his laptop, content. There was nothing watchable on television. He thought he ought to run a bath – he’d been sent products by Clarins For Men to test. All that talk of women and wives and girlfriends and his own barren situation had left him quite hollow and horny. So he decided to do what a lot of other blokes do. He’d lie in a bath later. He grabbed his jacket and went back out into the night.

Alice Heggarty (#ulink_07307afb-664c-5df0-8d70-5d4a8d8de5fa)

I keep singing the corniest of songs. ‘I’m Getting Married in the Morning!’ In the daftest of voices. ‘Going to the Chapel and We’re Going to Get Ma-ha-ha-rid.’ The daftest of songs in the silliest of accents. I even sang ‘Nights in White Satin’ in the cab today. It struck me, for the first time, that it was actually ‘nights’ and not ‘knights’. And then I was absorbed for at least an hour wondering why it had never previously crossed my mind that a knight got up in white satin would be pretty odd in a heterosexual love song.

Anyway, I am going to be married in the morning. Thanks in no small part to the girls on Dream Weddings magazine and Mark indulging me, it’s going to be a fairy-tale wedding. I’m feeling deliriously excited – but a bit stressed too. I’m even feeling a bit pissed off – like I want everyone to continually pat me on the back and acknowledge how much hard work I’ve put into it all. We only got engaged in March, after all. Eight months later, and I’ve researched and secured the flowers, the dresses, the venue, held auditions for the band, even written the vows. I want it to be the best day of my life. And Mark’s too. And I want it to go down in the annals of the guests as the best wedding they’ve ever been to.

I must pack for honeymoon. Initially I wanted the destination to be a surprise, but I pointed out to Mark that I’d be a stroppy cow if I packed salopettes and we arrived in Bermuda. Actually, I just pressed and pestered him because I really did need to know. It’s not that I’m a control freak, though I suppose I am, it’s just that I know myself well enough to admit that I’m a nightmare if I’m disappointed. So, if I was going to be disappointed, at least I could’ve had the chance to get over it in advance. Shit, OK, if I have to admit it, I might have subtly persuaded Mark to change the plans if need be! Anyway, bless him, Mark must have picked up on all my not-so-subtle hints and he is whisking me away to St Lucia. A helicopter to the Jalousie Plantation between those two iconic Piton mountains you see in the films, in the brochures. They know we’re honeymooning so hopefully they’ll lay on all sorts of little extras. I am going to be princess for a fortnight. And why not – because when we get home, I’ll be just boring old Mrs Sinclair!

They gave me a great send-off at work. They must have had quite some whip-round as they’ve gone for the Gaggia coffee machine from the wedding list. Anyway, all my mags will be fine – they can spare me for a fortnight but if they need me, I’ve told them they can phone the Jalousie.

I’m getting married in the morning. Bloody bloody hell. Ding dong. I really really am. I’ll be thirty years old. And fifty-one weeks. I, Alice Rose Heggarty, am going to marry Mark Oliver Sinclair in approximately twenty-three hours’ time. How do I feel? Still a touch peaky from my hen-night! I feel ready, actually. Everything is going according to plan. All I need to do is turn up and say ‘I do’ and look ravishing. I want Mark to feel that he’s the luckiest bloke alive. I feel good. There really is no better man for me to marry. Lovely dearest Mark. He’ll look after me and cherish me and keep me safe. None of those other wankers ever did. It’s so lovely not to worry. It’s a novelty for me. It’s so wonderful to be loved so unequivocally. Unconditionally. No one could possibly love me more – so what more could I possibly ask for? Tomorrow I’m going to be the bride of his dreams. I’ll make sure I cry a little when I say ‘I do’ because I know he’ll love that.

I’m so happy Thea is staying over with me tonight. I can’t wait to snuggle up with her and have hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisce about our olden days. My best, beautiful friend. My bridesmaid. My only bridesmaid. Me being me, I’m glad out of the two of us I’m the first to wed. Just recently, though, I’ve been hoping that perhaps she’ll not be too long behind. Whereas I’m now the first to admit I used to fall in love with a type – and the wrong one – I’ve seen that my path to happiness necessitated me walking off course. And in doing so, I came across my kind, gentle Mark. Who’d have thought it? Who’d have thought!

I think, at our age, after the highs and lows experienced through our twenties, the time comes to alter your focus, a shift in perspective. I decided to turn my back on a view which actually gave me little joy. I want Thea to take a leaf out of my book – we’re similar and yet so different. I hated ever being single – I used to wait until a replacement was a dead cert before breaking off an already failed relationship. Thea, though, would rather be all on her tod than dally with someone she doesn’t experience her elusive spark for. It’s actually infuriating – I’ve introduced her to a couple of Mark’s friends who are really nice, successful, balanced blokes. But in each instance Thea has said ‘He’s really nice – but he doesn’t do it for me.’ I know she’s hardly on the shelf, but still I don’t think she should be so choosy. I wish for her all that I’m headed for. Though, if I’m honest, as nice and successful and gentlemanly as Mark’s friends are, I concede they are just the tiniest bit dull. Just the tiniest. Well, I’m not marrying them, I’m marrying Mark Oliver Sinclair.

I’ve just thought – when Thea marries, I won’t be called her ‘bridesmaid’. What is the term? Something like Lady of Honour? No no – that can’t be right – that sounds like an eighteenth-century hooker attempting to turn her life around. Lady in Waiting? No no – that’s what royalty have and although I’m princess for a day tomorrow, my delusions of grandeur are not on that scale! Matron of Honour? Damn and bugger. That’s it, that’s what married women in bridesmaid capacities are called. Bloody Matron. God, it sounds horrendously frumpy. But there again, by the time Thea gets her act together, I’ll be the definitive boring old housewife! Maybe we can fix her up with Mark’s American cousin tomorrow.

Thea will so fixate on the notion of a dashing hero – it’s her yardstick and she resolutely refuses to alter the scale. I’ve tried to tell her that in my experience – and especially my discovery through Mark – it doesn’t really work like that. But she won’t believe me. She doesn’t want to think that growing up is about understanding that love’s no longer about falling in love. I say to her ah, but look where it’s got me – getting married in the morning and deliriously happy about it. She’ll figure it out, I guess, like I did.

Jesus, it’s here. It’s the day of my wedding. I have exactly seven hours to go. How on earth am I going to make time pass? I only need to have my hair done and put my makeup on and then my dress. Not even I can make that last seven hours. I slept pretty well, actually. Thea’s the best bed-partner a girl can have because she doesn’t snore, she doesn’t toss and turn and she always recounts the funniest dreams. Last night she dreamt that the groom was Bill but that I didn’t notice and she couldn’t make her voice heard because my veil was 30 feet long and wafted all around her like cheap bubble bath and tasted like marshmallow.

We tried for ages to find some deep significance to her dream but we concluded she ought to keep away from sugary snacks and that Bill wants to be where Mark will be but will die a lonely old bachelor. Thea brought me breakfast in bed; a tray laden with pain au chocolat, orange juice, tea and a blush-coloured rose. She keeps calling me Miss Almost Sinclair and Nearly Mrs. I told her I wished I could take her on honeymoon – and I do! I want to be able to run around the bathroom with Thea getting over-excited about all the gorgeous toiletries and sumptuous thick towels.