Love Rules

by Freya North

  ‘And my industry is full of strait-laced boring fucks like me,’ Mark declared morosely.

  If we were girls, Saul thought to himself, we'd be giving each other a hug at this point. If this was Thea and Alice, they'd be holding hands, their heads together, physically backing up the emotional support.

  Suddenly, Saul thought how much he loved witnessing Thea and Alice's friendship, the intensity of their relationship even when they bickered or, as recently, fell out. Was this Paul B the reason why they fell out? Possibly. Saul thought of Thea's proud-held standards on fidelity and loyalty and what love meant and required. He felt hollow and desolate. He was going to lose her.

  ‘I'd better go,’ said Mark. ‘Thanks for the drink – and the, you know.’

  ‘Any time, mate, any time,’ Saul said earnestly. ‘How about one for the road?’ He didn't want Mark to go. Mark's quandary was a distraction from his own predicament. Mark, however, declined. ‘Listen – don't delve,’ Saul advised. ‘It won't get you anywhere but the wrong end of the stick.’

  Mark nodded and left.

  When he returns, Mark finds Alice and Thea snuggled up on the sofa, wineglasses drained and a monster-sized packet of Kettle Chips empty.

  ‘Hullo!’ Alice greets him with an expansive smile though Thea seems almost too exhausted to even look up.

  ‘Hiya,’ he says.

  ‘Have you had a nice evening?’ Alice asks. ‘Were there some gloriously naff golfing trousers to buy?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Mark says, ‘but none in my size.’ Alice laughs. Mark analyses it and deduces it to be genuine. It makes him feel confused. ‘I'm going to turn in,’ he tells them because he wants to see if Alice's phone is still lying under his shirt just up the stairs.

  ‘Thea's going to crash in the spare room tonight,’ Alice calls after him.

  His shirt is where he left it. Alice's phone is where he'd put it. Keeping an ear on the sounds of life downstairs, Mark takes the phone and scrolls to the envelope icon. He selects her Inbox again and rereads the messages. Perhaps Saul is right – there's nothing that unequivocally confirms anything has actually happened. He scrolls to Sent Items, his heart thudding so loudly it almost drowns out the sound of Alice and Thea chatting. His thumb hovers. This is not right. This is like sneaking a read of a diary. This is not the thing to do. But to Mark it seems like his only option. He has to. And he makes a pact with himself that he must deal with what he might find. He presses the Select button and Alice's sent messages flash up. Thea Thea Mark Thea Mark Thea Paul B Paul B Thea. He can't open them fast enough, his hands are shaking.

  no Paul – not poss. pls, pls undstnd

  Another.

  cant – sorry. Ax ps: no more txts etc PLEASE

  He scrolls back to Paul's messages and from the times and dates of these he can equate Alice's answers. He asked to see her. She said she can't. She's asked him not to contact her – even by text. She's adamant – see, PLEASE is in upper case. There are five from him but only two from her. He was the instigator. Both her replies are rejections. There is no reply to his fancy-a-fuck message, no response to his compliments of her breasts.

  She hasn't dignified his advances with replies!

  Mark is so relieved he could almost cry. And once he's read Paul's messages and Alice's a final time, he feels desperately guilty.

  What was I thinking? How could I! I'm married to the most beautiful woman on earth – of course men will be falling in love with her, left, right and centre. Of course they're going to try it on. But see – she's my wife, her home and her heart are with me. I can't believe I pillaged her privacy. I can't believe I doubted her. What was I thinking?

  Saul has sent Thea a text message to say he's been at some golf thing in Islington and he might as well take a bit of a detour and just pop by for five minutes. He is desperate to see her, even if it all comes out. He misses her terribly and is so anguished by the pain she must be feeling that he needs to hold her despite being the unwitting perpetrator. He must be capable of making things better, he must be able to make amends – surely? He wants to hold her even if she hits him. He's willing to proclaim the purity of his love for her even if she hurls hatred back at him and finishes the relationship there and then.

  But he's walking down her street, checking his phone and she still hasn't responded. She must be back from Alice's by now. She must have loads to do. He so wants to see her. He rings the bell, knocks and then uses his set of keys to enter. He's always done so. Thea's always been at ease with it. Always welcomed him with a kiss, chatter and the flick of the kettle button. But she's not here. He can't even see the kettle. Just boxes and crates and piles of belongings. It's crowded and messy but it's stark and impersonal. Thea really isn't here. She's packed her life up. She's moving on.

  Cold Feet

  What do we want most? Alice to be punished though she's already walking with conviction along the road to her marriage's salvation? Shall we have Mark remain content, safely just beyond the reach of hard facts? Do we want Saul to suffer – to atone, to learn, but be damned? Do we think that Thea might be able to put it into some perspective of sorts, better still could she put it into a box labelled The Past and discard it? Is it possible that she could accept, understand, forgive and move forward positively into their long-planned and potentially sparkling joint future? Or are we rooting for Thea to deliver the ultimate scathing soliloquy as she dumps him? Do we want her to destroy him? Do we feel Saul deserves that? Do we want to see Saul foundering in the gutter, weeping and broken, while Thea waltzes away triumphant but with dignity? What is appropriate comeuppance for Saul – and what reward would be appropriate for Thea? Should Saul be allowed to confront Alice and declare a pot-kettle-black situation? Is it deluded to hope for happy-ever-afters all round? Is it right that Alice could get away with it? Are we ready to consider that Saul and Thea might need to have futures without one another?

  Thea has already phoned the Being Well to see if her nine-or ten-o'clock slots have been filled since last night. Souki confirms they're still empty.

  ‘I'll be in later, then,’ says Thea. ‘I have things to finish.’

  She's already phoned Saul to say the words he's been dreading but anticipating.

  ‘Saul? It's me. Are you back now? From Glasgow? Good. Are you busy? Oh. But I need to see you. We need to talk.’

  She phoned from the bus as it approached Tufnell Park. Saul estimates she'll arrive in twenty minutes. He paces his flat, he's choked. The wait is unbearable though he dreads her arrival. What will you do, Saul?

  She's the love of my life.

  Will you fight for her?

  I wish I could.

  Why don't you?

  No. I can't. She knows. Don't you see? She knows but she doesn't know that I know that she knows.

  Do you not believe you can somehow get round that?

  If she ever knows that I know that she knows, her self-respect will be compromised. The subject will be open for discussion and dissection and what good would that do? No amount of debate can repair us or soothe her. So I've decided it would be best if she never knows that I know that she knows.

  So that's it? You'll let her end the best two and a half years of your life? Strike out that match made in heaven? Are you sure you're not just being a coward – justifying what can be seen as an avoidance of confrontation?

  You don't understand. I know that girl. I know that her trust in me has gone. I don't want to be only half loved. And I know she won't settle for half her dream.

  Here she is, Saul. Can you hear her coming up the stairs?

  Please use your keys. Please let this still be your home.

  The doorbell rings out. Reluctant but resigned, Saul goes to answer it.

  ‘Hiya,’ he says, his heart rejoicing at the very sight of her, despite the thud of imminent futility throbbing in his head.

  ‘Hullo,’ Thea says. She doesn't want to look at him. It's too painful. He was her dream come true but she was plunged into a n
ightmare and it's time to make sure she's wide awake. She stands awkwardly, as if she has an infernal itch at the back of her knee, a stiff neck, slight paralysis of the face. It makes Saul feel discomfited but impotent: if he makes it easier for her she'll know he knows she knows and yet he's convinced that ultimately that will be worse for her. Though Saul would be pleased to fall on his sword right now to save her the agony of what she needs to do, he can't help her. The balance of her future, the ease of her upturn, is what matters to him most.

  ‘Babe,’ he says quietly, hoping he's managed to etch a look of concern over the expression of dread he's keen to conceal. ‘What's up?’

  Thea shakes her head and regards her toes. ‘I can't,’ she croaks, ‘I have cold feet.’

  Should I ask her why? I would, wouldn't I – if I didn't know that she knows.

  ‘Why?’ Saul whispers, taking her hand. ‘I can warm them up – your cold feet.’ Thea keeps staring at her toes, peeping prettily through sandals. She's been incapable of planning what to say. ‘Thea, please,’ Saul pleads, ‘don't.’

  Fuck it. I don't care now what she finds out. I just need to keep her. I must. She has to keep me.

  ‘Saul,’ Thea whispers, ‘something's not right.’ She glances up at him and looks away. ‘It's better this way – before things get messy with mortgages and stuff. It's just not right.’ The silence that ensues is so loaded it's deafening and time stands still, choked by the fog of neither person knowing what to do or say next.

  ‘You know, Thea – nothing you can do could make me love you less?’ Saul declares, gripping her arms to pull her close. ‘Do you want some space? Some time out? Take what you need, sweetie. Anything. And I promise you I'll back off – but I'm telling you, I won't stop loving you.’ He steps towards her and gently touches her chin.

  Tell me it never happened, Saul. Tell me I'm mistaken. Promise me you've been faithful to me. Promise me you're an ordinary, good boy. Say it out loud and I'll believe you because I believe you'd never lie to me so if I ask you, you'll tell me the truth.

  But Thea knows what the truth is so she encircles his wrists to keep him at bay – it would be too easy to melt into his arms and then too difficult to extract herself again. ‘I'm not as tolerant as you,’ she explains. ‘I can't love you unconditionally.’

  ‘Have I ever given you reason to doubt the sanctity and totality of my love for you?’ Saul asks her hoarsely. ‘Have I ever given you direct reason?’ Saul emphasizes. He needs to be pedantic and semantic because otherwise he knows she can say to herself yes yes yes you have you whoremonger.

  Let her go, Saul.

  ‘Saul, please,’ Thea starts to cry.

  Please Saul, let her go.

  ‘I don't love you enough,’ Thea sobs, ‘I don't love you in the way you love me. I don't love you enough to allow you your entire personality.’

  Saul, you have to let her go.

  ‘Will you change your mind?’ Saul asks. ‘Ever?’ He pulls Thea towards him and she yields into his embrace. He is not going to let her go. ‘Please, Thea. Just take time out – as much as you need. I'll wait. You can't let Us go.’ She buries her face in his chest and he kisses the top of her head. He's always loved kissing the top of her head. He's always marvelled at the way they fit. Snug. They're just right. They're just so right. But it's all gone horribly wrong. ‘I'll wait,’ Saul repeats.

  ‘Don't!’ Thea cries.

  ‘You come to love not by finding a perfect person but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly,’ Saul proclaims. Thea raises a tear-stained face to him. ‘It's a quote,’ he admits with a humble grin, ‘I found on the Internet.’

  How very Saul, Thea thinks.

  Once upon a time it would have made me love you even more.

  ‘I can't go through with this,’ Thea says, ‘I can't.’

  ‘Please, please don't do this, Thea,’ Saul begs. ‘Whatever has happened, I can fix. Whatever's happened, we can get through.’

  Thea shakes her head.

  ‘Talk to me,’ Saul implores. He's ready for anything. He's fighting for his life. ‘Thea, think about it – your flat sale, all that stress. You sell in three days' time. We're days from exchanging. You can draw a line under whatever it is. Let's just go for it. Start our life.’

  ‘I don't want to live there,’ Thea says. Looking alarmed, as if she'd forgotten all about the place of their dreams being at their fingertips.

  ‘OK,’ Saul says, ‘it doesn't matter. We'll let it go. We'll buy somewhere else. It doesn't matter where. We just have to stay together. Don't let Us go.’

  ‘Let me go,’ Thea pleads sorrowfully, imploring him, seeing eye to eye. He looks six years old, with his blotched cheeks, twitching lips and eyes springing with tears. The last time she saw Saul cry was at Juliette Stonehill's baby blessing. He looked so happy then, when he was crying. He looks devastated just now. Really wrecked. Thea shakes her head. And Saul shakes his.

  WHAT CAN I DO?

  You can let me go.

  Saul lets her slip from his hands. He has to. He has no choice. He has no control over this decision.

  Tomorrow, Thea will move in with Alice and Mark for a fort-night or so until the nice rented flat in a mansion block in Highgate Village found by Peter Glass becomes available. Yesterday, she walked away from Saul. Tonight, she is sitting in the middle of her landing, appreciating a final moment or two of Lewis Carroll Living. Actually, there's no room to sit in the living room anyway, it's piled high with packing boxes. Sitting there, on the landing, with the doors closed in a teasing whirl around her, she spies a bent nail lying on the floor. She looks up at the wall and deduces that this nail is the one that held up her framed autographed photograph of David Bowie. She picks up the nail and fiddles with it absent-mindedly, her mind ricocheting from one monumental issue to the next yet unable to alight constructively on any. It's too strange to think philosophically that her flat is sold, it's no longer her home, bye-bye. It's too soon to consider she'll need to tick the ‘single’ box when filling in forms. It's too raw to realize she has no soulmate called Saul, no soulmate full stop, no more soul-mate. It's not possible to think straight at all, really.

  Time for bed. It's late and tomorrow will be tiring and trying. But she wants just to sit here a while longer. It's nice and quiet – and anyway, every decision she makes – even to stand from sitting – necessitates untold energy.

  The pain weighs heavy. Crying hurts. The pain under-scores everything she does. It's the punctuation mark at the end of every thought. It catches in her throat and alters the timbre of her voice. It stumbles her walk and has decimated her posture. It prevents her digesting her food. It inhibits her hearing the loving support of Alice, of Sally, of Souki, though she attempts to listen. It is the bed of nails on which she tries but fails to sleep. It hurts, it hurts. It hurts all the time.

  Thea looks at the nail, bent and discarded. With a calm, considered intake of breath, she scores along her roping scar with the nail. She doesn't need to puncture deep enough to draw blood; a simple, long, sharp scratch through the sensitive and fragile keloid surface is sufficient agony. The immediacy and the shock and the uncompromising reality of pure physical pain somehow provides instant respite from the agonizing twist of emotional anguish.

  Avon Calling

  Thea regarded her two holdalls which contained everything she'd possibly need for the moment. She now thought she probably could have been far more ruthless when packing up her flat. The local charity shops hadn't done very well by her at all yet the storage company was making a fortune out of her. Each bag was heavy, yet when lifted one in each hand, the weight evened out and dispersed a little. There was a sense of symmetry, a feeling of balance. Anyway, she wasn't walking far, just downstairs to the waiting taxi.

  Thea had said goodbye to her flat so many times over the last few weeks that when the time came she found it quite easy to simply lock up and leave. There was just time for a backward glance and surreptitious little wave as the cab
headed off. Thea had two sets of keys in her hand, one to be relinquished at the local estate agent for the new owner of the Little Bit of Lewis Carroll Living, the other set to let her into her temporary home with the Sinclairs in Hampstead.

  ‘Love, I'm going to have to put the meter back on in a minute,’ the taxi driver cautioned as Thea sat still and continued to stare at Alice's house. Suddenly, she was feeling peculiarly light-headed and refreshingly unburdened. Her belongings were in storage, she was rid of her mortgage and had been given time off work on compassionate grounds with the Being Well's blessing. There wasn't much to do at all really. Apart from watch daytime television on Alice's vast plasma until she came home from work. Or, God forbid, mope.

  ‘Actually,’ Thea said, as a thought seeded itself, ‘drive on, please.’

  ‘You pay for this journey first, young lady,’ the cabbie retorted gruffly, ‘and then I'll drive you wherever you want.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Thea, refusing to round the fare up to the nearest pound, let alone add on a tip.

  ‘You women,’ the cabbie muttered with intentional audibility, ‘you can never make your bleeding minds up.’

  ‘Oh yes I can,’ Thea muttered back, certain that she didn't want to watch daytime television and definite that she didn't want to mope. ‘Drive on.’ She texted Alice to tell her of her change of plan and then she switched her phone off before Alice could call her to workshop it.

  ‘Are you going somewhere nice for the weekend, dear? They say the weather is to be very good. I'm going to stay with my son for a week – see my grandchildren.’

  Thea turned from gazing out of the train window to regard a neat elderly lady, who must have boarded the train at Reading, sitting opposite her and keen to make conversation. Thea accepted a digestive biscuit and settled herself in for light chat about this and that as Great Western rail continued to carry her away.