Authors: Freya North
Tags: #Romance, #Chick-Lit, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Fiction, #Love Stories, #Women's Fiction
Perhaps I was naive to think that love would flood me on our wedding night, or on our honeymoon, or on our first anniversary. For something to grow, roots are needed and for roots to establish, time, effort and care are needed. For a long time, I didn't bother to feed or water or protect it from storms and frost. I'm a lazy gardener, as Mark's mum Gail can attest. I now marvel at my fortune to have such a fine man as my husband. Mark Sinclair is kind and sensible and mannered and loving and principled and loyal and stead-fast. He's my husband and my best friend and I'm a lucky girl. He is always consistent in his love for me. He allows me to be spirited, he tolerates all my temperamental, attention-seeking nonsense and when I say sorry he accepts without compromising his self-respect.
But I don't find him particularly sexy. For a horrible and dangerous period early in our marriage, I tried to equate not fancying Mark with being his fault. I thought if I didn't fancy Mark, how could I truly love him. And if I didn't fancy Mark, I blamed him for a core part of my personality he was failing to satisfy. So along came Paul in all his brawny glory and I thought that to succumb to pure physical attraction was my
right
. It wasn't. It was my greatest wrong.
Thank God Mark never found out because actually, I was treading a precarious tightrope by which I could so easily have hanged myself and, worse, Mark too. Thank God he never found out because I can't start to imagine his hurt. Thank God I saw that sex for the sake of it wasn't the answer.
I do sometimes miss that energizing sensation of animal magnetism. I do sometimes wonder if I'm OK with Mark
not exhibiting wild desire for me. I do sometimes worry that if someone else did, would I be able to resist? Because I love being the centre of attention and I love the physical charge of sexual electricity. Will I crave it again? I don't know. The only thing I crave at the moment is Marmite on chocolate biscuits – but that's because I'm pregnant. Now I know what sex is all about – it's about making babies.
But say some swarthy, well-hung warrior came along, brandishing his lance and thrusting his dagger? Would I want to be swept off my feet? Actually, I feel confident that I'm stronger now and I have the weapons to fight it. I have the fortress that is my marriage. My home – my castle. My impending child – my future. My very perfect gentle knight – my husband. Stay inside, Mark, I'll pull up the drawbridge against intruders.
Christ, I sound like Thea.
Souki booked Mr Alexander in for a three o'clock with Thea. ‘He's over on business,’ she told her, ‘and slept awkwardly on the plane. Apparently you were recommended by someone he knows.’
‘Gabriel Sewell, probably,’ Thea said. ‘We seem to have a steady stream of clients connected with him.’
‘Do you know, I always quite envied you Mr Sewell,’ Souki laughed. ‘I thought he was scrummy.’
‘Well, if his back ever plays up again, I'll book him in with you for acupuncture,’ Thea assured her. ‘Good Lord! Peter Glass, you're
early
!’
‘Hullo, babes,’ Peter said, ‘my neck is killing me. But I have to leave at two thirty – I'm about to do a major
major
deal on the most fuck-off-gorgeous apartment I've ever handled.’
‘Peter,’ Thea bemoaned as she climbed the stairs, ‘you know I like having you for the full hour – you know you need it.’
‘What I need is the commission from this sale, sweetheart,’ Peter enthused. ‘Then it'll be Maserati time.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Thea ingenuously, ‘is the food good there?’
‘It's a
car
, you dumb bird,’ Peter said affectionately as he undressed, wincing in pain.
‘I'm sorry I'm late,’ Mr Alexander said, his American accent reminding Thea of an actor she couldn't quite recall. He was certainly handsome enough for Hollywood though it transpired he was a university lecturer and lived in New York.
‘I had the most God-awful sleep,’ Mr Alexander explained, while Thea put her notepad on her knee and wrote down
Mr Joel Alexander, 37
.
‘That's the horror of long-haul economy seating,’ Thea said, ‘not that I've ever had the luxury of business class.’
‘This
was
business class,’ Mr Alexander shrugged, ‘but I guess I fell asleep whilst reading and spent the whole flight slumped upright. What kind of dork doesn't take full advantage of fully reclining seat–beds?’
Thea laughed. ‘How long are you over for?’
‘A week,’ he told her. ‘I come over every now and then – lecturing.’
‘What in?’ Thea asked.
‘A plane,’ Mr Alexander replied, deadpan. Thea looked up from her notes and was greeted by his wry smile. ‘Classics,’ he told her.
‘Oughtn't you to be grey-haired, stooped and wrinkly?’ Thea remarked, thinking she might have swapped to Classics herself if the lecturer had looked anything like Mr Alexander.
‘Botox, hair dye and marathon running,’ Mr Alexander shrugged.
Again, Thea was momentarily taken aback and she found herself glancing suspiciously at his forehead and hairline.
Mr Alexander held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hair is natural,’ he assured her, ‘as are any wrinkles, or lack of, that you see or don't.’
‘And the marathon running?’ Thea asked.
‘That's true. I run three a year,’ he told her. ‘Next up is the London Marathon next spring.’
‘Golly,’ said Thea, slightly surprised by her choice of word and the sudden plumminess of her accent. Why was she going all English Rose? Was it to counterbalance his All-American Hunk? ‘Isn't that a frightfully long way to fly for a jog around the block?’
‘A
jog around the block
!’ Mr Alexander laughed. ‘Actually, I'll be living here by then, I'm taking a visiting post at Oxford.’
‘Jolly good for you,’ said Thea, hoping she sounded more Jane Austen than St Trinian. ‘Righty-ho, let's have a look at you. Face the wall, please.’
Tall, broad-shouldered, athletic build. Very good musculature.
‘And turn to the window.’
Good posture – all the way up and all the way down. Nice profile.
‘And now turn to look at me.’
He really is handsome.
As Thea massaged Joel Alexander, she tried to temper her smile. She thought it was somewhat unprofessional – though of course he couldn't see her, lying face down as he was. However, she was smiling because when she'd asked him to turn to face her, the masseuse in her had taken a good long considered look at his body but the girl in her had felt a dormant fizz of attraction. And when she had told him she could alleviate the discomfort he felt because actually it was only a tightness in the thoracic, she'd smiled in triumph, he'd smiled in relief and then they'd smiled at each other for a second or two longer than was necessary. In the past, Alice had asked her if she fancied any of her clients. And Thea had primly rejected such an unethical suggestion. But here she was, thinking Christmas had come three weeks early. Santa had brought her
a gorgeous surprise. And she hadn't even put him on her list.
‘There you go,’ Thea said quietly, placing her stilled palms on his back before lifting them away gently and covering him with a towel. ‘Dress when you're ready. Take your time.’
‘Thanks so much,’ Mr Alexander said, sitting comfortably in one of her plastic chairs when she came back in. ‘Thanks.’
‘Hot and cold, if you can,’ Thea advised, ‘though I don't know how easy it is to lecture with a pack of cold peas strapped to your shoulder.’
Mr Alexander laughed. ‘I don't need to be in Oxford until tomorrow – so I'll have room service bring me up frozen peas and a hot-water bottle. I'm sure they've had stranger requests.’
‘Well, have a good trip,’ Thea said. They stood and shook hands but loitered. ‘And have a great Christmas,’ she added.
‘Yeah, you too,’ he said.
‘Oh, and good luck with the Marathon,’ Thea added.
‘You can always meet me at the finish line and give me a rub down,’ Mr Alexander said, ‘if you're free next spring.’
Thea blushed. Wasn't this flirting? Was there loaded meaning in the ‘if you're free’ bit? Was she meant to flirt back outright, or act all demure? What were the rules again? It seemed all she could do was blush like a teenager. And no doubt that was simply down to phenylethylamine.
‘Or perhaps you'd just have a quick drink with me sometime later this week?’ he said.
Oh stop blushing, you stupid girl! He's only a bloke. It's only a drink. For heaven's sake say yes, thank you, that would be nice.
‘Yes, thank you, that would be nice.’
‘Good,’ said Joel, ‘cool.’
‘Oh, I forgot to ask,’ Thea said, as they headed down-stairs to reception, ‘which of my clients do you know?’
‘I'm sorry?’ Joel said.
‘Apparently you were referred by a client of mine?’
Joel looked at her. ‘No, not a client. A friend of yours. Mark Sinclair. He's my cousin – actually, he's more than that, he's a very good friend of mine too.’
Special thanks to Bethia Hope-Rollins, Laura Curry and all at the Pilates Place in Crouch End. Also to Dan Rollins – masseur extraordinaire – and Brent Osborn Smith – genius osteopath – thank you for helping me (and my thoracic …). Many thanks to Dawn Gobourne at Haringey Library Services for making me her unofficial Writer in Residence – and providing all those cups of coffee. I'm indebted to my support network: the team at HarperCollins, especially my brilliant editor, Lynne Drew; my wonderful agent, Jonathan Lloyd, and my team at Curtis Brown Ltd; my copy-editor the ever-meticulous Mary Chamberlain, and the tireless and jolly Sophie Ransom at Midas PR. Discreet but sincere thanks to the prostitutes, their maids and their clients in Swindon, Peterborough and London who were willing to talk to me with such honesty, humour and good grace.
Freya North gave up a PhD to write her first novel,
Sally
, in 1991. For four years she turned deaf ears to parents and friends who pleaded with her to ‘get a proper job’. She went on the dole and did a succession of freelance and temping jobs to support her writing days. In 1995, throwing caution to the wind, Freya sent three chapters and a page of completely fabricated reviews to a top literary agent, and met with success: five publishers entered a bidding war for her books. In 1996
Sally
was published to great acclaim and Freya was heralded as a fresh voice in fiction. Her next books,
Chloë, Polly, Cat, Fen
and
Pip
, are all bestsellers. She lives in London with her family.
For more information on Freya North, visit her website at www.freyanorth.co.uk
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‘Freya North has matured to produce an emotive novel that deals with the darker side of love – these are real women, with real feelings.’
She
‘Tantrums, tarts, tears and text-sex … what's not to love about this cautionary tale for true romantics?’
Heat
‘A distinctive storytelling style and credible, loveable characters … an addictive read that encompasses the stuff life is made of: love, sex, fidelity and, above all, friendship.’
Glamour
‘Plenty that's fresh to say about the age-old differences between men and women.’
Marie Claire
‘Sassy, feel-good read … Chick lit with a good sting in the tail.’
Cosmopolitan
‘Raunchy sex and realistic emotional wranglings make this chick-lit with class.’
Eve
‘An intelligent tale of chance encounters, long-lasting friendship and what it's like to fall in and out of love.’
B
Magazine
Sally
Chloë
Polly
Cat
Fen
Pip
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Copyright © Freya North 2005
Freya North asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
‘Something's Gotten Hold of My Heart’
Words & Music by Roger Cook & Roger Greenaway © Copyright 1967 Maribus Music Limited & Cookaway Music Limited. Universal/Dick James Music Limited.
Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
‘Summer Breeze’
Words & Music by James Seals & Darrell Crofts © Copyright 1971 Dawnbreaker Music Company/Trousdale Music Publishers Incorporated, USA.
The International Music Network Limited (87.5%)/Universal/ MCA Music Limited (12.5%).
Used by permission of Music Sales Limited.
‘He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven’
By W.B. Yeats
Reproduced by permission of A.P. Watt on behalf of Michael B. Yeats.
Set in Sabon by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Polmont, Stirlingshire
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