me your little girl. I am your little girl but if I hear it from you today, I’ll cry and want to run all the way home.
I can’t hear. I can’t hear a thing. I’m watching lips move over the vows I helped pen. I know it all off by heart. But I can’t hear. I’m ever so warm. Actually I feel a bit hot. Mark is saying things. Pardon? It’s my turn. I have to say something. Something for everyone to hear. I know this bit. I know what to say. Please don’t let my voice croak.
‘I DO.’
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