The next day, she went to Prospero’s Books in Crouch End on the off chance that a book by a bloke called Saul might catch her eye. There appeared to be none on the shelves.
‘Sally,’ said Thea, ‘have you heard of a writer called Saul someone?’
‘Bellow?’ Sally said. ‘But your Saul may have a nom de plume, of course.’
‘Say he’s an axe-wielding homicidal maniac,’ said Thea, ‘and the police find bits of me all over Primrose Hill on Monday morning?’
‘Well, as I said, steer clear of black leather gloves.’
‘Maybe I won’t go,’ Thea said gloomily.
‘Say he’s not a book writer,’ Sally mooted, because she liked the sound of Saul and his sweets, ‘perhaps he’s a journalist.’
‘Maybe I’ll go,’ Thea said, non-committally.
On Thursday, Thea phoned her mother in Chippenham and suggested lunch on Sunday.
‘Darling, I’m going to the Craig-Stewarts’ for lunch this Sunday,’ her mother said, a little baffled that her daughter was willing to drive down just for the day when Christmas was only six weeks away. Feeling slightly demoralized and in need of unequivocal advice, Thea wondered what Alice would say. She reckoned Alice herself would hide behind another tree on Primrose Hill and keep watch. If she wasn’t otherwise engaged. More than engaged – fundamentally married and lying on the white sands of St Bloody Lucia.
‘You’re still all right to babysit Molly tomorrow?’ Lynne phoned Saul on Saturday evening as he was leaving for Ian’s. ‘We can’t take her to the Clarksons’ wedding.’
Saul had forgotten. But actually, babysitting Molly was a very good idea. It was a cunning Plan B. He’d be on Primrose Hill whether or not Thea decided to turn up. ‘No problem,’ he told Lynne.
‘We’ll drop her round at yours first thing,’ said Lynne gratefully.
Nothing conspired against Saul and Thea planning their trips to Primrose Hill a week to the day that they’d first met. Neither had nightmares the night before. Both had slept well and awoken feeling fine. The weather was glorious, a degree or two warmer than the previous week and sunny too. An autumn day in winter, as precious as an Indian summer in autumn. Thea decided she’d check on Alice’s flat en route to further justify her trip. At Alice’s flat, she took the liberty of borrowing her friend’s cashmere jumper the shade of bluebells, leaving her own boring navy lambswool polo neck in return. She also helped herself to a spritz of Alice’s Chanel perfume in case her own had faded by now. Thea checked her reflection and gave herself an approving grin. She had an inkling that this might be fun; a long-held belief in serendipity said it might be a good idea. She zipped up her jacket and folded Saul’s over her arm. She held it to her face and inhaled. Then she stiffly told herself not to be so daft.
‘Come on, Molly,’ said Saul, ‘best behaviour, now.’
Thea didn’t have time to hide behind a tree. As she approached the crest of Primrose Hill, she could see Saul was already there, jacketless and grinning. She picked up her pace and walked towards him, quickly congratulating herself on how handsome he was, axe-wielding homicidal maniac or not. She saw he was gloveless and at that point she smiled and waved. However, when he waved back, it appeared he was carrying a belt in his hand. She was just about to read great tomes into this, wondering what definition Sally would give belt-brandishing, when Molly appeared. Hurtling. Yapping. Running tight rings around Thea. Thea screamed.
‘Molly!’ Saul half-laughed, half-shouted, loping down the hill towards them. ‘Get down, your paws are all muddy and Thea – And Thea. And Thea – is crying.’
‘Get the dog away!’ she sobbed. ‘Get it away.’
Saul was not used to being torn between the needs of two women. But there was no way that, just then, on Primrose Hill, he could relinquish either. All he could do was call out both their names, imploring Molly to come and Thea to stay. He wanted Molly to be still and Thea not to bolt. What would Barbara Woodhouse have said? Heel? Down? Crazy hound? Paul bloody McKenna would be better.
‘Molly!’ Saul hollered. ‘Heel! Come! Down! Stay! Sit, you crazy hound!’ To Molly this was double Dutch, to the bona-fide dog owners within earshot, this was comedy. Molly was now careering around at speed, zipping through people’s legs, barking joyously and returning to yap and skittle and leap at Thea who stood stock still, her fists squeezed together and clasped under her chin.
‘She’s not mine,’ Saul shouted as if that made the situation better. Molly was now transfixed by the backside of a King Charles Spaniel some way off and Saul crept over to capture her.
By the time Molly was safely on her lead, Saul could but watch Thea hurry out of the park. Beyond earshot. With his jacket.
‘That’ll teach me to talk to strangers,’ Saul told Molly. ‘I should know to steer clear of hysterical types who drink.’ He decided to think of her no more. Nice jacket, though. That was a shame.
Barefaced Bloke and the Girl with the Scar
Thea went to Alice’s flat to prepare it for the newly-weds’ imminent return from their fortnight in Caribbean paradise. She took flowers, fresh milk and bread, opened windows, bleached the toilet, changed the linen and stacked the mail. Then she lit a scented candle and sat down with the Observer and a Starbucks cappuccino. It was nice to have a Sunday when she felt healthy and clear-headed, with no plans and no need of Primrose Hill. And it was comforting to think of Alice winging her way back. There was something relaxing about reading the papers in someone else’s home, no distractions of chores that ought to be done or calls that should be made or fridges that needed restocking or tax returns lurking on the table.
The Observer on a Sunday was an institution; familiar, entertaining, non-taxing and sometimes vaguely irritating, like an old friend with whom Thea conversed once a week. She read it in a very particular order; main paper first, ‘Review’ second, then ‘Escape’. ‘Sport’, ‘Business’ and ‘Cash’ were never read but not wasted, kept instead under the kitchen sink to absorb the slow drip from the washing-machine hose. This week, an interview with David Bowie in the bonus ‘Music Monthly’ magazine was particularly absorbing, rekindling memories of the shrine she and Alice had built in honour of Mr Bowie during their teenage years. Thea pulled out the article and placed it on top of Alice’s post. The ‘OM’ magazine was Thea’s favourite component, savoured last. The voices within the pages were as familiar to her as those on Radio 4. A restaurant close to where she worked was reviewed favourably so she tore that page out and folded it into her Filofax. The cartoon made her laugh out loud, so she ripped that out too and stuck it to Alice’s fridge. Sage advice from Barefoot Doctor made her think. Mariella Frostrup made her murmur in agreement. But Barefaced Bloke’s opening line made her swear out loud.
It was meant to be my Sir Walter Ralegh moment.
‘Oh good God!’
Instead, it turned into a Dog Day Afternoon.
Barefaced Bloke was Saul. Saul Mundy. It said so in black and white. And a black-and-white photo confirmed it.
This week I give you the sorry tale of the Barefaced Bloke, the Gorgeous Thief, a Terrorizing Terrier and My Armani Jacket.
‘He thinks I’m a thief!’
Well, you are, Thea. But he also says you’re gorgeous.
I’m through with good deeds. I’m done with