his details and asked for it outright. She noted him shift gingerly in the seat, a greyness flood his face as he did so. If pain was this visible, the poor man must be in torment, she thought. In her experience, men in pain either exaggerated its intensity or downplayed it entirely.
‘Tell me about the pain,’ Thea said, pen poised.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Mr Sewell lied.
From Mr Sewell’s personal details, Thea considered his lifestyle and its possible ramifications on his current predicament. Gabriel Sewell was thirty-eight years old with a home in Clapham and an office in Mayfair. He was an actuary by profession – Thea didn’t know what this entailed but ascertained it was sedentary and high-powered. He appeared to be relatively fit, playing five-a-side once a week, plus regular golf and occasional cycling. It seemed he was fairly healthy, good diet, good weight, just a social smoker and a regular but not heavy drinker.
‘So,’ Thea said, ‘tell me about your back.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Mr Sewell began.
But it wasn’t nothing. It transpired that leaving his wife over the weekend and hauling suitcases out of the loft and personal possessions out of the marital home had conspired to cause Mr Sewell’s spasm.
‘OK,’ Thea said after working on him for an hour, ‘I’ll leave you for a moment. Take your time.’
She hovered outside her room, listening to silence followed by a sigh and the sound of Mr Sewell dressing. She knocked and after a moment, entered. He was sitting in the chair, gazing out over rooftops. His expression was unreadable but to Thea’s trained eye, the tenseness in his neck had dissolved and the greyness of his complexion had lifted. She asked how he felt, if the treatment had helped, if the pain was diminished, but Mr Sewell expressed any gratitude in a monosyllabic way.
‘I’d like you to come again,’ Thea advised, ‘towards the end of this week, preferably. I’d also like you to see one of our osteopaths for some manipulation.’
‘Fine,’ Mr Sewell said, ‘OK.’
‘I’ll book you in downstairs,’ Thea said, leading the way.
‘Thank you, Miss –?’ Mr Sewell waited to be informed.
‘Thea,’ Thea assured him, ‘Thea’s fine.’
He nodded and left.
‘Thea darling! I’m late, I know – I’m sorry, honey, but I’ve had a bitch of a morning. A total bitch. And my back’s killing me. Total fucking nightmare.’
Thea’s twelve o’clock arrived quarter of an hour late with his usual flurry of excuses. Because he was a regular, she would overrun her lunch hour to honour a full session for him. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a problem, Peter,’ she acquiesced, ‘come on up and let’s get cracking.’
‘I thought only osteos could do that,’ Peter joked.
‘Let’s get petrissaging doesn’t have quite the same ring to it,’ Thea said over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.
Peter Glass had been a client of Thea’s for a year or so. He came in now for ‘monthly maintenance’ as he termed it, though he regularly phoned for ‘crisis sessions’ in between. This was meant to be a maintenance visit but it was obvious from his stilted gait that a crisis now superseded it.
‘How are you, Peter?’ Thea asked him, wondering how long it would take the serene atmosphere of her room to calm him. Peter was usually busy to the point of being manic – an upmarket estate agent earning on commission only, with a complex love life, a love of material goods and a propensity for changing his car as frequently as his girlfriend.
‘Work’s mental – good mental. Life’s crazy – cool crazy. New squeeze, new Beemer.’
‘What’s Beemer?’ Thea asked.
Peter laughed. ‘BMW – Beemer, you know? Like Merc? Alpha?’
‘Skoda?’ Thea said.
‘You don’t!’ Peter exclaimed.
‘I don’t,’ Thea assured him, ‘I have a Fiat Panda.’
‘You don’t!’ Peter exclaimed with genuine horror.
‘Eleven years old,’ Thea said proudly. ‘Now, how are you?’ She glanced at the clock, knowing that he’d talk at her throughout the session anyway.
‘Nightmare,’ Peter groaned theatrically but with justification. ‘Do you want me down to my Jockeys?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Thea, skimming her notes on Peter’s last session, ‘and then face down on the table.’
‘How’s your love life, babes?’ Peter enquired, his voice muffled as Thea started the massage.
‘This feels tight.’ Thea ignored his question, pressing into his lower trapezius until she felt it yield.
‘If I was single, I’d wine and dine you, honey,’ Peter told her with an appreciative groan.
‘If I was single, I’d turn you down,’ Thea responded though immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘So you do have a love life,’ Peter commented, ‘but do you have a love nest? I can show you some gorgeous properties.’
‘You haven’t been doing those stretches I showed you, have you?’ Thea chastised, glad to change the subject.
‘Not enough hours in the day, babes,’ Peter rued. ‘Stretching takes too long.’
‘Peter!’ Thea admonished. ‘That series I showed you takes a maximum ten minutes, on weekdays only. You can do them anywhere.’
‘Not long but slow,’ Peter qualified, ‘I mean they feel like they take too long because they’re so slow. All that holding and breathing. I don’t do slow – not in my life.’
Reluctantly, Thea understood. He was a character, Peter Glass, a wide boy and charmer but self-deprecating and thus likeable. For all his bravura and bullshit, bragging of Beemers and calling every woman ‘babes’, he was a decent bloke contending with vicious pain.
‘You do make me feel better,’ Peter told her, knotting his Gucci tie. ‘If I could afford the time I’d come to you every bloody week. Twice, maybe. It’s only here that I slow down and unwind a little while you untie all those crap muscles of mine.’
‘Let’s book you in for next week,’ Thea said.
‘Cool, babes,’ said Peter, ‘but I may have to cancel last minute.’
‘Zay say zat avocado makes a lady ripe for lurve. Zay say zat carrot cake makes a lady hot. Zay say zat cheesy crisps make a lady juicy.’
Thea stood in the queue at Pret a Manger, thrilled at the surprise of Saul whispering in her ear, with his improbable accent and bizarre theories on foodstuffs.
‘Lady,’ he continued, murmuring throatily, his voice an octave lower than his regular English accent, ‘zay say zat a lady who likes avocado and cheesy crisps and cake of carrot, she is lady who do much sexy sex.’
‘Piss off,’ Thea whispered, giggling. Saul stood close behind her and kissed insistently behind her ear and along the curve of her neck. ‘Stop it,’ Thea hissed, ‘we’re in public.’
‘Exactly,’ whispered Saul. ‘God, I’m horny.’
‘I’m on a short lunch,’ Thea apologized, now feeling quite horny herself.
‘I’ll walk you back,’ Saul said, ‘as long as the tent pole in my trousers doesn’t get me arrested en route.’
It had snowed overnight and though