LITMIR.BIZ

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off a raisin-and-biscuit Yorkie on his way back from an editorial brainstorming session. She loved how he would occasionally materialize behind her in the lunchtime queue at Pret a Manger, murmuring ‘they say that banana cake is an aphrodisiac’ or ‘gissa bite of your baguette, love’. His text messages arrived at all hours and she never knew whether they’d be chatty, romantic or downright dirty. Sometimes he’d make love to her with great tenderness, taking time to stroke her, absorbed in just looking at her, watching the effect that altering the angle or a subtle variation in pace could have on the flush to her cheeks or the dilation of her pupils. And sometimes he’d fuck her most carnally, his eyes screwed shut as he screwed her, clenching his teeth as he grabbed her buttocks and bucked forcefully into her until he came. Sometimes, he was as sated purely through cunnilingus as she was; though she’d sleepily offer to return the favour, he’d hush her with a goodnight kiss, turn out the light and spoon tenderly against her. Thea didn’t mind that he was grumpy when he woke up, that his farts were noxious and that he could snore for Britain. It didn’t bother her that his timekeeping was lousy, that he’d snap at her if she talked during films, that their taste in music had few overlaps, that sometimes he bolted his food. She was glad to love him enough to allow him his personality. She had no higher ideal to project onto him. ‘Rounded with rough edges,’ she defined to Alice, ‘he’s not perfect and so he’s ideal.’ At last, Thea had fallen in love with someone she had no inclination, no need, to deify. Alice’s wish for Thea had only ever been that someone would find her who deserved the depth of the love she had to give.

      Thea and Saul could have frantic late nights gallivanting around the bars of Soho, or they could plunder Villandry and go home for extravagant carpet picnics. They could be the loved-up couple at dinners hosted by friends, or they could arrive together at parties but socialize separately, with the occasional grin or wink over to each other. They’d have backgammon tournaments which became quite tense, Scrabble sessions that were downright serious or raucous evenings watching DVDs of Spinal Tap or the Blues Brothers, aided by shots of home-made Mars Bar vodka. Then there were the evenings when they were so engrossed in their own thing that they hardly knew the other was there; the Saturdays when Thea ironed for most of the day and Saul tapped away at his laptop in her bedroom; the Sundays spent in affable silence over the newspapers. There were also Saul’s evenings at the Swallow with Ian or Richard that Thea had no intention of gatecrashing. And evenings when Saul smiled at the thought of Thea all by herself, unplugging her phone so she could watch ER uninterrupted.

      Thea read everything Saul wrote, but only once it was in print.

      ‘Shall I start putting you in my columns?’ Saul mused.

      ‘What – Michael Winner style?’ Thea looked up from the Sunday Times. ‘Christ!’

      Saul laughed. ‘I was thinking more à la A. A. Gill, hon.’

      But he didn’t. Barefaced Bloke’s readers had heard no more about the Gorgeous Thief since that article published the day they first kissed. Saul Mundy had a public voice and a private side. And when he finished writing an article with laddish overtones for one mag, or a column infused with sarcasm for another, or a review so cleverly barbed it was downright spiky, what he found most satisfying was to log off, look up and see Thea. Engrossed in a book, or quietly sipping a cup of tea, or embroiled in a text-messaging marathon with Alice, or simply daydreaming.

      ‘She’s my mate,’ Saul qualified one evening to Ian, ‘in every sense of the word. Soulmate, best mate, bed mate.’

      ‘Flatmate?’ Ian posed.

      Saul sipped thoughtfully at his pint. ‘Not yet,’ he said cautiously, ‘but there again, we’ve only been together a year.’

A Year Between the Sheets

      ADAM

       January, Issue 8

       Jack Nicholson cover

       Is this the coolest man in the world?

       The year in preview – wear it, see it, hear it, buy it

       Health & fitness: six weeks to a six-pack

       Motors – penis extension or life support?

       Sex – do it

       Money – make it

       Property – live it

       Win! Gadgets and gear up for grabs

      ADAM

       February, Issue 9

       Nicole Kidman cover

       Nicole, we love you, marry us

       Hot property – buy abroad, get a tan, make a profit

       Fitness: back your back

       Hand-made shoes and bespoke suits, every wardrobe should have them

       Sex – it’s good for you, fact

       Tool kits and WD40: every woman loves a handyman

       Plus! Reviews – we’ve seen ’em, read ’em, heard ’em, tasted ’em and played ’em

       Win! Sail into the sunset: two weeks on a luxury yacht

      ADAM

       March, Issue 10

       Sean Connery cover

       Connery – the real McCoy

       There’s something about Mary, Isla and Jen – supermodels with brains and bod

       Prison – it’s a step closer than you’d think

       Double your money in half a year

       Bachelor pad or disaster area: architects, designers, cleaners show us how

       Love handles? Man boobs? Stop it with the names and get rid of them in 4 weeks

       Sex – come together or drift apart

       Win! Top seats at Top 10 sporting fixtures

      ‘Thea, I’ve blocked out your eleven-o’clock slot,’ Souki put her hand over the telephone receiver and told Thea, who was arranging magazines for the waiting room and flowers for the reception. ‘New client – sounds desperate.’

      ‘Sure,’ said Thea.

      ‘That’s fine,’ Souki told the caller. ‘May I take your name? Mr Sewell. Lovely, we’ll see you in a couple of hours. Yes, Baker Street Tube. That’s right. Goodbye.’ Souki filled in the appointments diary and turned to Thea. ‘Cup of tea?’

      ‘I was half hoping Saul might pop by with lattes all round,’ Thea remarked.

      ‘Two days on the trot might be wishful thinking,’ Souki said. ‘Do you think we could offer Saul free fortnightly massage in return for daily lattes?’

      ‘I’ll put it to him,’ Thea said, ‘though he claims to hate massage. Says it makes him feel uncomfortable and exposed.’

      ‘Just wait till he puts his back out through squash or something – he’ll be begging for it,’ Souki declared. ‘Earl Grey or Red Bush?’

      ‘RB, please. So who’s the eleven o’clock?’

      ‘A Mr Sewell – said he’s done his back in,’ Souki informed Thea, ‘but as Brent and Dan are fully booked, I reckoned yours were the second-safest hands.’

      Mr Sewell arrived ten minutes early. He was far younger than Thea had expected. In fact, he looked like Peter O’Toole in his Lawrence of Arabia period, which was a very pleasant surprise. Though dressed smartly, the pain from his back caused his suit to hang oddly, as if he’d forgotten to remove the hanger. Likewise,

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