wriggle in her chair. ‘Tell me about silly old EMAP? I promise I won't tell a soul. I swear on David Bowie's life. Trust me?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Saul laughed, inadvertently shaking a piece of sashimi at her. ‘Like I said – if I'm given a secret, I keep it. No matter how absolute your love for Bowie is. Suffice it to say, I'm not involved.’
Alice contrived to look sulky and offended but her enthusiasm for her project soon overtook. ‘Initially, I was hoping you'd work on the dummy with us, Saul,’ she said, still in a whisper, ‘basically oversee editorial – it would mean committing three days a week for the next month or so. Take the dummy into research, then head up the launch issue if we get the go-ahead. With, of course, absolutely no guarantee of a staff position at the end.’
Saul laughed. ‘I know the score,’ he said, ‘and I'd love to be involved.’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic,’ Alice beamed.
‘Alice, you haven't eaten a thing,’ Saul observed.
‘I can't eat when I'm excited,’ Alice declared. ‘Great for weight loss, though.’
Saul thought aren't girls silly sometimes.
Apart from Thea, of course. Saul didn't think her silly at all. Her fear of dogs was understandable, her propensity for weeping during ER or re-runs of Cold Feet he found quite endearing, her belief in drinking only juice until noon each day he thought eccentric. But he didn't think her silly.
‘She's not a calorie-counting, chardonnay-swilling, Mui-Mui obsessive,’ he quantified to Ian Ashford over a pile of poppadams and a mound of chutney, ‘but then neither is she a drink-your-own-pee, salute-the-sun and wear-hessian-to-Pilates type either.’
‘Does she do Pilates?’ Ian asked.
‘Yes, with her mates Sally and Alice,’ said Saul, ‘and she has a gorgeous figure because of it. But my point is she may drink only juice until lunchtime but she's also partial to a Marlboro Light with her vodka-tonics after dark. She makes soup with organic produce – but her preferred lunch is Pret a Manger egg mayo sandwiches and a Coca-Cola.’
‘What's with the juice-till-noon thing?’ Ian asked, wondering whether it might be a good regime for his acid and thinking that the madras he ordered probably wasn't.
‘She simply doesn't have an appetite until then,’ Saul explained. ‘I bought her a juicer for Christmas because she was spending a fortune on smoothies.’
‘What you're talking about is balance,’ Ian said, spooning pilau rice onto his plate.
‘I am,’ said Saul, ‘a girl who balances M&S socks and a top she's had for ever with an Anya Hindmarsh handbag. Do you know how much those bags cost? But balance, yes – she connects with the yin and yang and whole shebang of meridians and energy flow and shiatsu stuff – but herCD collection is more the White Stripes than whale music.’
‘She's at ease with herself,’ Ian defined, passing the dhal to Saul.
‘It's one of the most attractive things about her,’ Saul nodded, passing the Bombay aloo to Ian.
‘Does she keep Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus under her bed?’ Ian asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ Saul laughed, ‘ Heat magazine.’
‘So what's she like in the sack?’ Ian posed, working his fork dexterously through the curry and rice like a bricklayer trowelling cement.
‘She's great,’ said Saul evenly, ‘for all the same reasons – sometimes it's deep and meaningful lovemaking. Other times it's fast and furious shagging. She doesn't pester me to whisper sweet nothings but she writhes when I talk dirty. She doesn't sulk to the other end of the bed if all I want to do post-coitally is roll over and snore, and I'm just as likely to wake up to a blow-job as to Radio 4.’
‘Sounds like you've hit the jackpot, mate,’ said Ian. ‘I'd suggest you snap her up and put your name on her, quick.’
‘You know how with some women you end up playing along with them just for peace and quiet,’ Saul mused, ‘and you find yourself
‘Absolutely not!’ Saul laughed, inadvertently shaking a piece of sashimi at her. ‘Like I said – if I'm given a secret, I keep it. No matter how absolute your love for Bowie is. Suffice it to say, I'm not involved.’
Alice contrived to look sulky and offended but her enthusiasm for her project soon overtook. ‘Initially, I was hoping you'd work on the dummy with us, Saul,’ she said, still in a whisper, ‘basically oversee editorial – it would mean committing three days a week for the next month or so. Take the dummy into research, then head up the launch issue if we get the go-ahead. With, of course, absolutely no guarantee of a staff position at the end.’
Saul laughed. ‘I know the score,’ he said, ‘and I'd love to be involved.’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic,’ Alice beamed.
‘Alice, you haven't eaten a thing,’ Saul observed.
‘I can't eat when I'm excited,’ Alice declared. ‘Great for weight loss, though.’
Saul thought aren't girls silly sometimes.
Apart from Thea, of course. Saul didn't think her silly at all. Her fear of dogs was understandable, her propensity for weeping during ER or re-runs of Cold Feet he found quite endearing, her belief in drinking only juice until noon each day he thought eccentric. But he didn't think her silly.
‘She's not a calorie-counting, chardonnay-swilling, Mui-Mui obsessive,’ he quantified to Ian Ashford over a pile of poppadams and a mound of chutney, ‘but then neither is she a drink-your-own-pee, salute-the-sun and wear-hessian-to-Pilates type either.’
‘Does she do Pilates?’ Ian asked.
‘Yes, with her mates Sally and Alice,’ said Saul, ‘and she has a gorgeous figure because of it. But my point is she may drink only juice until lunchtime but she's also partial to a Marlboro Light with her vodka-tonics after dark. She makes soup with organic produce – but her preferred lunch is Pret a Manger egg mayo sandwiches and a Coca-Cola.’
‘What's with the juice-till-noon thing?’ Ian asked, wondering whether it might be a good regime for his acid and thinking that the madras he ordered probably wasn't.
‘She simply doesn't have an appetite until then,’ Saul explained. ‘I bought her a juicer for Christmas because she was spending a fortune on smoothies.’
‘What you're talking about is balance,’ Ian said, spooning pilau rice onto his plate.
‘I am,’ said Saul, ‘a girl who balances M&S socks and a top she's had for ever with an Anya Hindmarsh handbag. Do you know how much those bags cost? But balance, yes – she connects with the yin and yang and whole shebang of meridians and energy flow and shiatsu stuff – but herCD collection is more the White Stripes than whale music.’
‘She's at ease with herself,’ Ian defined, passing the dhal to Saul.
‘It's one of the most attractive things about her,’ Saul nodded, passing the Bombay aloo to Ian.
‘Does she keep Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus under her bed?’ Ian asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ Saul laughed, ‘ Heat magazine.’
‘So what's she like in the sack?’ Ian posed, working his fork dexterously through the curry and rice like a bricklayer trowelling cement.
‘She's great,’ said Saul evenly, ‘for all the same reasons – sometimes it's deep and meaningful lovemaking. Other times it's fast and furious shagging. She doesn't pester me to whisper sweet nothings but she writhes when I talk dirty. She doesn't sulk to the other end of the bed if all I want to do post-coitally is roll over and snore, and I'm just as likely to wake up to a blow-job as to Radio 4.’
‘Sounds like you've hit the jackpot, mate,’ said Ian. ‘I'd suggest you snap her up and put your name on her, quick.’
‘You know how with some women you end up playing along with them just for peace and quiet,’ Saul mused, ‘and you find yourself
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