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 dog-sitting. I’ll bet Sir Walter’s jacket wasn’t Armani.
‘Sally,’ Thea whispered down the phone, having speed-read the article, ‘look at the Observer mag – and tell Richard I need that jacket back.’
At the time of writing, I can’t tell you which way the tide will turn. Will Barefaced Bloke turn into Soft Git and clamber up Primrose Hill for the third Sunday running, hopeful but chilly? Or has Barefaced Bloke turned into Sod It Saul and stayed warm indoors with his X Box not giving a 4X?
‘Saul Mundy is a spunk!’ Sally declared. ‘I love his column – and he doesn’t look half bad either. Saul Bloody Mundy – can you believe it? Aren’t you the lucky one!’
‘I don’t know whether to feel flattered or used,’ Thea said sanctimoniously, ‘and I’m not sure what to do.’
‘Tell her I’m keeping the bloody jacket,’ Thea could hear Richard in the background.
‘Oh shut up!’ Sally derided to both Thea and her husband.
Thea was actually fizzing with excitement but it seemed both arrogant and fate-tempting to admit it to herself, let alone Sally Stonehill, so she maintained her contrived ambivalence.
‘Yes, but—’ Thea attempted.
‘Gracious Good Lord, girl, you’re being flirted with through the pages of a national newspaper. It’s possibly the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of!’ Sally said impatiently. ‘Away with you to Primrose Hill! It seems to me his balls are in your court.’
Thea paced Alice’s flat, then she sat down and reread the article.
I hope she likes the jacket. She looked far better in it than I ever did anyway.
Was he making a pass or taking the piss? Should she read between the lines or disbelieve what she read? Alice hurry home!
Ultimately, what could the Gorgeous Thief do but tramp up Primrose Hill for the third Sunday in a row?
He wasn’t there.
What could she have been thinking?
Of course he wasn’t there.
‘I made good copy, that’s all,’ Thea said with reluctant resignation, having loitered for half an hour. Overhead, a scruff of crows littered the sky, like flits of charcoal coughed up by a bonfire. Thea found herself wondering if the crows were somehow goading the birds caged in the London Zoo aviary, just down the hill and over the road. Perhaps she’d take herself off to the zoo right now. She hadn’t been for years. And it wouldn’t make her afternoon seem so wasted. Did people go to the zoo alone? she wondered. Were you let in if you didn’t have a child in tow?
‘Where’s my sodding jacket, you gorgeous thief?’ a voice behind her halted her meanderings.
Thea did not turn to face him. ‘My friend’s husband has now nicked it,’ she replied, her eyes tracing the rise and fall of the aviary.
‘Sod my Sir Walter Ralegh Moment,’ said Saul, now pressing up close, enfolding his arms around her waist, ‘and sod my image – I’m going for full-blown Mills & Boon.’ And with that Saul turned Thea to face him, cupped her head in his hands and kissed her.
‘Champagne, madam?’ the stewardess asked Alice who was pressing all the buttons on her vast First Class seat whilst rummaging in its capacious pockets too.
‘Absolutely!’ said Alice. ‘And can you pop my name down for the massage?’
‘Certainly – would you like a massage too, sir?’
‘No, thanks very much, but no,’ Mark declined.
‘Champagne?’ he was offered.
‘Thanks – but no.’
‘Paper?’
‘Yes,’ said Mark, ‘Sunday Telegraph, please.’
‘Madam?’
‘Observer, thanks,’ said Alice. ‘Tory-graph!’ she teased Mark.
‘Limp lefty!’ he sparred back. Without having to be asked, he handed over his luxury complimentary travel pack for his wife to rifle through. By the time Alice had reached Saul’s article, laughing aloud a couple of times, 38,000 feet below, the author of it was scrutinizing her best friend’s scars.
‘Fifty-four stitches,’ Thea told him, ‘from a weedy little terrier. The bizarre thing is, at the time, I was far more distressed that the dog was destroyed.’
Thea Luckmore had never before jumped into bed on a first date, let alone slept with a relative stranger. Moreover, she had hitherto guarded her scars as fiercely as her perceived chastity. Yet here she was, naked and post-coitally languid above the covers on Saul Mundy’s bed, feeling more than fine while he traced the snaking line of scar that scored her waist and the top of her right thigh. He found the site and sight of her injury disturbing but intriguing. The scar was like a single line of pale pink silk braid laid in a particular route. It was obvious where the dog’s jaws had clamped, where the teeth had punctured her, where her flesh had been ripped away and the flap carefully sewn back down. It was almost a cartoon scar, so perfect was the impression of the bite.
‘I was twelve years old,’ Thea continued, ‘and it was Alice’s dog. Tiddler. I’ve been petrified of terriers ever since.’
Saul rolled over and dipped his face down to her stomach. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he murmured, dipping his nose into her navel.
‘I’m not too bad with Rottweilers, oddly enough,’ Thea added while Saul let his lips touch her lightly, so gently that when she closed her eyes she couldn’t tell if he was kissing scar or skin. ‘Big dogs tend to lollop, little terriers just go berserk.’
‘Your scar suits you,’ he said. ‘It tells a story – vulnerability behind the feistiness. If that doesn’t sound too corny.’
‘Corny?’ Thea smiled. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to get into my knickers. Again.’
‘Horny,’ Saul confessed, ‘again.
