Freya North 3-Book Collection: Love Rules, Home Truths, Pillow Talk. Freya North

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СКАЧАТЬ pressed her cheek against the passenger window. She needn’t have had the fake tan – the wine at lunchtime, the effort of being on best behaviour had made her feel quite warm. She looked at the trees, some bursting into leaf, others in full blossom. She’d learn the names of lots of plants by the time she next met Mark’s parents. And she’d try not to swear.

Saul Mundy

      Saul Mundy had assumed he’d buy a sensible two-bedroom house in a popular postcode, take out a mortgage with Emma and have a leg-up onto the London property ladder. He had been thinking about Brondesbury or Tufnell Park or Ealing as safe bets. But then he hadn’t been thinking about breaking up with Emma. Twelve hours after the relationship ended, Saul signed a short let on a top-floor space in central London, a location he’d previously never considered as residential. It was uncompromisingly open plan, and he reckoned the landlord had probably marketed it variously as office space, storage space, apartment or studio according to the potential tenant’s requirements. Saul chanced upon it en route to a meeting in Baker Street and rented it because it was available that afternoon and had a view he knew he’d never tire of, a privileged panorama of the city from a vantage point available to few. He need never elbow his way onto a crowded Tube again. And with upmarket delicatessens such as Villandry on his doorstep, he need never resort to frozen meals again.

      When the short let expired six months later, Saul bought the place, having unexpectedly fallen for the charms of city-centre living and having learnt to cook at an evening course run by Divertimenti a stroll away. Twelve months on, Saul has become a dab hand at property improvement and is quite the house-proud DIY-er. He partitioned the expansive area with a curved wall of opalescent glass blocks, dividing the space by a sinuous line into attractive and practical zones. Privacy in an arc for sleeping; an ample and quirkily curved section in which to relax and a clever paisley-shaped bud concealing his home office. He’d mosaiced the bathroom, laid funky rubber flooring in the kitchen, and given great thought to lighting. He loved it.

      And he loved the location. He hadn’t stepped on the Northern Line for eighteen months. He swiftly attained an enviable knowledge of the capital’s hidden secrets and the added advantage of living so centrally was that soon enough he was known and warmly welcomed at them all. Consequently, he was never ripped off at a convenience store. He had no need for a car and therefore never had parking fines or the Congestion Charge hanging over him. Marco, who owned the sandwich shop and deli, let Saul park his scooter under cover for free. He was always guaranteed a table for breakfast at Bernard’s Café, usually with the day’s papers presented to him too. At lunchtime, Marco always over-filled Saul’s sandwich and if it was Maria serving, she’d slip in a chocolate brownie for free. He never suffered a lousy curry. Or a dodgy Thai. Or disappointing sushi. Even if he was out of change, Dave on the corner would still have Saul’s Evening Standard for him, ready folded. He was able to secure just what he wanted, at the best possible price, during the sales, before crowd-swamping made shopping unbearable. He never had to resort to an All Bar One. He’d never been in a Pitcher & Piano. He didn’t have to fight his way through bars thronging with over-excited and over-made-up office girls, or over-indulged and over-the-limit City smart arses. He could have the liveliest and latest of nights out without ever being ripped off by a minicab, he could just stroll home. So, when Saul’s friend Ian Ashford called and suggested a night out, Saul was able to say that he knew a great little place to meet.

      The Swallow, nestled between a printing shop and an ironmonger’s along one of the little streets forming the tight clasp east of Great Portland Street, was an old-fashioned hostelry. It appeared unprepossessing enough from the outside to safeguard against clientele other than locals and regulars. The drab paint, the windows seemingly in need of a basic wash to say nothing of new frames, were a shrewd exterior to protect an interior that was actually bright, cosy and spruce. The place was not big and resembled an elongated sitting room; the bar itself was confined to one corner and cramped enough for the staff to be unable to serve side by side necessitating an intricate but effective pas de deux. Whilst one pulled a pint or reached for a whisky glass or discussed the runners at Kempton Park, the other would look over his shoulder to take the next order. And then they’d change position with a courteous glide. A coal fire murmured away constantly from November until March. From May until September, the back door was permanently open to a small patio complete with its own grapevine, increasing the pub’s interior capacity of twenty-eight seated and six standing to a further twelve standing. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, sausages and mash were available. At other times, peanuts and crisps were complimentary.

      At the Swallow, though no one actually knew what anyone actually did or where they lived, the atmosphere was congenial and every now and then, a sense of community emerged. Arthur gave everyone a great tip for shares to be bought in a new Internet start-up. Lynton offered Marlboro cigarettes for less than half the shop price. When Barry’s flat was broken into, his home was restocked courtesy of the staff and clients at the Swallow. Eddie’s cousin owned a locksmith’s concession and sorted out new security. Anne ran up two new pairs of curtains for Barry because the burglars had ripped down his to use as sacks. Lynton knew someone who did CD players on the cheap and as they owed him a favour, he secured one for Barry for free. But Saul earned himself complimentary pints for a month. Not that free drinks were Saul’s motivation to provide Barry with more CDs than he’d owned in the first place, an electric shaver, an electric toothbrush that retailed at twice the price of the shaver, a digital camera, an Alessi teapot and a lava lamp.

      ‘Blimey, mate,’ Keith the landlord had marvelled, pulling Saul a Guinness on the house, ‘is all that kosher?’

      ‘You got a little shop or something?’ asked Barry, hugely grateful but also quietly wondering what else Saul had. ‘Or you got the back of a lorry?’

      ‘Knock-off?’ Lynton quizzed, defensive but interested.

      Saul had laughed. ‘It’s kosher, Lynton, your patch is safe, mate! I’m a writer,’ he shrugged, knowing he’d told them before at some point. ‘I’m sent stuff all the time to test and review. Mostly, they don’t ask for it back. I’ve had a 42-inch plasma since the summer.’ Barry glanced up hopefully from behind the ziggurat of CDs. ‘They’ve only just asked for it back,’ Saul continued, ‘they’re talking about installing a home cinema for me to test next.’ Saul was called everything from lucky geezer to jammy bastard and the wish-lists of the staff and clients at the Swallow were discreetly presented to him.

      So, when Ian Ashford phoned Saul, Saul suggested the Swallow as perfect for a mid-November, mid-week drink, with perhaps sausages and mash if they fancied.

      ‘Jesus, it’s been a while.’ Ian shook Saul’s hand warmly, nodded and grinned. ‘What’ll you drink?’ he asked, glancing around the Swallow and nodding approvingly.

      ‘I’ll have a Stella, thanks,’ Saul replied, reciprocating Ian’s amiable nodding with a friendly punch to the bicep. ‘Good to see you,’ Saul said warmly, ‘it’s been bloody ages. Where’ve you been?’

      ‘Otherwise engaged,’ said Ian. He watched Saul take a long drink. ‘Literally,’ he added. He winked, sighed and took a swig of beer. ‘Engaged.’

      ‘Work been a bitch, then?’ Saul enquired.

      ‘Work?’ Ian said. ‘I’m engaged.’ Again he winked and raised his eyebrows along with his glass when he saw the penny drop for Saul.

      ‘Christ!’ Saul exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell,’ he raised his glass and drank urgently before chinking Ian’s, ‘bloody hell – and there was I thinking you’ve been up to your eyes in some crucial trial at the Old Bailey when all the while you were waltzing up the road to eternal love and heading down the aisle to domesticity!’

      ‘You СКАЧАТЬ