Free Love Rules by Freya North

to strangers,’ Saul told Molly. ‘I should know to steer clear of hysterical types who drink.’ He decided to think of her no more. Nice jacket, though. That was a shame.

Barefaced Bloke and the Girl with the Scar
    Thea went to Alice's flat to prepare it for the newly-weds' imminent return from their fortnight in Caribbean paradise. She took flowers, fresh milk and bread, opened windows, bleached the toilet, changed the linen and stacked the mail. Then she lit a scented candle and sat down with the Observer and a Starbucks cappuccino. It was nice to have a Sunday when she felt healthy and clear-headed, with no plans and no need of Primrose Hill. And it was comforting to think of Alice winging her way back. There was something relaxing about reading the papers in someone else's home, no distractions of chores that ought to be done or calls that should be made or fridges that needed restocking or tax returns lurking on the table.
    The Observer on a Sunday was an institution; familiar, entertaining, non-taxing and sometimes vaguely irritating, like an old friend with whom Thea conversed once a week. She read it in a very particular order; main paper first, ‘Review’ second, then ‘Escape’. ‘Sport’, ‘Business’ and ‘Cash’ were never read but not wasted, kept instead under the kitchen sink to absorb the slow drip from the washing-machine hose. This week, an interview with David Bowie inthe bonus ‘Music Monthly’ magazine was particularly absorbing, rekindling memories of the shrine she and Alice had built in honour of Mr Bowie during their teenage years. Thea pulled out the article and placed it on top of Alice's post. The ‘OM’ magazine was Thea's favourite component, savoured last. The voices within the pages were as familiar to her as those on Radio 4. A restaurant close to where she worked was reviewed favourably so she tore that page out and folded it into her Filofax. The cartoon made her laugh out loud, so she ripped that out too and stuck it to Alice's fridge. Sage advice from Barefoot Doctor made her think. Mariella Frostrup made her murmur in agreement. But Barefaced Bloke's opening line made her swear out loud.
    It was meant to be my Sir Walter Ralegh moment.
    ‘Oh 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!’