Sex with the Ex (17 page)

Kitty stopped and turned. “Yes, I have felt at times that your life was empty, I did worry that you lacked passion or purpose. But then, I used to think Aunt Camilla's life was empty, too. Maybe I was wrong about both of you.” She smiled at me and put a hand out to stroke Jean's ears. “One thing I do know is that passion isn't something you need congratulations for. It's a painful disorder, an uncontrollable emotion, a purpose, a raison d'être without which I can't live. If you have the soul of a poet, as I do, you can't live without the suffering that passion brings.”

“You make it sound like a disease,” I said as Jean subtly rubbed her back end on my arm.

Kitty pulled her hand away and looked soulfully into the middle distance as only a woman who has played Juliet a thousand times can. I wouldn't be able to look into the middle distance soulfully if my life depended on it. Actually, even thinking about it made me have to think of something sad to stop myself falling apart at the seams giggling. “It is a disease, I suppose,” Kitty sighed. “A disease of the soul. And like an addict I can't live without it.”

“Oh,” I replied, almost bursting with laughter as Kitty put a hand out wistfully. “I don't know anymore if it's for everyone, though,” she conceded.

Even though it was Kitty, I was stunned by her speech nonetheless. She'd clearly been madly affected by my aunt's death, and specifically about the discovery of Aunt Camilla's secret love, but I hadn't expected her to question passion. I hadn't anticipated that she wouldn't dance with pleasure at the news that Richard and I were to be remarried.

I didn't have a chance to dwell, though, because a small boy charged into me, sending poor horny little Jean flying. Kitty and I ran to her aid, but she must have been okay because she started hopping away swiftly through the crowds. We gave chase, and when finally I gathered her into my arms, I became aware of a fracas going on at the edge of the green.

Richard and Charlie were yelling at one another.

“Isn't that Richard?” Kitty asked, pointing to a corner of the green.

I watched with horror as Richard pushed Charlie, then I saw Charlie storm off.

Kitty and I both raced over with Jean. “What's going on?” I asked Richard when we finally reached him.

“Oh, the guy's a prick, don't worry about him,” he replied, seemingly quite casual.

“What were you arguing about?”

“He was at me for the pissy membership subscription. I told him I'd give him a check. I mean, for Christ's sake, it's hardly on the top of my agenda today.” Then he put his arm around me. “I'm about to marry the girl of my dreams, that's all I care about.”

As I nuzzled into my fiancé's arm, I remembered then that Charlie had mentioned something about Richard's membership subscription being overdue, but normally the membership secretary would have contacted him. It wasn't something I'd expect Charlie to involve himself in, no matter how annoyed he was. “Seems odd that he would bring it up here,” I remarked.

“The guy is odd,” he replied before giving me a kiss on the head.

“Well, let's not worry about it now,” I reassured him. “Come back and enjoy the fete.”

“Yes,” agreed Kitty. “I will take Jean for a walk.”

When she had gone, Richard took me in his arms and kissed me long and slow on the mouth.

“Let's go and have a go on a ride,” I suggested.

He kissed me again. “In a moment, I'm just waiting here for Marcus.”

“Marcus?”

“Ah, some rubbish with work, don't worry about it.”

I wandered disconsolately after Kitty, but I
did
worry about it. I worried about it a lot. It was something Charlie had said to me about Marcus, but I couldn't remember what.

“Since the death of his father, Edward has been as he was when I first met him. I wish you could see him, Elizabeth dearest, he is lighter of spirit, as if a dark cloud has been lifted. He has even forsworn gambling. My heart could burst with the joy I feel at having my darling Edward returned to me.

 

There is only Edward, no one else. I am walking as if in an opium-induced trance. No one else seems to exist for me. Tomorrow he is taking me to the studio of an artist. He is certain he can convince me to have my portrait painted. I do wish you could come down to London to see him as he is now. I promise you, he is as he ever was…”

 

Extract from a letter from Lady Henrietta Posche to her sister, Elizabeth

E
lizabeth came running up to me later and said Charlie was going to go back to London, to which I'd said good riddance, although I didn't really mean it, and Elizabeth pretty much accused me of as much.

“Of course I mean it!” I insisted. As if I was the sort of horrible person who could easily dismiss someone who'd gone to the trouble of coming all this way down from London for my aunt's funeral!

She rolled her eyes as though I was deranged. “Anyway, not to worry, I've persuaded him to stay for the ball, but he's decided to go back to the hotel. What was Richard's problem anyway?” she asked. “I heard they had an argument.”

“Richard's problem? It was Charlie who started it. He was hassling him about his stupid membership subscription, can you believe it?”

“No,” she replied simply, and there the matter was left.

Richard joined us at the Ferris wheel about an hour later,
and as I watched him lope over in the faded blue jeans I'd given him, I toyed with the idea of asking about Marcus. After air kissing Elizabeth and placing a soft wet kiss on my mouth, he rolled his sleeves up and asked Martin what he could do.

Even Elizabeth said she was impressed at the way he threw himself into the activities. It was fantastic, notwithstanding the village teenagers who must have heard of the incident earlier and kept asking how much it cost for a ride on the slut.

At around two-thirty, Martin gave a speech, a eulogy of sorts, only without the sadness. Kitty stood by his side, adding screen-goddess glamour to the fete while Martin told the story of how he had thought Camilla the most elegant woman when he was a boy and how everyone that came in contact with her had been touched by her charm. The speech was lighthearted and short, which was perfect, because by that stage I think everyone was fairly tired and ready to head home. A light drizzle had begun to fall, and as Richard took my hand and kissed it, everyone started clapping—at first I thought they were applauding Richard and me, but of course the applause was in honor of Aunt Camilla. Still, it was terribly romantic.

I spotted Jeremy as we were leaving, but I pretended I didn't and went off with the girls in another direction. Richard kindly offered to help Martin supervise the packing up of the fete so that the marquee could be erected for the ball that evening. Kitty went back home, as she needed a rest. I went back to the hotel with the girls, completely forgetting that Charlie would be there.

His lanky frame was stretched out on one of the sofas in the sitting room. He was reading the
Times
but put it aside as we entered, and asked us how the fete had gone. He was all smiles, which made it impossible to be cross with him.
“Ah, my sirens return,” he declared as Josie, Elizabeth and Clemmie jumped on him like puppies and he wrestled with them like a big brother.

I sat demurely on the sofa opposite and stroked Jean.

Once he'd calmed the girls down, he asked Jean how she'd enjoyed the festivities and I answered for her because she was busy nibbling a piece of carrot I was feeding her.

I stayed for a cup of tea and then went home. There had been no mention of his argument with Richard and I hoped that the matter could be dropped, although I did toy with mentioning the membership issue just so that I could explain that if money was an issue I could easily pay Richard's subscription. I really didn't want any bad feeling between my friends and Richard now that we were to be married. I wanted them to be pleased for me and rally around the way friends were meant to rally round when you found the man of your dreams—or in my case refound him. The main thing was, we were always meant to be together and we'd simply had a bad patch. After all, Kitty and Martin had had four bad patches in all and yet no one could possibly imagine they weren't right for one another.

In the end, though, I decided that Aunt Camilla's funeral was not the time to speak of engagements. This was her day and I wasn't going to be the one to steal her limelight.

 

Back home Kitty and Martin were in bed—at five in the evening! I suppose it was lovely that they were still so sexually attracted to one another after all these years, but I rolled my eyes at Jean and she gave me a look as if to say, “I know, isn't parental sex disgusting!” I cleaned her up in the laundry sink and dried her off with a blow-dryer, then settled her in the kitchen with some rabbit food and went off to have a shower.

Richard arrived back as I was getting out. I rubbed my naked body up against him but he pushed me away. He was in a bad mood. He said he'd lost the papers that Marcus had brought and was going to have to have them brought again.

“Can't you leave it until tomorrow? I mean, what use can the papers be to you tonight when we're going to be at the ball?”

“You don't seem to understand, Lola. Not everyone has a pile of money to fall back on. Everything I have is riding on this deal.”

I smarted at the reference to my inheritance. “No, Richard, I
can
understand they're important, but couldn't we deal with it tomorrow? It seems a waste to have Marcus travel all the way down here again.”

“I've got to sign them, Lola.”

“Oh. So why didn't you just sign them when he came earlier then?”

“Look, this really isn't your concern,” he snapped.

“Fine,” I agreed and went off to get dressed. He apologized later and of course I forgave him—I mean, he must have been exhausted after all the work he'd put in at the fete, but I couldn't help clinging to my hurt. Mainly because I was thinking about the significant emphasis Charlie had put on the name Marcus the other day while we'd been having a cordial in his office. I determined to tackle him about it at the ball and sort the matter out once and for all.

 

Camilla had decreed that everyone must wear white to the ball and had specified my outfit, an old white deco wedding gown, cut on the bias with a long train.

“She'd planned to wear it when she married Oliver,” Kitty explained.

Martin added, “No one ever knew they had planned to elope, but for some reason they never did.”

“Do you really think he died?” I asked, wondering if perhaps he was still sadly holding a candle to Camilla all these years.

“Almost certainly,” Martin replied. “Although that's beside the point. She was the one who pulled away, and while I've no doubt she continued to love him, there was nothing to suggest she ever regretted that decision. She was an eminently sensible woman old Cam-Cam.”

I couldn't help feeling a certain regret on her behalf, though, as I admired myself in the mirror of my bedroom. The tiara that went with the outfit was a family heirloom and I felt like a fairy queen. Jean had given me her highest accolade by humping my leg, which was more than I got from Richard.

He'd been pacing the floor for half an hour, and when I came out, all he'd said was, “At last. Can we go now, then?”

Martin and Kitty ignored his remark and told me I looked stunning.

We had a driver take us to the ball in Martin's Bentley. Kitty announced our engagement on the way. Martin congratulated us but it sounded hollow. In fact, it reminded me of when I told them I'd got a first at Bristol.

Two fire-eaters flanked the outside of the marquee. We walked down a silk-draped tunnel a bit like a bridal bower. Inside, the silver-framed photograph of Camilla and Oliver met us, standing in a wreath of white lilies on a white silk-covered table by the seating board. Inside, the marquee was beautiful; tea lights flickered on every table set with white linen, white crockery and crystal glasses. The effect was stunning and romantic.

I was horrified, though, when I scrutinized the seating
plan. I was to be seated at a table with Charlie on one side of me and Jeremy on the other. The seating arrangements were all Aunt Camilla's, so I could hardly ask to change. Elizabeth was on the other side of Charlie, and Hamish was on the other side of her, followed by Clemmie, who was next to Richard, and Josie, who was next to Jeremy. What on earth was Aunt Camilla thinking when she'd organized these placements? I wondered.

A jazz band was setting up in the corner and waiters were strolling through the gathering crowd holding trays laden with glasses of champagne. Clemmie grabbed two and passed one to me. I turned to Elizabeth as she was grabbing two and whispered, “I can't sit beside Jeremy and Charlie,” but of course she had no idea what I meant. She passed the other glass to Josie.

“You look stunning,” Charlie told me as he pulled out my chair.

“Like a fairy princess,” Jeremy extolled.

“Or a bride,” Hamish added cheekily.

Richard was looking fidgety. He plonked himself down without pulling either Josie's or Clemmie's seat out. I noticed Hamish was ogling Elizabeth, who looked edible in a Versace white satin dress without a back. He told her he'd never seen anyone make a backless dress look so good. I consoled myself that at least that was one ex I didn't have to worry about.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said of Jeremy, who tried to put his hand on top of mine. It was time to speak frankly, although Richard had already left the table and gone outside.

“Jeremy, you know how fond I am of you, but I don't want—”

“She's marrying Richard again,” Charlie interjected.

“What?” the entire table gasped.

“Yes, it'll be just like old times,” Charlie toasted, without the doubts that were only too clear in the way he looked at me. “To the happy couple.”

Jeremy looked at me as if I'd slapped him.

“Thanks,” I said to Charlie, giving him my most ferocious look.

Hamish asked, “Speaking of the happy couple, where's Richard? Not off to see Marcus again, is he?”

“Do you know Marcus?” I asked, beginning to burn with curiosity about this poor fellow making all these trips out of London on the weekend.

He smirked. “I've met him once or twice.”

Jeremy winked and tapped the side of his nose.

“It's his dealer's name, obviously!” Elizabeth told me irritably, as if I was the only one in the world who didn't know.

“So Richard's still on the old Colombian marching powder, is he?”

“He never came off it,” Elizabeth replied, staring at me, daring me to contradict her.

A nasty silence hung over the table and I think Elizabeth realized she was responsible. “Remember Clive?” she asked, smiling wickedly.

The name drew a complete blank.

“We shared a house with him at college?”

I nodded, even though I'd never really got to know him that well as I was too busy dating Hamish at the time.

“I remember him,” Hamish agreed. “Red-haired guy, totally wired all the time.”

“Oh, I remember now, the long-haired heavy metalist?”

“The ligger,” she added.

“He was the most pretentious twat that ever played air guitar,” I explained to the others.

“Most of all he never paid for a thing. He was always nicking everyone else's food without putting anything in, taking money from everyone's room and ‘borrowing' clothes without asking.”

Clemmie went, “Oh God, we had a girl like that in college, she changed her name to Mizzie or something stupid like that. She thought it sounded more glamorous.”

“Well, there was nothing glamorous about Clive,” Elizabeth assured us. “He even used to nick all our socks! Imagine, socks!”

“Not just Damien's—the other guy we shared with—but our socks. Girls' socks,” I added. “But he still thought he was the king of cool. Although, actually, come to think of it, he
borrowed
ten quid from my room at the end of our
house
share then bizarrely enough, he paid it back.”

“Hence my story,” she replied. “I bumped into Damien recently, and he told me how he got his own back on Clive, see.”

We all leaned in so we could hear Elizabeth's story above the music. “Apparently, Damien was telling me that he got so sick of Clive nicking stuff and never pitching in for food, that he played this joke on him. You know how he was always drug mad but never bought any himself?”

“Oh I remember well,” I agreed, taking another sip of my cosmo—it was nice pretending I was back in a pre-Richard world.

“Well, one afternoon when Clive was due back, Damien laid out a few lines of sherbet on a mirror.”

“Sherbet?” Josie asked, looking confused.

“Yeah, you know sherbet dip? The sweet fizzy powder you licked off a licorice stick?” Elizabeth explained.

“Oh my God, I loved sherbet dip,” Josie enthused.

“Not up your nose you wouldn't,” Clemmie told her.

“Anyway, so listen. Damien chopped up the lines on the
mirror then he just left it in the living room with this big note saying, ‘Warning! Do Not Touch. Back in a minute! D.' Then he went into his room and waited for Clive to come home.”

“Oh my God,” Clemmie laughed. “I can imagine what happened.”

“Yep, Clive snorted the lot, and his nose totally exploded with fizz.”

And for some reason, imagining the long-haired, heavy-metalist Clive snorting a line of fizzy sherbet made me laugh harder and longer than I'd laughed for ages.

The drinks waitress came and refilled our glasses.

“Hang on, though, why didn't Damien tell us?” I asked as we composed ourselves.

“He promised to lock it in the vault after Clive begged him and promised to change his ligging ways,” she explained.

“Ah, for the problems of college,” Josie sighed wistfully. “Things were sorted out so easily then.” A sentiment which was toasted by all.

Later, Hamish asked about Richard and how we got back together.

“Yes, tell us how this love of ages was rekindled,” Charlie probed, already sounding slightly drunk.

I twirled my glass nervously. “Well, I don't know that it ever really stopped, actually, the feelings we had for one another, I mean. I think we threw in the towel after all the troubles Richard had with his business.” I looked Jeremy in the eye as I added, “I'm really sorry, Jeremy, I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea.”