Sex with the Ex (20 page)

“Oh, darling, that's the best news.”

“It is, isn't it? Only promise not to tell anyone. I shouldn't have really told you even, but I was bursting.”

“How are you feeling about your resignation now?” she asked, changing the subject as Hamish came back with drinks.

“Okay,” I lied. “Sort of sad in a way, though. I kind of thought Charlie would try and talk me out of it.”

“Did you want him to?”

“I didn't realize I wanted him to at the time but when he didn't, I felt awful, like everything we had together and all the stuff we'd been through meant nothing to him.”

Hamish laughed, and both Elizabeth and I gave him a censorious look. “Sorry, but you make it sound like you broke up with a boyfriend rather than your boss.”

“They were really close,” Elizabeth explained.

“I thought of him as one of my best friends,” I added.

“Best friends don't pay you money,” Hamish pointed out.

“Yes, but we all loved Charlie, didn't we, Lolly?” Elizabeth said. “I suppose this means we won't see him anymore. Maybe after things calm down you can go back.”

“He's got someone else, in fact,” Hamish said, taking a sip of his beer.

At first I thought he meant another girlfriend, and for some reason I was relieved when I realized he meant someone to replace me as PR.

Elizabeth looked as shocked as me as she said, “God, that was quick. Lolly's not even cleaned out her office, let alone discussed terms. As I said, what are you going to do regarding your clients, and your contract prohibiting you from contacting anyone you know through Posh House?”

“Which, at a rough estimate, is everyone you know,” Hamish added unnecessarily. “In fact, you shouldn't even be speaking to me,” he joked.

I was too overwhelmed by events to think about the practical side of it yet. Now that the full enormity of what I'd done was sinking in, I realized I was going to have to go back to Charlie and hope he'd be prepared to negotiate a settlement enabling me to contact at least some of my Posh House crew. Otherwise, it was going to be a case of you'll-never-work-in-this-town-again.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “If he's already employed someone before I even properly resigned, it's as though he knew I'd resign. Or worse, he was planning on firing me.”

Hamish took a sip of his beer. “Tall blonde, apparently. I haven't seen her myself but I heard rumors at the club.”

“My darling Hen, to marry for love were no reproachful thing if we did not see that ten thousand couples that do it and yet hardly one can be held an example that it may be done and not repented afterward.

 

Yet, my dearest one, my only Henrietta, the love I feel for you hardly happens once in two ages. We are not to expect the world should discern we were not like the rest. I shall tell you stories of the agonies I have felt each time you have taken him to your bed another time, in a time where you and I can sit alone without the world, when the last embers of the party have expired and there is just you and I, Charles and Henrietta, man and wife.

 

My dearest darling passion.

 

Forever seems too short a time to share with you.”

 

Extract of a letter from Lord Charles Posche to his wife, Henrietta

I
left Hamish and Elizabeth to their evening and went home early. The flat felt empty and smaller than ever. The very familiarity of the tiny space, Jean's wall-mounted plasma screen, her rabbit chalet, her little water dispenser, began to close in on me the moment I walked in. I sat down on the white leather sofa in the white boxlike space and tried to take an interest in world events with Jean, but it was useless—after catching the headlines, I realized I didn't know where the remote was or whether I even owned one. Jean was the only one who watched television; in fact, looking about the place, I decided it was more Jean's flat than mine.

Since my split with Richard two years ago, my life had revolved around Posh House. My life was all there and suddenly it seemed that everything reminded me that I wasn't going to ever be part of my own life again.

This flat had merely been a place to change my clothes and crash out before going to Posh House: a pit stop. As a
home, though, it was woefully small and inadequate. I already missed Charlie, and the thought that I'd no longer have access to his languorous charm, his easy wit and toff drawl, plunged me further into misery.

For Richard's sake I had done the right thing in resigning, although it was a bit rich the way Charlie had been so casually accepting of it all. I mean, he could have put up some sort of fight. He hadn't even told me he was going to miss me. He hadn't even mentioned Jean, all he'd done was hand me my severance and hurried me out.

I took the envelope he'd handed me from my bag and opened it. Let's just see how much I was worth to him. Only it wasn't a check at all, it was a letter, a very old letter, written in ink on paper that had worn to a tissuelike fragility over age. The spiderlike writing poured from a hand drenched with love for a woman. I read each sentence over and over, trying to gain some meaning, some sense of why Charlie had gifted it to me, or if he had even meant to. It was signed Your Loving Husband, Charles, and after my heart missed a beat, I realized that it had the Posche seal on it. It must have been one of the letters discovered in the wall of the secret passage when they renovated the building.

I dug up my copy of the book
Secret Passage to the Past
and flipped through it. It was peppered with letters, but I was too impatient to search for this particular one. I reread the letter. There was one paragraph in particular that spoke to me.

The letter fell from my hand. Was he suggesting, through this letter, that he had actual romantic feelings toward me? I couldn't deal with the answer, so I decided Charles was merely jealous. Perhaps he was taking the piss, reproaching me for finding love and leaving him in the lurch. I decided that I was giving the letter too much credence because I was lonely. I needed to speak to Richard. I wanted so badly to tell him how proud I was of him for seeking treatment. I wanted to tell him I missed him. I wanted him to reassure me that we were doing the right thing.

As a substitute for the contact he'd begged me not to make with him, I logged on to the Priory Hospital website. I knew the hospital quite well as it was near my parents' home; a beautiful white gothic colonial-looking building with rambling green grounds and comfortable hospital accommodation. It was famous for the celebrities that went there to deal with drug, alcohol and eating disorders, although I had no idea of the treatment involved.

I searched the site to find out how drug dependency was treated. It was all fairly straightforward, discussing the strategies used to help the individual cope without drugs. The paragraph that struck me most, however, was where it explained the methods used to help the individual (the word
addict
barely appeared) recognize the problem that led them to become drug dependent and to overcome these problems by developing self-esteem and positive attitudes.

I couldn't remember a time when Richard hadn't used cocaine, but then when I first met him, London was snowing
with the stuff and so commonplace it wasn't so much a drug as proof of success. I read down the page about the importance of receiving support and understanding from friends and family. That was me, I was about to be his wife, which made me both friend and family.

Jean was watching a news item about the improved security measures being introduced at airports. I had to wonder how much support she'd be prepared to offer to Richard and decided that the bulk of the burden was probably going to be all up to me.

His parents hadn't even bothered to come to our wedding and their contact with their son was sporadic at best. I had only ever met them once and found them cold, odd people. They had taken us to dinner at the Basil Hotel where they were staying. Conversation, such as it was, had centered on politics and how England was falling to pieces. His mother had asked with pointed disinterest about my job and I had briefly described it while Richard and his father discussed property prices. I was relieved when dinner was over, as it was the most uncomfortable meal I had ever sat through.

Richard never really spoke of his parents and it was always left to me to hassle him to write or call. At the time, I had told myself that my parents were odd as well, but they were always there for me. It was clear from reading the website that families were encouraged to become involved in the treatment process, yet Richard had specifically told me he wasn't allowed to contact me. He'd told me he didn't want Hamish or Jeremy or anyone else to even know he was there, yet the website extolled the educational sessions that ran parallel to the patient's treatment.

So why had he asked me to stay away to give him time? Why hadn't he asked me to go to these education sessions, especially after he knew I'd thrown in my job and had plenty
of time. I was about to take those “better or worse” vows again. My place was in those sessions and I couldn't help feeling cut out.

Frustrated with the way I was feeling, I took Jean down to Berkeley Square so she could have a run and I could clear my head. It was still dark but the square was illuminated by the moon. I heard the security guys outside Annabel's laugh as Jean, in a fit of heated excitement, almost sent me flying as I scaled the fence. I waved goodnaturedly and they waved back, as if my world was still turning on its axis and everything was totally as it should be.

Sitting on my usual bench, I tried to unravel why I was so riddled with doubts. I was pleased Richard was getting the treatment he needed, but at the same time I felt as if he was cutting me out, and if I was going to be his wife, I needed to be part of his recovery.

And then there was the issue of who was paying for the treatment. Naturally I was happy to pay, but he hadn't asked me to and yet I was fairly certain he didn't have private medical insurance. Jean sniffed and humped her way around the trees in the square, and as the sun came up I decided I had to talk to him. Maybe he was trying to protect me, maybe he didn't understand that I wanted to support him, and if that was the case, I needed to clear up the misunderstanding. As night gave way to dawn, I gathered Jean up, popped her in her bag, climbed over the railings and went back to my flat to call the Priory.

 

I spelled his name for the third time. Again the helpful woman at reception told me there was no record of a patient by the name of Richard Arbiter Bisque. I decided it was probably an anonymity thing, places like the Priory are bound to be madly discreet about their “guests,”
so I rang his mobile next. He picked up but he was clearly annoyed.

“Look, I can't talk now,” he whispered. “I can't believe you've called me when I told you not to.”

“I just wanted to make sure they were treating you well,” I lied.

“Well, they are, but I can't talk now,” he snapped.

“When will I be able to visit you at the Priory?” I asked. “If you want me to go to any of the sessions with you—”

He cut me off midway through my Florence Nightingale moment. “I don't know. Don't call me again, though. I have to go.” He hung up.

I couldn't stay in the flat. I was shaking. He was lying to me. He wasn't at the Priory, so where was he? I began to fear the worst, and out of a mixture of despair and hope I called Kitty for reassurance.

I knew it was a mistake as soon as I heard my rambling monologue trail off and the heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Darling, I have the manicurist with me now, I can't focus. If Richard's gone to ground, you're going to have to wait for him to reappear. That's what addicts do, I hear.”

“He's not an addict, Kitty!”

“Well, if he's decided he's addicted to drugs and is taking treatment for his addiction, what else is he?”

I tried to appeal to her sense of grandeur. “Yes, but we're talking about cocaine here, Kitty.”

“Yes, there is a small comfort that he's taking a class-A drug, but nonetheless I fear the worst, Lola.”

“That's not what I mean. Look, it's not as if he's using heroin. It's not as if he's a junkie.”

“Oh, I wouldn't know the difference,” she sighed. “I find all this narcotics business terribly sordid, don't you know.”

“But I'm going to marry him, Kitty. We're in love!”

“Oh, Lola, are you? Are you really? I didn't want to throw cold water over this affair during Camilla's funeral fete, but watching you with him, I didn't feel like I was observing a grand passion. I saw no sparks and now you're telling me yourself that Richard is addicted to drugs, which means you are not his obsession, they are.”

I hung up the phone and wrapped my arms around myself, chilled by Kitty's neat summing-up of my relationship with Richard. She was wrong, she had to be wrong, because my obsession these past weeks was to win him back, and now instead of a sense of achievement all I felt was the helplessness of a scenario that was driving me crazy. I lay in bed and thought about Richard and me. We were meant to be together, I couldn't stop believing that. My whole strategy had been based on that one immutable fact.

If he wasn't the one, I'd made a huge mistake and dismantled my life for nothing. He had to be the one…wherever he was. Although, if he wasn't at the Priory, where was he? I eventually fell asleep fully clothed and only woke when I heard my phone ringing in the afternoon.

“Lola? It's Charlie.”

I propped myself up on my elbow and gathered my thoughts. “Charlie.” Repeating his name staved off conversation long enough for me to wake up.

“Yes, from Posh House? You used to work for me.”

“I know who you are,” I replied overly crisply as I remembered the letter of Lady Posche he had given me. “What do you want, though?”

“You.”

My heart began to pound. “Me?” I asked, just to check I'd heard correctly. And then I remembered the letter. The letter now safely placed back in the book. Charlie wanted
me! Of course he did. All those years together, I'd been blind to how he'd felt.

“Why?” I asked.

“You haven't cleared your office out. Also, there are probably a few things we need to go over. I was wondering if you could find the time to drop in later this afternoon or early evening?”

I felt my heart stop with the embarrassment of what I'd been about to imagine as I gathered myself together and told him I'd see him at six.