Sex with the Ex (5 page)

Although considered a great beauty in her day, Henrietta refused to have her portrait painted, declaring that her portrait would be the impressions and memories she left behind. Perhaps her aversion to portraiture came from her father's habit of shooting the eyes out of ancestral portraits he didn't like. She did, however, write a book,
Hold Your Glass Like a Poem,
which was a great success over several “seasons,” although it was never reprinted after her death.

 

By far the most lasting accomplishment of Lady Posche, though, was persuading her husband to build one of the finest private houses then standing in London. Posche House soon became a focus for London society. An invitation to one of her parties was more highly prized than an invitation to the
palace. Her parties were known to continue well into the dawn. Sometimes they went for days on end.

 

Secret Passage to the Past:
A Biography of Lady Henrietta Posche
By Michael Carpendum

R
ichard and I had met at Posh House a few years after I'd started working here. Only, Richard wasn't a bit posh. He was ordinary, only in a really wealthy sort of way obviously or he wouldn't have been able to afford the £1,500 joining fee and £1,500 annual fee and the general mintedness that was part and parcel of being a Posh House member. I was merely the events coordinator—as opposed to the senior events manager—back in those days.

Richard owned a media dot.com company that was doing really well, and after an especially long line of coke in the loo six weeks after we met, he proposed. I didn't tell that bit to my parents—about the line of coke, I mean. My dad would have always been making jokey references to it, like “Off to powder your nose, are we, Richard?” in a mad knowing sort of way.

Martin and Kitty both like to think they're hip to these things.

Hip and liberal, that's my parents.

Martin really took to Richard. Kitty adored him, too, although I don't think she would have been as chilled about his cocaine usage. “Drugs dampen the passions,” and all that. I suppose I wasn't that chilled about it either, to tell the truth, but we were a perfect fit in every other way. Besides, I'd rather have a husband coked to the eyeballs on Colombian marching powder than boring me senseless reading the
Financial Times
out loud to me at breakfast—and he only did that a few times.

No, the more I thought about it, the less reason I could find as to why Richard and I had allowed our love for one another to end up in divorce. He was really kind and generous, and who doesn't appreciate expensive gifts—I'm joking (well, partly). No, seriously, I don't actually go for rich guys, because their sense of entitlement irritates me. Dating a guy with Entitlement Syndrome is like going to an awards ceremony for Biggest Ego. You can hear the drumroll from the moment your date begins, while a montage of their lifetime of achievements rolls on throughout the evening.

I go for men who are easy to talk to, make me laugh and don't count the cost of every little kindness. I also like them to be quite fit and have a full head of hair. Richard scored top marks on all those points—especially the laughter thing. He exuded enthusiasm and had this energy for life and capacity for fun that sort of grabbed you and dragged you along. He lived every moment as if he was making history, and I loved that. “You've got to make it count, Lolly!” he'd always say. He loved making every moment count whether it was reading me poetry at breakfast, or turning up with cereal, a bowl, milk, sugar and spoon one night after I'd done a double shift and I was pretty certain nothing could make me laugh. Richard made me believe that things really would
turn out okay, that tomorrow really would be better and the mundane really could be fabulous.

Not that he was too shabby in the bedroom! He may not have been as athletic as David, but we had chemistry together that I had never experienced before or since. For a dot.com boy he was really quite passionate when it came to the ways of the Kama Sutra.

And that's the funny thing—or the not-so-funny thing. I told everyone—including Richard—that I wanted a divorce a year after our wedding because the passion was gone. I know that probably sounded shallow to everyone other than my parents. It definitely sounds shallow to me now, but at the time I suppose I did put a lot of store in passion.

Kitty and Martin have a lot to answer for.

Besides, it wasn't just the passion that had gone. We were fighting all the time, partly because his dot.com had bombed and he'd lost everything—and I mean everything. We'd had to sell our beautiful house in Chelsea, including Jean's rabbit chalet. And we had to trade our cars in for tube passes and I had to go back to work at Posh House and chuck the interior-design course Richard had begged me to take so that we could turn our home into a dot.com meeting place for his business colleagues. I didn't mind about chucking the interior-design course, which was crappier than crap anyway, but I did miss the house and the cars.

But here's the thing, I could have put up with the arguments, the poverty, the strap-hanging journey to work on the tube and even the cocaine, if I truly believed Richard still loved me. If I was sure I came first, I could have borne it all, but the passion was gone and there seemed to be no getting it back. The truth was, after his business went belly up, it seemed
everything
was more important to Richard than me. That's why when people asked why Richard and I split,
I would say the “passion died.” As shallow as it sounds, at least it seemed real. Well, it used to seem real at least.

Now I wasn't so sure.

Having spent two years on the London dating circuit, I was less certain. I would have much rather bumped into Richard and had a night in watching television with a curry than a night of athletic sex with my latest One Night Can't Stand. The London dating circuit is a bit like the London tube—the Circle Line. No matter how horrendous it is, you sally forth, day in day out. You dream of a seat but settle for a strap. It's grim, and I was coming to the conclusion that, quirkily single as I was, I wanted more. I wanted what Richard and I had, in the beginning, back.

So that was where the full realization of my epiphany took place. In Berkeley Square as dawn lit up the sky and Jean nibbled on some grass. It had been ages since Richard and I had spoken, and as I watched Jean, I started to imagine excuses for giving him a call. I could tell him about her new white carry bag and how they'd promoted me at work or how Kitty had bought Martin a Napoleonic watch fob for his birthday. Richard had always feigned a genuine interest in my father's hobby…at least I hoped it was feigned. It would be a bit tragic for a thirtysomething man to have an obsessive interest in antique french clocks.

The more I thought about giving him a call the more sensible it seemed; in fact, it suddenly seemed implausible that I
not
call him. I wouldn't mention that I'd seen him last night, though. No, I'd be all breezy and casual, all CCC.

Not that I needed to be breezy.

Not that I needed an excuse.

He was my ex-husband after all. The supposed Love of My Life!

We'd taken vows; my name was carved into his bedpost.
It's only now that I can see I was beginning to think like Kitty.

So I decided a girl doesn't need an excuse to call her ex-husband. I scooped Jean up and popped her back in her bag and climbed over the railings. The moment I arrived back at our flat on Grosvenor Street—great address, but believe me, it breaks all human rights regulations in terms of space— I picked up the phone and speed-dialed Richard's mobile. He's still number 1. Sad, I suppose.

Jean was on my lap, cheerfully nibbling at my jeans. I knew half six in the morning was kind of early, but Richard was always an early bird, and besides, as an ex-wife I felt I had the right to call him early.

He picked up on the first ring, which I took as an omen.

“Babe?” Oh my God, he knew it was me before I even rang…maybe he'd been dreaming about me? This
was
too propitious for words.

Maybe he had seen me last night at Posh House, as well, but had been too embarrassed to come and say hello?

Maybe the argument I'd witnessed between him and Leggy Blonde was the “it's over” speech?

Maybe the kiss on the forehead was the goodbye kiss—the we'll-always-be-friends-but-I-am-still-not-over-my-ex kiss?

“Richard,” I replied, in my piss-take of a sultry voice that he'd always found hilarious.

But then he went, “Excuse me, who is this?” in a really pissed-off sort of way. Even Jean seemed shocked. She hopped off my lap and sat on my foot, looking up miserably at me.

Okay, so this wasn't going as well as I had hoped. “Erm, Richard, it's
me.
”

“Me? Who the fuck is this?” He was sounding angry now.

Who the fuck is this? Who the fuck did he think it was? I was his wife…well, ex-wife anyway. I used to be Mrs. Richard Arbiter Bisque. To this day I am the only woman he has ever said “I do” to and now it was “Who the fuck is this?”

But I wasn't going to give up. We were talking lifetime commitment and happiness here, so I gathered myself together. “Erm, it's Lola,” I explained humbly.

His tone changed immediately. “Lolly? Shit! Sorry. Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Why is it when you call an ex, they always presume you are having a disaster? I mean, okay, I confess for the first ten months after we broke up I had him in to change my light-bulbs, remove spiders from my sink and help me move furniture. But hello, we had made vows; sickness, health, better, worse…till death do us part! You don't just walk away from that level of commitment.

“Nothing's the matter,” I responded, my voice suffused with exasperation by now. “Can't I call my ex-husband for a chat?” I felt it was about time I reminded him that we were once married.

“Huh? That is, yeah, I guess, but why? Lola are you
sure
you're all right?”

“Of course I'm all right! Why wouldn't I be all right? I'm perfect,” I prattled defensively. “I've been working out at the gym. I'm really toned, actually. My career is going stellar, Charlie's just promoted me to senior events manager. I've even got my own office and business cards with swirly-whirly writing on them. Oh, and Jean's got a new bag, you know the latest YSL one with the rose? It's white, which makes it easier to see her poohs—sorry, I mean her droppings.”

“It's just that it's six in the fucking morning, Lola!”

Okay, so this early-morning call might not have been the best of ideas. My spirits began to deflate, Jean Harlot hopped off my foot and started sniffing about her litter hutch. She's quite good about doing her business in there. I wandered over to the minifridge (everything in my flat is miniature) and took out a carrot for her, chopped it up with one hand with the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder.

After she finished her business in the hutch, she hopped over to the little pile of carrots and began nibbling happily away. I wish I could be so easily pleased. It's not for everyone, but I had to admit, a carrot, a romp in the park and a hump with a leg of a chair, how easy would that be?

“This was a bad idea,” I told Richard.

“No, Lolly, sorry, it's not you, it's me.”

“Now, that sounds bad,” I told him in my most flirtatious tone. “That's what I said to you before we took our ‘break.' You know the one that ended in our divorce?”

He didn't laugh. “Oh, Lolly, I've just had a fuck of a fight with Sally. I think we might have broken up. I thought you were her. I've been calling her mobile but she's switched it off.”

I knew from the tone of his voice that he was running his fingers through his hair the way he does when he's frantic. When his company collapsed, I thought he would rub the hair clear off his head.

I didn't like the fact that I was attempting to explore the possibility of rekindling our love and he was running his fingers through his hair over another woman. I kept my tone CCC, though. Breezy is a skill I've learned running events at Posh House. When things fall apart…really badly apart, and they do—all the time—it is more important than ever to act as unfrantic and unruffled as possible. “I didn't know you were still with Sally. I thought you guys already broke up.”

Richard's tone was noticeably
not
so breezy. “No, that was the other Sally. Sally Grant. I've been seeing the new Sally for about three months.” I'd obviously hit a nerve, because he sounded well pissed off now.

I needed to turn this around, so rather than rise to his mood, I tried some humor. “How many Sallys is that now?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “Her name's got fuck all to do with it. I really like her, Lolly, oh no, oh shit, we were getting on so well. I actually thought this was it. I'm really in love this time. Really, really in love, if you know what I mean.”

If I know what you mean? My eyes began to well up.

Jean looked up at me sorrowfully as if sensing my pain. I mean, she might have just wanted more carrot, but I took her look as one of commiseration and solidarity.

I closed my eyes remembering the first time he'd told me that he was in love with me. “Not just love, love,” he had explained. “Real love, like in the movies love. Like Bogey and Bacall love.” Richard loved old movies, Jean Harlow was his favorite star, which was why we'd called our bunny that, only we had to change it to Jean Harlot on account of her humping.

I didn't say anything. I could feel a tear running down my cheek, and my mouth had gone all dry.

Richard continued to ramble on about his love for Sally. “We just had this stupid row, about nothing, really. Well, about my coke habit, which isn't a habit, you know that. I just did a line with Kev for old time's sake. You know how it is.”

Did I mention the arguments we'd had over Richard and his dalliance with cocaine—or as he preferred to call it, Charlie. Charlie made it sound as if it was an old mate or something. When we first met, everyone was doing it—
apart from me. Obviously, CCC and cocaine don't really mix. Anyway, the whole of London was snowing with cocaine when we first met, but times change and in Richard's case, businesses go belly up and you start to grow up and reevaluate.

Richard hadn't ever really reevaluated Charlie, though, and when things were going really badly between the two of us, I started to doubt he ever would.

Then he went, “I thought
you
were Sally, see.” He laughed hollowly.

“I'm not surprised when most of the girls you know are called Sally,” I teased and then he laughed and told me he missed me. Just like that. “God, I miss you, Lolly,” he said.

My heart started to race. “You, too,” I told him carefully. “So does Jean.”