Sex with the Ex (6 page)

“Jean?”

“Jean Harlot…our rabbit?”

“Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot.”

I was thinking, excuse me, you forgot our rabbit…our first-month-anniversary rabbit? But I didn't say anything.

“So, what did you do to poor Sally that made her run off into the dawn? Apart from have a chat in the loo with ‘Charlie,'” I asked, as CCC as you like.

“She asked to move in.”

“With you?”

“No, with the postman. Anyway, I freaked and she ran off.”

“Why did you freak?” I was intrigued now.

“Well, moving in. It's a bit, well…serious. We've only known one another for three months.”

“You asked me to marry you after six weeks,” I reminded him, unable to disguise the slight sense of triumph in my voice.

“I know, but you were different.”

My mind punched a mental fist in the air.

Yes! I was different. I knew it. He still loved me. He still wanted me. I was right to call. I listened to the sound of his breathing on the other end of the phone. Pictured him lying in bed (naked), talking to me. All thoughts of Sally obliterated from his mind. It was a lovely fantasy but one he brought crashing down with his next words.

“We were young. I was coked to the eyeballs and besides, I've learnt my lesson about jumping into things.”

Charming. Loving me was something he now felt he'd
jumped
into under the influence of youth and drugs? So I said, “Better to jump than be pushed, I suppose.” The bitterness in my voice was only too clear.

“Sorry, Lolly, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, even though I wasn't sure I did. When we broke up initially it was just meant to be a break. I told him I needed space but the truth was I didn't really know what I needed. I just needed all the fighting to stop. We'd spent the first few months at one another's flats crying and arguing and crying some more. Sometimes we even had sex. Actually, we probably had more sex in that first few months of breakup than in the last three months of marriage. But after a while my friends got to me. When Richard's dot.com dived, it wasn't just his shirt he lost. His debt was my debt, and while I know he did all he could, my friends and family couldn't believe how reckless he had been.

They couldn't cope with the fact that Richard was financially dependent on my earnings while he tried to put his business back together. I didn't mind, though, like I said, as long as I knew he loved me I was happy to trust his dream. Kitty and Martin offered to help but both Richard and I said no. “We'll sink or swim together on our own,” we'd assured them.

As it happened we sank.

Ironically, ten months after our split, his company had a breakthrough and he was able to pay me back, but it didn't seem to matter so much then.

The decree nisi, the declaration that our divorce was now six weeks from being final, had come through. We'd both moved on.

Jean hopped over to me and I bundled her into my arms for a cuddle.

“Hey, I've got another call coming in,” he said, and I could tell he was obviously hoping it was Sally. “But listen, why don't we get together sometime?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” I agreed. “What about tonight?”

But he had already hung up.

Reading the letters of Lady Posche, it soon becomes apparent that her marriage to Charles, while successful in many ways (they had three children) did not dampen her ardor for Edward. In fact, she had a secret staircase from her bedroom chamber built into Posche House so that he could visit her in the night after his gambling.

 

Posche House was built by the eminent architect Sir Richard Ables, a highly respected and honorable man paid by Lord Posche. Yet such was Hen's charm that she was able to convince Sir Richard to omit the secret staircase from his plans.

 

Edward was so impoverished that for most of her married life he virtually lived at Posche House, and for many years Lord Posche appears to have been accepting of the arrangement, if not thrilled. More interesting is that records and anecdotal evidence
suggest London society never guessed at Henrietta's liaison with Edward.

 

It seems the only person she confided her secret love of Edward to was her sister, Elizabeth.

 

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

H
aving enjoyed life's greatest luxury, a good long sleep, I was sharing a late-afternoon breakfast coffee with Clemmie. Either Clemmie, or Elizabeth and I, always squeezed in a late-afternoon coffee/breakfast before I start work. We'd talk about work, men, fashion and health—the usual. Clemmie is very practical in her approach to life, almost a control freak—only, because she's prone to get overexcited, she doesn't come across as controlling. But just the same, she carefully plans for every contingency in every area. I sometimes think that's why she's never fallen in love. Sometimes you just can't plan for things. Also, the very act of “falling” in love involves a bit of stumbling about. I tell her stuff like that.

She tells me stuff like, “You're such a nut, Lola.” Which isn't always what I want to hear.

The reason I wanted to see her today was to discuss the Richard situation. Although out of all my friends I'm clos
est to Elizabeth, I knew my sudden desire to rekindle things with him were unlikely to get a great reception from her. She never liked Richard…well, nor did Clemmie…but Elizabeth was the most convincing when it came to talking me out of things. And I didn't want to be talked out of this.

“Look, Clemmie, I really need your help, I have this dilemma, see,” I explained.

“Oh well, if there's anything I can do. Is it a work thing?”

“No, it's a love thing, actually. I think I want to get back with Richard.”

She giggled her little-girl giggle, and even though I normally found her giggle adorable, I told her I didn't see what she found so funny.

“Sorry, I was just thinking of Kitty and Martin, you know, married, divorced, married, divorced and so on. Bit like Henry VIII.”

“Without the beheadings,” I reminded her. “And Richard and I were only married
once.
”

She stared at me with her big blue eyes. “You're serious, then.”

“Yeah, I think I am.”

“But where did this come from? I don't understand. You've never spoken about him before then suddenly you see him with his girlfriend and you're having doubts. Why?”

“Yes,” I told her as our coffees were delivered to our table by a grumpy girl with a face like a smacked bottom. I gave her my gracious grin—the one that has been perfected on a million graceless patrons at Posh House who live to complain about everything from the ceiling paintings and the brightness of the chandeliers, to the size or number of bubbles in their Cristal champagne. Yes, some people actually measure and count them; it seems to be an increasingly
popular pastime—bubble counting. Tiffany's will probably bring out a bubble caliper next Christmas.

I could tell that the smacked-bottom-faced girl still hated us, but I think she was thrown by my grace as she eventually sloped off.

“So, Richard?” Clemmie repeated, twirling one of her ringlets in her fingers, her blue saucer eyes wide with shock.

“Yes, Richard. Why is that so surprising…we were married once, after all.”

“Oh, Lolly, you are nuts. Have you told Elizabeth?”

“No. I know what she'll say, but I'm genuinely worried.” I lowered my voice to signify the seriousness of the matter. “I mean, what if I did the wrong thing in divorcing him?”

She looked stunned. “But it wasn't just you, was it? It was a mutual thing.”

“Mmm. I'm not so sure,” I mused as I stirred the froth into my coffee. I hate getting that mustache thing when I drink cappuccinos, only I'd rather have cappuccinos than lattes because they look so luxurious, like clouds you can make go away.

“What do you mean you're not sure? You signed papers, you employed solicitors. We had numerous ‘am I doing the right thing divorcing Richard?' dirty martini parties, just so you could be
totally
sure. I thought we were all going to die of liver failure by the time you finally decided it was what you really, really, really wanted.” She was mocking me now, not taking it seriously the way I had hoped she would. She was saying all the things I knew Elizabeth would say and it was annoying me deeply.

“But that's just it. Maybe the reason I agonized over my decision so much was because I
wasn't
sure. I'm not sure now because I don't think I was sure then either.” Then again
maybe I'm never sure about big decisions involving my personal life.

I remember the first time I was given the decision of my new school shoes. “Buckles or laces?” Martin kept asking me—he and Kitty were heading toward their first divorce at the time. I'll never forget the pressure of it all. Would the other girls laugh if I wore buckle shoes? Would they think I was incapable of tying my shoelaces? But then again, the buckles were so pretty, they were lovely.

“Which ones do you feel most passionately about?” he had asked.

Passionately? I was only five, for heaven's sake, but I tried my best to decide where my passions lay, as I could tell he was getting impatient. I mean the buckles were very shiny but I could tie my laces. A skill I was desperate to show off.

Try as I might, I couldn't decide, so Martin decided for me.

Buckles.

Of course, I was a laughingstock for the whole term, not that Kitty or Martin noticed, they were too busy embarking on their first breakup.

Decisions are traumatic. Of course, Kitty puts it down to passion. If you were really passionate about those buckles you wouldn't have minded what the other children thought, she always says if I bring up the subject. I don't mean to bring it up, but weekend visits home take it out of me. By Sunday I'm not fully compos mentis.

Richard and I
did
agree to divorce but I wonder if it was really a decision or merely a resignation to our unhappiness about his company's collapse? Was it the buckle-and-lace issue all over again?

Maybe I could have done more. I mean, is passion everything? Or was I like those middle-aged men who trade their
wives in for a younger, more fertile model? Marriage is, after all, meant to be forever, for better or worse. Had we simply fallen at the first hurdle and not bothered to pick one another up and press on into the future?

“I rang him after I went home the other night,” I admitted in a whisper.

“You what?” Clemmie shrieked, which caught the attention of the surly waitress.

“Look, Clemmie, I'm worried I might have made the biggest mistake of my life!” I explained quietly, trying to impress on her the gravity of my trauma. As a redhead she was very prone to becoming excitable at the slightest provocation.

But then she seemed to shrug off her shock and calm down. “Creative people worry more because they're more imaginative,” she mused as she broke a chunk off her muffin and dunked it into her latte. Clemmie can eat muffins until the cows come home but she never puts on a pound. I watched enviously, feeling peeved that she didn't seem to be taking my dilemma seriously.

So I flung myself into another conversation and that was the end of that. Richard wasn't mentioned by either of us again. We paid our bill and left.

 

Later that evening over drinks we met up with another friend, Josie, who is blissfully married. We rarely see her now even though she's desperate not to behave like a smug married and is always trying to make light of the fact that being married to the man of her dreams is a bit of a bore. She and Emmanuel had dated during high school, hadn't seen each other for years and then they'd bumped into one another at some art biennial that Clemmie had dragged her to last year and
wham,
suddenly they realized they were
made for each other all along. Just like me and Richard, maybe? I thought to myself, sticking my hand in Jean's bag to give her ears a little tickle.

“You make poor Emmanuel sound like your jailer,” Clemmie said as she tipped some more champagne into Josie's glass. I was sticking to water as I was still officially working. David Bowie was holding a party at the club and it was my job to make sure things went smoothly. It's weird being an events organizer, people imagine it must be ever so glamorous handling parties for celebrities, but most of the time your head is on the line and you're so worried about something going wrong that you forget you're making Robbie's or Kylie's or Kate's night one to remember.

Also, things do go wrong. Always. The host invites twice as many people as arranged and the venue can't accommodate them. Their assistant does a strop over the guest list and, let's face it, you can't force guests to go to a party. With the best DJ, best goodie bags and best will in the world, guests make their own minds up.

Which wasn't going to be a problem with tonight's party. Quite the opposite. In fact, I had to make sure we were going to be able to close off the garden to members in the event that David's (Bowie) guests decided to spill out. I pulled out my Blackberry wireless organizer and made a note.

Josie was still continuing her marriage-martyr act. “It feels like a prison sometimes. Every night the same man spooning me. Every morning the same man making love to me. Every day the same e-mails reminding me that the same man loves me more than life itself.” She was laughing while Clemmie and I mimed violins.

Jean was getting restless and even in the darkness of the bar I was aware that the staff might get suspicious, so I made a move to leave as I spotted Elizabeth coming in.
And then Clemmie, dear sweet serious-minded, scrupulously honest Clemmie blew my cover. “Did you tell Josie about calling Richard?” she asked, licking her swizzle stick.

“You
are
joking?” Josie demanded in a voice that suggested that if I wasn't, she was going to punish me in cruel and unusual ways.

I looked her in the eye. “Look, you got back together with Emmanuel and now you're brilliantly happy. Who's to say the same won't happen with Richard and me?”

“Emmanuel and I dated in high school. It's completely different. You've got history with Richard. You tried marriage and mortgages and all the rest of the deal and you couldn't make that work—not even for a year!”

“But that's my point, maybe I didn't give it time to work.”

Elizabeth arrived and asked suspiciously, “Time for what to work?” as she slumped down into the booth beside me.

“I just think I might have made a mistake with Richard.”

“Trust me, you didn't. Did you order for me?” she asked as if that should be the end of the discussion.

“That's so unfair. What about you and Mike?”

“Exactly, let me be your example. Sex with the ex ruins you. Do you want to end up like me? One year later and still no rebound guy?”

“I'm not talking about sex,” I cried out louder than I meant to. “I'm talking about love. About lifetime commitment, about passion.”

Why couldn't anyone understand me? I was thinking at the time.

“Have you been taking Kitty's pills?” Elizabeth asked, looking deeply into my eyes.

“It's true,” said Clemmie. “You are sounding a bit mad.”

“Look,” said Elizabeth, pulling the comb out of her hair
and shaking her long black mane down her back. “You can have sex with the ex but you can't turn the clock back.”

“Why not? My parents have.”

“Your parents, in case you haven't noticed recently, are bonkers. They tortured each other and you with their marriages and remarriages. It's completely different.”

“Why?” I persisted.

“Kitty and Martin have an overdeveloped sense of drama,” Clemmie explained sweetly, touching my arm. “You're more or less normal.”

Then Elizabeth added, “Normalish,” and everyone started to laugh.

I swirled the ice and lemon around my water with the swizzle stick grumpily.

Clemmie and Josie sipped their drinks, neither of them looked that interested in taking the conversation further. Clemmie grabbed a handful of bar snacks from the tray and poured them into her mouth. “Would Jean like a Twiglet?” she offered.

“No, they're really bad for her.” I covered Jean's bag protectively with my hand.

Clemmie rolled her eyes. “So is living in a YSL handbag but she seems happy enough with that arrangement. Go on, don't be such a bore, let her have a little treat.”

Before I could stop her she'd slipped a Twiglet into Jean's bag and I had to fish it out, she really does get the most awful wind. “Look, can we talk about my second thoughts about Richard properly, please?” I pleaded.

“You're always having second thoughts,” Clemmie shrugged.

“You've already said that,” I reminded her.

“Usually right at the point that they meet someone else and start moving on,” Elizabeth added unhelpfully.

“That is so untrue!” I huffed indignantly.

Elizabeth snorted. “That is as fair as fair can be. Let's go through them, shall we. Macbeth. Dated him for two years at university, dumped him because—”

“His name wasn't Macbeth,” Clemmie giggled.

“No, his name was Hamish,” I snapped.

“And let's not forget Henry!”

“Who's Henry?” I asked, horrified with myself.

“Poor Henry,” teased Elizabeth. “First day at work and you date the boss! That was wrong.”

Clemmie shook her head.

“He was not my boss. He was the front-desk manager. I was events organizer. Our paths barely crossed unless I had to ask him to deal with an unruly party that wouldn't leave.”

“Also, wasn't he gay?” Clemmie pondered.

“He was
so
not gay!” Sometimes my girlfriends can be really insulting about the men I date. “He asked for anal sex, that's all!”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Same thing. Fine. You dumped him because he was gay. Eight months later he hooks up with another girl and you decided you wanted him back.”

“Well, I got it wrong, didn't I? That is not a crime. Besides, at least it proves he wasn't gay,” I pointed out.