Sex with the Ex (7 page)

“So, getting back to Hamish,” Clemmie added. “Remind us why you dumped him?”

“He, erm…” Why did I dump Hamish? “He cheated on me,” I improvised, although actually I'm pretty sure we just drifted apart—you know, we lacked the X-factor together.

“Is that for sure?”

I suddenly felt ashamed for maligning Hamish's name. “What do you mean ‘for sure?' How sure do you want? Forensics?”

“Fine, so why'd you start seeing him again?”

“I wondered if I shouldn't forgive him. Besides, the sex was great!” Well, it was perfectly adequate anyway.

Clemmie shook her head. “Hello? Are you blind? You only started wondering because he started dating another girl.”

“She was just a rebound girl. He told me so.”

Elizabeth looked me in the eye. “Lola, maybe you can't see the pattern here, but don't you think it's strange that you only start having regrets about the demise of your relationships once the guy has finally moved on? Think about it, Lola,” she urged, slurping a sip from Clemmie's glass. “Every single serious relationship you've had since I've known you, you think it's the one. Then you decide it isn't and end it. Then the guy moves on and you have second thoughts. It's a pattern.”

All three girls nodded. God, she is right, a voice inside me screamed. But then another voice, a much louder, more strident voice said, “What if they
were
the one, though?”

I put it to them. “What if he
was
the one, though?”

“Which one?”

Talk about missing the point. I rolled my eyes. “Richard, of course.”

Clemmie, Josie and Elizabeth looked at one another and shook their heads. Clemmie touched my arm in a patronizing sort of way. “Maybe you just can't cope with the idea of your exes moving on? I mean, that's perfectly natural.”

“In a sort of scary bunny boilerish way,” Elizabeth retorted.

Then Josie very unhelpfully added, “My advice is move on and find your own Emmanuel.” Smug married that she is.

“But that's what I'm saying. What if I found my Emmanuel and let him go because I was afraid because of all, well, the money stuff?”

“And the cocaine stuff,” Elizabeth added.

Then Clemmie went, “And don't forget the boring stuff.”

I ignored them both and turned to Josie. “How can I be sure it wasn't Richard? You and Emmanuel split up and then found one another again.”

“We dated when we were fourteen. We'd never even done it, in fact we hadn't even tongue kissed.”

That was when the snotty waitress came over and told me that they didn't allow dogs in the restaurant, and because I was in such a pissy mood because of my friend's unhelpfulness, I went, “Really? But they let
you
in?”

A look passed between the girls that I took to be one of embarrassment.

The waitress said she was going to get the manager and I told her to hurry up.

“Look, Lola, calm down. The girl's just doing her job. Maybe you should let this Richard thing go, hey?” They were stroking me as if I was a mad person they were trying to control before the arrival of the madhouse ambulance.

They'd always hated Richard. Even when I showed them my ring, they'd made a really bad-taste joke about how many grams it was worth. They thought he was a total cokehead.

I spotted the snotty waitress pointing me out to the manager, so I stood to leave. “Look, I have to go anyway and check that everything is going smoothly with preparations for the Bowie party,” I told them.

The manager and the snotty waitress arrived as I was struggling out of the booth with all my bags—I always lugged a virtual office around with me. It takes a lot of equipment to be a PR in London.

“Madam, one of our staff has alerted me to the fact that you may be concealing a dog in your bag?”

And even though I'm not usually rude and the manager
was quite cute in a gay way, I went, “Well, one of your staff needs her eyes read! Does this look like a dog to you?” And then I opened Jean's bag and she looked up, her golden eyes blinking at the sudden exposure to light. Her little ears looked so soft and sweet. My heart melted and I think the manager's did, too, because he grinned and stroked her floppy ears and asked her name.

When I told him it was Jean Harlot, he gave me a hug and told me I was adorable and he hoped I'd bring Jean in again sometime.

I gave Miss Snotty Pants a triumphant smile.

I even let the manager take Jean out for a cuddle and within a moment of rabbit/gay-guy bonding, all was well.

As I said my goodbyes, Clemmie jumped up and air kissed me. “Make sure you ask David for his autograph.”

Elizabeth went, “And tell him I'm his biggest fan and if Iman ever decides to give him the push, I'll be there to pick up the pieces.”

“I'll just make a note of that in my phone,” I joked, pulling it out as if to do just that. But then it rang.

“Lola?”

“Yes?”

“It's Richard. I was, well, wondering if you would be free for that drink later?”

“'Tis well you have given over your reproaches toward me and relented to come to my bed once more. Possibly it is a weakness in me to aim at the world's esteem as if I could not be happy without it, but there are certain things that custom has made almost of absolute necessity, and reputation I take to be one of those.

 

Never doubt that I have a particular value for you above any other. It is much easier I am sure to be allowed a good reputation than a good husband, though it will never enter into my head that 'tis possible any man can love where he is not first loved.

 

For though I love you, I do not see that it puts any value upon women when they marry for love, yet nor do I see that it would give you any advantage to have your wife thought an indiscreet person.

 

If love is best displayed by discretion, sir, you will see by my discretion that I love you ardently and sincerely above all others.”

 

An extract from a letter written by Lady Henrietta Posche to her lover, Edward

I
suggested to Richard that we meet at the Star Bar at the
Top of the Pops
show, partly because it was the next day and partly so that he'd see me in my milieu, the CCC Lola he'd fallen in love with in the first place. I frequently dropped in to the show as, along with showcasing live pop acts every week on TV, it also kept its famous guests amused during performance breaks with a behind-scenes bar. An ideal place for me to catch up with people in the music business.

Charlie always has his driver take me and pick me up, which is so sweet, as a lot of the contacts I make there Posh House derives no benefit from. But it's important to know what's happening and to know the people who were making it happen so I was in a position to book top acts.

Richard always said some people live to work, some people work to live, but I do both. When we'd been married, Richard used to come to
Top of the Pops
with me occasionally. At first he pretended not to be impressed by the celeb
rities I'd introduce him to, and then later, when I realized he was impressed, I stopped bringing him because he'd be embarrassingly grand with everyone. Also I discovered he was doing coke with people in the toilets.

But I put that from my mind now, casting my memory back to the first time he'd come with me when No Doubt was number one. We'd held hands in the cab on the way there and back and necked during the show.

I picked him up at his house in Notting Hill. That is, the house he said was in Notting Hill…the
London A–Z
would suggest it was in Shepherds Bush, but I ignored the niggling irritation of his pretension as I wrote down the address and told him brightly I'd pick him up at six-thirty.

He said right, and put the phone down. I know “right” is only one word, but by the time I'd analyzed and psychoanalyzed it, the word
right
was laden with more romantic promise than any word ever uttered by a man. In fact, he may as well have said, “Right! I want to marry you!” for all the innuendo I read into the word.

I'd planned to spend hours preening myself for our big reunion, but as it was I woke up at two-thirty (afternoon) and being a Friday, Red Door, the Elizabeth Arden salon downstairs from my flat, was fully booked. In a flap, I traumatized Jean and myself about what to wear, finally going for the flesh-colored (mouse pink to Kitty) Jimmy Choo sandals, Voyage jeans and bling-bling, spangly top from Top Shop. Then I threw all my makeup in a tiny little beaded purse and went off to Posh House for a steam, a shower and a chat with Charlie.

“Drink?” he asked as one of the waiters brought Cinders a bowl of water. We were sitting in the courtyard watching Jean have her evening hop around the legs of the members.

“No, I need my wits.”

“Darling girl, I hate to be the one to tell you,” he said, examining my face, “but you have green eye shadow on one eye and pink on the other. Your wits are not your own this evening. We'll have two cordials,” he instructed the waiter.

“Oh, Charlie, it's Richard,” I confided when he asked me why I was in such a flap.

“What's the arse done now?” he inquired. “We can cancel his membership. We can ring up the
Mirror
and say he was thrown out for taking drugs in the girls' toilet.”

I laughed, even though I cringed at the reference to Richard's drug taking. “I think I might be still in love with him.”

“Oh!” Charlie looked slightly unnerved—which wasn't surprising given he'd witnessed Richard with the leggy blonde the other night.

“I don't think the leggy blonde is a serious thing,” I reassured him.

“They rarely are,” Charlie sighed heavily, as one who would know.

It felt good to finally be open with someone about my re-kindled feelings for Richard, someone who, unlike the girls, wouldn't give me grief. “Oh, Charlie, I can't stop thinking of him. I think I might have made a big mistake in divorcing him.”

“I thought it was mutual,” Charlie replied mildly, taking a sip of his champagne.

“What's mutual though, really?” I asked for want of anything better to say, but Charlie didn't say anything, which was actually quite nice. Silence, when you are expecting a hectoring lecture, is very comforting. We sat in companionable peace for twenty minutes or more, Charlie staring into the tiny strands of bubbles of his cordial while I redid and redid and redid my makeup.

“You look lovelier without makeup, you know,” he told me as I finally proffered my face for his inspection.

I laughed as a girl does when men say crap things like that. “Darling, I'm going to be under the lights of the Star Bar, trying to pull my ex. Believe me, I need all the ammunition I can get.”

“Yes, well, the green eye shadow does look pretty dangerous,” he teased, scooping Jean up into his lap. He'd kindly agreed to watch her for the evening. I really was very lucky to have such a lovely boss, I thought.

But later when I was all enthusiastic and finally feeling okay about what I was about to do, he kissed me on the head and waved me off, saying, “Be careful, Lola,” which pissed me right off.

I turned back and watched him running up the steps two at a time with Jean and hmmphed to myself. Why was everyone telling me to be careful? I wasn't a child. I knew what I was doing. I mean, it wasn't as if I was jumping blindly into a big relationship. I'd already done that when I married him. All I was doing was making sure that I hadn't made a big mistake in divorcing Richard. Actually, when you think about it, I told myself as I buckled myself into the taxi's seat belt, I was being overly cautious, if anything. I was taking a sensible, reasonable approach to my love life for once. Yes, that was it. I was approaching my love life the way I approach the organization of a big event. CCC, that was me, ticking off the boxes and making sure all was in order.

I phoned Richard on my mobile en route, and he made sure he was waiting for me outside his house. My heart did a little fluttering thing when I saw him waiting by the fence, fidgeting with the loose change the way men do when they're nervous. He was looking good, almost gay good; big
bright trainers and a pin-striped suit with an open-necked shirt that looked like one I'd once bought him from Gucci.

He kissed me hello rather awkwardly as he climbed into the car—he was going for my cheek and I was going for his lips, so we more or less ended up knocking noses Eskimo style. But it made us giggle and that felt good. Being alone in the taxi with him felt good. We didn't discuss anything meaningful—he asked which acts were on and I told him, but that led to a discussion about our shared love of certain artists and a realization that we'd never had any of those horrible who-gets-what-CD arguments that so many couples had. The bailiff got them.

Once we'd arrived and were sporting our purple access-all-areas artist bands on our wrists, Richard and I ordered vodka and tonics at the bar. They always give double shots at
Top of the Pops,
which in this case I decided was a good thing as Richard clearly needed loosening up. I wanted him to remember how fantastic it was being together, being with me. I needed to work my mojo.

The usual faces were there, it was quite a good lineup that night, with Pink and The Offspring playing, so I steered Richard over toward a group of record executives and artists' managers and introduced him. He became slightly more animated, but still, things weren't going as planned. And I hate that.

I left him with the group and did a whiz round the bar to say a quick hi to everyone. I spotted Catalina, a girl who did PR for a cosmetics company that was always really good at giving me stuff for goodie bags.

“Lolly darling!” she cried, as if I was her oldest and closest friend. As I leaned in for an air kiss she grabbed me and sort of did this swaying-on-the-spot thing with me…a bit like a slow dance. I decided she was drunk. “So, darling, we've
got Darna DJ-ing next Thursday night at the new Darna relaunch, you coming?”

Richard sidled up to me and I pulled myself away from Catalina. “I'm just off to the loo. Did you want a line?”

And even though Catalina was drunk, and loads of people (especially in the music world) do coke, I couldn't believe he'd been so unprofessional as to do it at an event I'd taken him to as a guest.

“No,” I replied, failing to hide the edge in my voice.

“See you in a bit then,” he said, seemingly oblivious to my irritation. I was cringing internally and Cat wasn't so drunk that she didn't notice. I started to feel I was floating outside my body as the evening got progressively worse.

Cocaine was a box I hadn't planned on ticking this evening. My hope for a perfect reunion followed by perfect sex and mutual declarations of everlasting love and “why did we divorce anyway?” was dissipating by the time Richard and I ended up at Nobu, eating sashimi. He hadn't said a thing the whole way back in the car. At one point he'd even put his head in his hands and groaned.

This is not what any girl wants on a date. But I kept it together. I reminded myself I wasn't falling apart and the world was still turning. Maybe I'd been silly about the Richard thing and everyone else had been right. But then at least I'd had the sense to check it out. I was just congratulating myself on my maturity, envisaging telling the girls over coffee later about how much better I felt having sorted out my feelings for Richard once and for all. They'd be awed by my coolness and circumspection and ashamed for having doubted my ability at rationality versus attraction. Reality versus the fantasy of having a man to spoon at night.

I nodded and shrugged my way through dinner while
Richard banged on about the wretched Sally and how much he loved her and pleading with me to help him “sort it out.”

“Well, good luck with that,” I told him as I stood up impatiently and he signed the bill. Then he ruined everything by looking up at me in the way he'd always looked up at me when he needed me.

“I'm a total shit, aren't I? Going on about me and my problems with Sally. I'm sorry, Lolly.” Then he put his hand out and grabbed my wrist.

“I'm sorry, too,” I told him, allowing him to pull me onto his lap. And I was sorry. I mean, after all, as far as Richard knew, he was going through a personal crisis and merely sharing it with a friend. He didn't have the slightest inkling of my mad scheme to lure him back to Lola Land. So when he cuddled me I cuddled him back. We were, after all, friends. We might have gone too far to go back but I cared for this man and he cared for me. That was probably how he felt when he cuddled me. I, on the other hand, couldn't help nuzzling his neck and wondering if, like me, he wasn't the tiniest bit turned on. I was fully aware that other diners around looking at us must have seen two people in love.

So my self-delusion kicked in and against sane judgment I invited him to join Elizabeth and Clemmie downstairs at the Met Bar—which wasn't the plan. Well, not my plan. That was Elizabeth's plan. “You can only take him to the Star Bar if you join us at eleven at the Met and promise us this madness is over!” she'd insisted.

“Actually, Lolly, I think I'll take a rain check.”

“Fine.” I shrugged.

We were at the lifts and he grabbed my shoulders.

“Don't be like that, Lola. We've had a great time.”

I smiled up at him and he planted the briefest kiss on my mouth.

Go, just go, I was silently chanting in my head. Go before I wrestle you to the ground and make wild love to you in the lift. He did, in fact, pull me into the lift, but another couple joined us. They were holding hands and smiling up at one another, speaking in that silent couple language that doesn't need actual words.

As the lift doors opened, I pretended I was air kissing a business acquaintance. “What happened to us, Lolly?” he asked, but I left him wondering, because my whole body felt churned up over the events of the evening. Besides, he had Sally. He wanted Sally, not me, and I had to accept that.

The girls were tucked up in their booth by the DJ station.

“Well?” they all asked, desperate for the scoop.

“Well what?”

“What's going on with you and Richard?”

“Absolutely nothing. I just had to be sure that I wasn't still a little bit in love with him,” I explained. “And I'm not, so, shall we order?”

Then my mobile vibrated. I recognized the number as I pulled it from my cleavage.

“I'm outside. I need you,” he said and then he hung up.

I ignored the faces of my friends as I scrambled out of the booth and chased after him. He was climbing into his cab already. He saw me and held the door open.

“Richard?” I didn't know what I wanted to happen next, but when he said, “Come with me,” I dived into the car. He wrapped his arms around me and held me like a drowning person holding on to a piece of broken raft. My phone vibrated again and I turned it off.

 

Back at his house in Shepherds Bush…I mean Notting Hill…he turned on his CD player and made us tea. For a
while nothing was said. I leaned on one of his kitchen benches and watched him move purposefully about his kitchen as the music throbbed away in the living room upstairs. I suddenly regretted my decision to come. I didn't know what I was expecting and now I didn't even know what I wanted.

He passed me the mug and I followed him into the living room. Up until that point, being with Richard again had given me a sense of déjà vu, like I was back in the past, like he was still my husband and I was still his wife. It wasn't really until I walked into the living room and couldn't recognize any of the furniture that it truly hit me.

Richard was living in a parallel world to me now. A world where we didn't choose furnishings together. I don't know why I should have expected to recognize anything, as we'd had to sell everything when Richard's business collapsed, but I suddenly felt awkward and wrong. I definitely wouldn't have allowed him to choose the white-cloth sofa (Jean's droppings), let alone the ghastly abstract canvas dominating the wall. I took one of the white-cloth club chairs as opposed to the sofa but then to my surprise he sat at my feet, the way he always did when we were still married, and leaned his head back so that he was looking up at me. “I've totally fucked up
everything,
Lolly.”