Sex with the Ex

by Tyne O’Connell

  But my job doesn’t really allow for high-drama romance. I have to be CCC (Calm, Cool and Collected) all the time. As events manager and PR for Posh House (named with irony after Lady Posche, who once resided there in the eighteenth century and was by all accounts a woman of great passion) I am a one-woman drama-control SWAT team.

  Over the past few decades, Posh House has become the haunt of London’s IT-erati. As well as doing PR for the club, I am the senior events organizer, responsible for pulling together parties of a lifetime for fashionistas, aristocracy and the über-hip.

  Well, that’s what it says in the articles.

  Vogue, Harpers and their kind have repeatedly described me as number-one choice for organizing “every detail of the most magnificent parties with intelligence, wit, care, flair and imagination, all in the lavish surroundings of London’s most exciting and exclusive venue.”

  Truth? I run around like a deranged woman, impersonating CCC qualities, acting like I live to please and love everyone whilst trying not to have murderous thoughts about pushing irritating members down the magnificent sweeping marble staircase.

  But for all its challenges, there’s nothing more satisfying than pulling together the scattered threads of a series of disasters and spinning them into a party to remember (for all the right reasons). As part of my job, I not only have to make sure the right guests are at the right parties but I have to know these guests. This means after a hard night’s work I have to go out till the small hours and meet the people that matter.

  In the winter I rarely see daylight. You have to be seen, to be on the scene, to be in the scene—that’s PR talk for don’t go to bed. But it is true that you have to go to the right events to throw the right events. From the Star Bar at Top of the Pops to the opening of the latest club, I’m there. It’s my business to know the rock stars, the DJs, the record-company executives, the stylists, the stars, the scene, not to mention the competition.

  Officially I only work three days a week at Posh House, but outside of hours I use my celebrity contacts to develop other professional relationships, like with designer labels or department stores. To be successful as a PR in London you either have to be born wealthy or work your arse off, so it helps that I like what I do. It would just be nice if Kitty could be more supportive.

  I remind Kitty that romance isn’t everything and that many mothers would be proud of my success, but it’s like discussing the joys of Top Shop with an Italian heiress who’s never shopped outside of Milan. My mother has not worked since marrying my father the first time around—well, apart from small parts in the local theater group. Thanks to her private income (i.e., enormous inheritance), she never had to work. But even her good fortune is seen by her as a personal achievement.

  “Life is too short for work, darling. Work is for the lazy, for those who don’t dare to dream!”

  Kitty wasn’t even impressed by my promotion last month.

  Then again, I suppose I wasn’t exactly overwhelmed myself.

  My boss—London’s most desirable bachelor, Charlie (Lord Charles Mannox MacField Orbington as he is to Debrett’s and the society pages), called me into his plush oak-paneled office for a cordial (that’s what he calls champagne) and told me he was changing my title to senior events manager.

  I was very excited at first, right up until the point where he explained that, though my position was going to entail far more work and responsibility, he wasn’t going to be paying me more money.

  “Right ho,” I said, already hearing Kitty’s taunts in my head.

  Then he coughed in his special awkward way and shoved a big black elaborately ribboned YSL carrier bag at me. I took the bag but restrained my furious curiosity, summoning all my CCC qualities as I placed it demurely at my feet, when actually my bra was practically bursting into flames to know of its contents.

  “But, erm, you will get your own office sort of affair, obviously,” he added.

  “Oh well, that’s a step up.” I nodded agreeably, and it was. Previously I’d had to rely on a mobile phone and the club reception area, but with my mind now firmly on the YSL carrier bag, an office didn’t seem such a big deal. I’m nothing if not an easy bribe. I suppose it comes from all the bribes my parents gave me to pass on messages of love or hate to one another when I was growing up.

  Charlie was still gabbling. “Actually, more of a cupboard-type affair, really, but there’s a phone line and an, erm, well, sort of a chair, a desk thingamee and some sort of filing-cabinet effect going on, if I remember correctly.”

  “Right ho,” I repeated. I always find myself mimicking the madly posh way Charlie talks when I’m with him. Even my pronunciation of yeah seems to turn into yaah when I’m with him. It’s a bit of a nervous tick, really, and I should get to work on it. Right after I’ve got to work on the implausibly long list of flaws Kitty’s constantly pointing out.

  “No window, sadly.” He looked embarrassed.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “But fear not, dearest Lola, as soon as a window becomes available, well, it will be all yours. Top of the list.”

  “Yaah, I mean, okay, well, fantastic, that is, thanks…I guess. I mean, I’m looking forward to the window when it comes up and all that.”

  “And as for the phone business, feel free vis-à-vis your extracurricular.” He meant my work outside the club—which suited him as much as me because the better connected I was, the better connected the club was.

  “Of course.” I stood to leave, taking the liberty of peaking inside the big YSL carrier bag, where I spotted this season’s much-coveted white YSL flower bag—bag of the season according to Tatler—all tucked up nicely in black tissue paper.

  I was really touched. “Oh my God, Charlie, this is so cool, I love it!” I exclaimed, pulling it out of its nesting place. I gave him a big cuddle. Charlie’s really rather nice to cuddle. I suppose he’s quite fit looking in a rosy-cheeked public-school sort of way, and I do think it’s adorable the way he’s tried to tone his accent down, although when he gets nervous or slightly pissed he can’t hide his aristo roots. All my girlfriends adore him, which is a bit embarrassing. They giggle and simper whenever I bring them to the club, which is very, very rarely. There’s nothing more tragic than having your girlfriends hiding behind pillars hissing things like, “Here he comes, quick, quick, here he comes now! Isn’t he to die for?” every time he comes around a corner.

  “The bag? Oh! Well, I thought it might come in handy for Jean, you know for carting her around. You could sort of smuggle her into places that don’t allow rabbits and that sort of thing.”

  When I first got my little black rabbit, Jean Harlot, three years ago, he told me that I could bring her to work with me rather than leave her at home alone.

  “No, no, no,” he’d insisted. “Can’t leave a rabbit home alone, you’ll have the EC crawling all over you. Probably breaks a whole legion of animal-rights conventions, leaving little rabbits on their tod. No, bring her in. She’ll be company for Cinders.” Cinders is Charlie’s old black Labrador. She is about six thousand years old in dog years or something.

  I jumped at the chance to bring Jean in to work even though I’m fairly sure rabbits get by quite nicely at home alone all over the country, although, actually, Jean is very, well…tactile. Tactile in the sense that she is always trying to hump things. Mortifying, really. The first time she humped Cinders, I almost threw myself down the staircase, although as Charlie pointed out, Cinders didn’t seem to mind. She was really lovely about it and just licked Jean’s ears—I think she thinks Jean’s one of her lost puppies.

  Actually, Jean tries to hump everything and everybody. She’s got sexual-identity issues according to Kitty, who claims it’s because she spends so much time with me. I take this as a not very veiled reference to my own sex life.

  No, I’d certainly landed on my feet with Charlie. Lots of bosses can be quite sniffy about bringing pets to work—especially rabbits that hump the furniture and do poohs (
“droppings” as we refer to them when the patrons complain). “Droppings make them sound like they just fell from the sky rather than from a bunny’s bum,” according to Charlie.

  “No, she can hop about and you can let her flop around the courtyard in the summer too. I mean, if there aren’t too many people out there. Oh, bugger it, actually, just let her have the run of the place.”

  And run of the place she has had; causing havoc wherever she goes. Often when magazines do photo shoots on Charlie or Posh House, he’ll even pose with Jean. He’s declared her the club mascot, which is really sweet given her predisposition for humping his arm.

  So anyway, my promotion may not have been all it could but I was pleased—especially about the bag. I popped little Jean Harlot into it right away and she nestled down as if she’d been longing for it all her life—well, I clipped it shut actually and gushed about how she loved it. That’s the great thing about rabbits, they can’t speak for themselves. I think she did like it though, because her little nose popped out, wiggling happily, and I gave it a kiss.

  Next thing I knew, Charlie was thrusting a box of business cards into my hand with my name printed on them in whirly-swirly embossed writing.

  Lola Morton

  Senior Events Manager &

  Public Relations Coordinator

  Posh House, Marlowe Gardens,

  London W1

  I didn’t really know what the “senior” stood for because it’s not as if there is any one junior below me to boss about. But I appreciated the gesture.

  “I hope you like them.”

  “I love them,” I gushed.

  “I thought perhaps we should have some printed for Jean Harlot, give her a bit of purpose, something along the lines of, junior events manager?”

  I gave him a little kiss on the cheek. He smelt all lemony and fresh like he always does. Charlie’s one of those guys who’s reliable in every way imaginable. I am very lucky.

  When I went down to visit my parents I showed off the cards and the bag to Kitty.

  “Oh, Martin, bring me a sherry,” she cried, as if I’d shown her a severed limb or a horse’s head. “What are we going to do with this daughter of ours?”

  They often discuss me as if I am not in the same room.

  “I don’t know, Kitty,” Martin sighed heavily as he passed her the sherry. “The thing with our daughter is that she’s simply got to focus more on finding herself a fellow. I mean, there must be some chap in London willing to take on a girl as lovely as Lola, don’t you think? She’s not bad looking. Not a stunner like you, of course, my love.” He patted me on the head.

  “Oh, Martin,” Kitty snapped, knocking back her sherry in one. “Any chap with an ounce of passion would take one look at that two-piece suit she gads about in, not to mention that sexually incontinent rabbit she’s always clutching, and run for the Dales.”

  “Erm, I am in the room,” I reminded them. “As is Jean!” I covered her soft floppy ears so her feelings wouldn’t be hurt. “Besides, I don’t wear a two-piece suit.”

  “Bring me another sherry, Martin,” Kitty exclaimed piteously, obviously more struck than ever by the ennui of her lot. And that was only the Saturday…we still had the Sunday to go.

  No wonder I prefer being in London at work than in the sprawling gothic ghastliness of their Surrey manor house. Love my parents as I do, it’s hell being stuck down there with two lovesick geriatrics and their fawning housekeeper.

  Kitty is completely unsympathetic when I bring up the way it creeps me out to see them slobbering all over each other, although obviously I don’t use the term lovesick geriatrics or slobbering when I have this conversation.

  “Biologically you’re stuck with parents who love each other. See a therapist,” is Kitty’s riposte.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to mention the school counselor who got me through their four divorces and five marriages.

  Martin told me I should celebrate their love for one another and patted me on the head again. I was beginning to feel like Cinders must when Charlie pats her on the head whenever she barks at members who vex her. She occasionally takes to the odd one for no apparent reason. I sometimes feel like giving Kitty a bit of a nip.

  But maybe my father’s right. God knows none of my friends’ parents show any sign of affection for one another…actually, they are all divorced or near enough to it; sleeping in separate bedrooms or turning a blind eye to affairs. My two closest friends, Elizabeth and Clemmie (short for Clementine), think it’s quite sweet that my parents are still so in love—even if they are sickenly demonstrative about it.

  It’s quite an achievement, so my best friend, Elizabeth, claims, that after thirty-eight years and, okay, four divorces and remarriages later, they’re still as smitten as the day they first married each other (and then remarried, remarried and remarried…).

  See, this is my dilemma. Even though the two of them drive me utterly bonkers, it is hard not to be awed by Kitty and Martin and the passion they still have in their relationship. Even while I’m overseeing my events and parties, I can’t help myself, it’s almost an obsessive compulsion…I watch the couples. I watch the chemistry between them, the body language and, all right, yes, I watch the passion. It’s like watching an engrossing, gory film—impossible to resist.

  The party I was currently overseeing was to celebrate the birthday of one of London’s biggest property moguls—sorry, landowners, as they refer to it at the top.

  Originally from Peru, he’d shipped in crates of a lethal spirit from his homeland and, as far as I could tell, this Machu Picchu stuff was equivalent to a bottle of Bollinger in a shot glass.

  “Rudyard Kipling used to drink it,” the ridiculously young Machu Picchu PR girl assured me. Initially I was concerned about her being under the drinking age, but after one, she was right, I was already feeling a little poetic. She pressed another on me as I fished the mobile phone of a famous supermodel out of a Picchu Sour.

  “Gosh, that’s interesting,” I gushed. I always gush with my guests when they annoy me, it’s part of the role-play—sometimes my friends say I even gush with them when I’m bored or don’t like what they are saying.

  “Rudyard Kipling,” I added, trying to tone down my gush as I dried off the supermodel’s mobile on my new Dolce & Gabbana chiffon sleeve and spoke into my mouth-piece—requesting downstairs to come and fetch it so that it could be locked in the safe. Security had already “assisted” the—by then—rather liquid supermodel into a limo earlier in the evening.

  I’d been told to expect all sorts of super thises and super thats. Security arrangements had been made and the necessary special requests filed. For all their glamour, celebrity and prestige, though, they were just a roomful of wealthy men in suits with their cosmetically enhanced harems—sorry entourages. Not an ounce of romance or passion between any of them, I decided.

  Coming to the conclusion that my work for the evening was done, when it happened…my epiphany.

  One minute I was all CCC (and, okay, slightly gushing) and the next minute I looked up and there they were.

  The exes.

  My exes.

  Well, three of them anyway. Richard, Hamish and Jeremy. Talk about ex marking the spot.

  In my shock, I dropped poor Jean to the floor.

  two

  Lady Posche, 1789–1827. Known as Hen to her friends, was born into a grand English family that traced its roots back to William the Conqueror. Henrietta was considered one of the great beauties of her day. She was the daughter of the wealthy maverick, Duke of Bilterten, who was renowned for shooting the eyes out of ancestral portraits he took umbrage to. Apparently he felt that certain eyes were following him about.

  For all his eccentricities he was passionately in love with his wife, Caroline, and wrote daily love letters to her, even when they were residing in the same house.

  At seventeen, Henrietta fell inexorably in love with the handsome, charismatic youngest son of a marquess, Edward, Lord
Edward Haversham.

  Evidence suggests that the union was in all likelihood consummated before a formal proposal of marriage was received, but a proposal was later made and swiftly rejected by Henrietta’s father. Realistically, Lord Haversham was not a wealthy man, which may have concerned the duke, but he did not put this forth as his reason for withholding his daughter’s hand, however.

  In fact, while the reasons he gave seemed spurious at the time, it later proved prescient. “The man was a cad and a bounder.”

  Secret Passage to the Past:

  A Biography of Lady Henrietta Posche

  By Michael Carpendum

  My first thought was “How dare they!”

  Seriously, it was like something out of one of those television setups. To be confronted by the three most major relationships of my life, chatting away happily, knocking back their Machu Picchu sours without a care in the world.

  More importantly, without me!

  Bastards.

  I’d seen them all at Posh House before but not en masse like this, not in a cluster, a pod, right in front of me. This was wrong. It was obscene.

  I ducked behind the Machu Picchu drink station to observe them further and as I did so I spotted my boss, Charlie, grabbing Jean—just as she was about to rub herself up and down someone’s foot. I watched him as he looked vainly around the room for me.

  I whispered in my headset. “I’m hiding behind the Machu Picchu station.”

  “Ten four, Agent Provocateur,” he whispered back into his as he placed Jean on the ground and she hopped on over to me.

  I grabbed her and refocused on the exes. It wasn’t so much that they looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world, or even that all three of them still looked so fit I could scream. The worst of it was they were not with me. Well, actually, let me put that more precisely. One of them in particular was not with me.