Jeremy suggested we go to Click, a private members’ club at a hotel in Knightsbridge. I agreed, partly because I’d been meaning to go there since the launch and check out how it was going. The opening night had been fabulous and Elizabeth and I had danced till four in the morning.
As we were leaving, I saw Richard and Sally in the bar. Jeremy did, too, but he didn’t say anything and nor did I, we just went outside and hailed a cab as if we hadn’t.
I felt oddly excited on the journey there. I think I felt that by being with Jeremy I was cheating on Richard, and for some reason that made me feel more empowered. Jeremy told me again how gorgeous I was looking and held my eyes with his. When he took hold of my hand, his arm resting against my knee, I didn’t push him away; in fact, when he squeezed my hand I squeezed his back.
The club was kicking and Jeremy made his way to the bar for drinks. I ordered a watermelon cosmopolitan. I wanted to get smashed. I wanted to stop my head buzzing. I wanted to stop the feelings I’d been feeling about Richard. Somehow, everything about my life seemed wrong, and being drunk seemed like a temporary, if dangerous, way out.
I didn’t remember him being a good dancer when we were going out. Maybe he’d only acquired the skill after we’d split, I decided after my second drink. Who knows, maybe he’d acquired other skills, too. Either way, we danced the night away, and as we faded out of the club in the last moments of darkness, I was carrying my Gina heels. One cosmopolitan had led to two, which led to a third, and I wasn’t surprised that we were kissing in the cab; I was just surprised I was enjoying it. When Jeremy pulled away to ask the driver to skip my stop, I didn’t argue. We kissed all the way home.
Unlike his dancing, though, the sex was just as I always remembered it: technically fine but deeply unsatisfying.
thirteen
“…’Tis a miracle to me that I can endure what is now over a week since Edward came hither. I go abroad in my thoughts by day and pace my bedchamber by night. I would not live another hour without his handsomeness were it not for my precious children. In sober earnest, my husband does spend his breath to very little purpose telling me that I am prejudicing my own health in this obsession, for he believes I have taken to settling my whole stock of happiness upon the affection of a drab cad of ruinous fortune.
To prove otherwise I have taken the Duke of Albany as my lover, although he is a cloth head and mean-spirited under the sheets. My dearest, ’tis only to you I say he is in every way odious to me, though all ladies seem to find him the pinnacle of wit. He is somewhat of a poet, nothing to touch Lord Byron, of course, but his verse is not altogether unhandsome. I have him recite poetry while he makes love to me, otherwise I should be unable to bear it.”
Extract of a letter from Lady Henrietta Posche to her sister, Elizabeth
The first thing I wanted to do when I woke up—apart from empty my bladder and take intravenous painkillers for my throbbing head—was call Richard to tell him I’d slept with Jeremy.
I know, perverse, childish, perhaps even verging on the psychotic, but the desire was so overwhelming that I didn’t question my motivations. This was my rationale: Richard was sleeping with Leggy Blonde—I wasn’t so naive that I didn’t know that. I was just managing to push the image from my mind and focus on other things. But I wanted to see if Richard could push me shagging Jeremy from his mind. I guess it was a sort of one-upmanship of emotional cruelty.
I didn’t see anything troubling or dysfunctional about it. Then, why would I? I could sleep with other people if I wanted to…I knew that already, but here’s the thing…Richard probably didn’t! Men are like that, they never imagine the worst. They never go to bed at night with that racing analytical worst-case-scenario list of things that might go wrong. Me, I always imagined the worst.
I couldn’t stop imagining him kissing Leggy Blonde.
I couldn’t stop imagining him having sex with Leggy Blonde.
I couldn’t stop imagining him telling Leggy Blonde that he loved her (not that he’d mean it, of course).
So now I couldn’t wait for Richard to have those same tortured thoughts about me with Jeremy, his own mate. It wasn’t just a desire to torture him, though. I wanted to see his reaction. I wanted him to show his hand, to realize fully what I already knew, that Richard and the Leggy Blonde were a flop, a nonstarter of a love story. Unlike the Richard and Lola Show, which was a smash-hit romantic comedy for our times…for all times. I was hoping that this (by this, I mean poor hapless, hopeful Jeremy) would give him the push to give Leggy Blonde the push. They don’t call me the London genius of PR strategy for nothing!
Jeremy woke up soon after me and looked about as rotten as I felt.
“How much did we drink last night?” he asked, ruffling his hair as if trying to kick-start his brain.
“Enough to never want to look at a drink again?” I groaned. Talking made my brains rattle.
After slowly easing himself up and into a pair of jeans he went to the kitchen and brought us Virgin Marys and cocodamols, which we knocked back like vodka shots. “Greasy fry-up?” he suggested brightly as I fell back on the pillows.
“Definitely,” I agreed, smiling weakly at him through the fog of my agony.
He was very sweet and even managed to dig up a spare toothbrush for me, and after a shower I felt almost well again, until he spoiled everything on the way out of his building by telling me how much he enjoyed being with me. When he entwined his hand in mine and kissed me on the cheek, I felt slightly ashamed.
I didn’t want to be the one to rain on his parade though, so I prattled away semibrightly about how lovely last night had been, grateful I had a hangover to hide behind. We walked past white stucco terraced housing in the morning sunshine to a greasy spoon restaurant on Westbourne Grove for a proper fry-up. Jeremy bought us each some mindless tabloid reading material, which thankfully suspended the need for further conversation.
After breakfast, weariness began to engulf me, which gave me the perfect excuse to say goodbye. Jeremy stood by me while I waited for a cab, but my attempt at a friendly air kiss goodbye turned into an awkward tooth-smashing semisnog, with me crossing my fingers behind my back while he scraped my disgusting morning-after tongue with his disgusting morning-after tongue. Any lasting hope that Jeremy might not have the wrong impression about what last night had meant to me were dashed when he said. “I’m glad we’re back together.”
Doesn’t anyone know the rules anymore? What had happened to the sacred bastion of no-strings sex with the ex? I wondered. Did the booty call mean nothing to anyone? Society was clearly falling apart at the seams, I decided as I grunted a “see you later” and dived into the capacious carriage. I wasn’t going to allow this little island of social etiquette to disappear into a sea of false sentiments.
Back at my flat I flopped onto my bed for a disco nap before work, because even though I’d had a good six hours’ sleep at Jeremy’s, drunk sleep never seems to count. I turned off my mobile, but just to be sure I set my alarm clock so I wouldn’t be late for work.
I woke up in darkness, disorientated and fuzzy. After fumbling with my lamp switch and staring at my clock, it finally dawned on me that it couldn’t really be four in the afternoon. Not when there were stars in the sky and it was May! The battery in my alarm clock must have died.
I turned on my phone and saw the time. Apart from missing drinks with the girls, I was already three hours late for work and still needed to shower and get ready—and my head was still throbbing.
I had eleven new messages. Three were from the girls asking where the fuck I was, four were from Charlie. I deleted all four without listening to any of them. The next message was from Kitty, asking me to call her back. The last one was from Richard. All he said was, “Richard here. Erm…groan…I’ll try later, I guess.”
It’s incredible how much you can read into a message that essentially says absolutely nothing. For me, the message from Richard was as inscrutable as a horoscope.
&nb
sp; So instead of diving under a shower.
Or calling my boss to plead for my job.
Or calling my friends to apologize for letting them down.
Or returning Kitty’s call because, well, she never calls me.
I replayed the message; a dozen times or more. He’d said he’d try later, which meant…he was going to call again!
I arrived at the club in a fluster. I don’t think Jonathan, who was on the door that evening, knew what hit him. I was too late to skulk off into my office and pretend I’d been there all the time, so I took the stairs Charlie style—three at a time—and pushed through to the secret passage and up into the sanctum sanctorum of his office.
He was at his desk. Jean was on his lap. Everything was just as it should be, except for Charlie’s face. Normally animated, he just stared at me with a studied, blank expression, as if deciding whether he could get away with sending me to the gallows. I swear, the way he was stroking Jean was pure pantomime bad guy.
I spoke first, in a stuttering high-pitched voice, my lack of composure bleeding guilt. “Sorry,” I squeaked. “About the late thing. The batteries on my alarm died and I slept straight through.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how the-dog-ate-my-homeworkish they sounded.
Charlie didn’t respond. He just kept stroking Jean, which began to annoy me. Notwithstanding my tardiness, I didn’t like my rabbit being used as a makeshift sphinx cat. Why couldn’t he just tick me off and be done with it?
Eventually I said as much. “Look, this is a bit ridiculous, Charlie, it’s not as if I ran down my batteries intentionally, is it? It’s not as if I’ve used the excuse before!” I started to gesture wildly, more certain of my position now. “After all, it’s not as if I’m blaming the dog for eating my homework or something implausible like that, is it? Batteries run down, Charlie, that’s the nature of the disposable world. That’s why they’re called disposable batteries, no doubt.” I smiled, slightly relaxing now, quietly proud of how well I’d excused my lateness.
Charlie just kept on stroking Jean, though, as unimpressed as you like. I shrugged; the man was being totally unreasonable. “I am sorry,” I lied, “but things go wrong, Charlie. Unforeseeable things happen to everyone! And if you don’t mind, I would rather you didn’t stroke my rabbit in that comedy-thriller-type fashion. You’re being melodramatic. Everyone is late for work occasionally.”
He picked Jean up out of his lap and placed her on his desk. “Except for you,” he told me calmly.
The words hung there between us like a declaration of…I didn’t know what. Vexation, I guess, although there was a threatening calmness to his tone. I suppose I hadn’t ever been late before apart from the other day. I do take my job very seriously. I’m overly obsessive about it according to Kitty. Which, reasonably speaking, should mean he could cut me a bit of slack!
Jean hopped back into his lap and he gave her another stroke, totally disregarding my instructions that he cease to do so. “I’m not perfect.” I shrugged, my indignation having successfully wrestled my guilt down again. I mean, I was only…okay, so I was four hours late, which was half of my shift, but still, how dare he stare at me pointedly while stroking my rabbit. He was going to have to pay me a lot more if he expected to get away with this sort of tyranny.
“So, if that’s all, I’ll go to work,” I told him grandly.
“Presuming you still have a job?”
“Prrrwrrwhah!” I spluttered. “Are you firing me? And if so, will you kindly cease handling my rabbit!”
“No, Lola, I’m not firing you, but I will if you come in late again,” he replied, placing Jean back on the desk once more.
“Fine. Well, as I said, if that’s all, I’ll get on with it.”
Then he had the audacity to ask, “Aren’t you going to ask about Jean?”
Talk about taking the biscuit. “Well, as she’s sitting right in front of me and you’re stoking her, there isn’t much to say, is there?” I knew I sounded like a bitch, but all I wanted to do was get out of the room before Richard called, so I turned around and headed for the door again. “Do you want me to take her with me?” I asked as I put my hand on the door. I was quite hoping he wouldn’t say yes because I was going to be running around sorting out anything that might have gone wrong during my shift.
“No, of course I’m happy to have her here,” he snapped. “But, Lola, there is one more thing,” he added. I turned around. “Your mother called.”
My mother was not a big fan of making phone calls. I’d almost forgotten about Kitty’s message to call her back. People called Kitty, Kitty didn’t call people. In fact, I couldn’t remember her ever having called me before. If she needed to summon me she always had Joanna or Martin do it. “Oh?” I turned back around to face him. He knew my mother’s aversion to using telephonic systems to communicate as well as I did.
“Your aunt’s funeral is on Saturday. She asked me to come. Apparently, my name was on your aunt’s guest list. So if you like, I can give you a lift down.”
“What if I’m late for work before then and you have to fire me? Won’t that be a bit of an uncomfortable journey for us?” I asked.
He smiled. “Am I being an arse or are you being a bitch?”
And suddenly I felt the tension between us evaporate. “Both?” I replied, smiling back.
He held his hand up in a mock oath. “I promise not to fire you before your aunt’s funeral.”
“Yes, that would be very insensitive,” I agreed, turning to open the door again.
“I almost forgot, Jeremy sent flowers, they’re in reception. I gather there was a rapprochement between you two last night then?” he inquired cheekily.
I pushed on the door, trying to decide whether to reply or not. For goodness’ sake, we’d split up an age ago and sex with the ex didn’t count, everyone knew that. And as this thought sped through my mind, I froze because it suddenly occurred to me that Richard may see sex with me as sex with the ex. I was feeling very unnerved, and so I turned and said, “Would it be too hard for you to keep your nose out of my private affairs, Charlie?” Which even I couldn’t believe I had just said.
He looked stung by my words…funnily enough. “Could you not even pretend to respect me, Lola?” he asked.
It was the maddest question I’d ever heard, and apart from anything else, I had passed the point of being able to think rationally a long time ago. I was too upset by my random thought about Jeremy to think about how I treated Charlie. I mean, of course I respected him. I adored him. It was just that I was distracted. Everything seemed to be getting in the way of Richard, from Leggy Blonde to my job, and now I had a potential Jeremy fiasco on my hands. I didn’t have time to confab with Charlie all night, so naturally I gave him a pretty irritated reply. “Where did that come from, Charlie? Look, you’ve just ticked me off for being late for work, completely ignoring my, up to now, blemish-free record. All I’m doing, or rather trying to do, is leave this room and do my job. Call me mad, but I thought that you as my boss would consider that the highest respect I could give you as an employee.”
Charlie looked at me and smiled a sad sort of smile. “I don’t want you to respect me as your boss, Lola. I mean as a friend? Couldn’t you even pretend to like me?”
Men! Arrgghh! They are sooooo needy! Show them you love them and they run for miles, treat them carelessly and they bleat like lambs. I shook my head as if he was a lost cause I could no longer waste my valuable time trying to rescue. He wanted something from me but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t have time to find out. More than ever, I wanted to be out of his room for Richard’s call and I didn’t know what to say to sort things out fast enough, so I just pushed open the door and left.
He only had himself to blame.
There were two events at the club that night, neither of them was particularly large and a quick check with security and the front desk reassured me that chaos so far had been kept at bay by a mixture of luck and good staffing
. After checking the incident reports, I focused on some networking that I needed to do at one of the events I’d organized for an Italian clothing designer. Or rather I tried to focus. Charlie’s chat had unnerved me, only I wasn’t sure why. Our whole talk had made me feel jumbled up inside. I mean, of course I respected him as a friend. Obviously I had done something though to put his nose out of joint. Was he annoyed about me sleeping with Jeremy perhaps? Or leaving him to look after Jean? Did he think I took him for granted…did I take him for granted? All these questions would have to be dealt with later, I decided, spotting Joel, the record executive I wanted to talk to, at the other end of the room.
Then my phone rang.
“Lola, it’s Richard, I called earlier.”
My heart was beating with what he was about to say, but then he went on to say he didn’t know what to say but that he needed to see me. The phrase “needed to see me” seemed to echo on forever. I was meant to be meeting the girls after work, but I agreed to meet him at my flat first. I decided I finally knew what Kitty and Martin meant about passion. What I felt for Richard was so absorbing, so overwhelming, I didn’t have room in my life for work or friends right now. My real focus had to be Richard.
Sex with the Ex Page 13
