“Hi, it’s us!” my three friends shouted into the speaker.
“We come bearing gifts!” they laughed as they burst into the tiny cupboard that was my flat, dressed in tea dresses and cheap diamante tiaras. Each of them was holding an enormous bunch of flowers. Elizabeth came in last, struggling as she was under the weight of a jeroboam of champagne. She kicked the door closed with the heel of her Choo’s.
“Darling, congratulations, we feel terrible about being so horrible about Richard these past weeks, so we’re going to make it up to you,” she announced.
“Exactly,” agreed Josie. “In fact, Emmanuel told me I’d been beastly toward you and that I was to invite you and Richard to ours for dinner. So there.”
“We’re to come, as well,” Clemmie added, settling the flowers in my kitchen sink.
“Everyone who matters is to come,” Elizabeth declared expansively. “I’m bringing Hamish.”
They wrapped me in a group hug and I desperately wanted to embrace them back with the same enthusiasm. I did! I wanted to embrace their good wishes. I wanted to believe what they believed, that everything between Richard and me was fairy-tale-perfect and that they were the only problem in an otherwise perfect union. But actually, it wasn’t perfect. I now had the man I wanted on a plate, prostate at my feet, vulnerable, suppliant and…
“Thank you,” I heard myself saying. “It means so much to me that you’re pleased for me…for us.”
“Of course we’re pleased for you. If Richard is what you want, darling, Richard is what you must have,” Elizabeth stated.
“Exactly!” agreed Clemmie. “Now, when’s the big event and can we be your bridesmaids with lovely sexy dresses?”
“Jean’s already signed up for the post of chief bridesmaid,” I told them.
“Oh, Jean Harlot, always the bridesmaid never the bride!” Elizabeth picked up Jean for a cuddle. Jean, who’d been quite happy watching the headlines, squirmed with irritation.
“So, breakfast at Claridges,” they chorused.
An hour later, I was frocked up in a little floral tea dress, with strappy Manolo sandals and Aunt Camilla’s diamond tiara, and we set across the road to Claridges. Jean was wriggling in her bag while we tucked into afternoon tea, because of course they stop serving breakfast at Claridges at some ungodly hour of the morning. If I were a councilor, I would campaign for breakfast to be available at any time of the day or night. Scones and cream are nice in their way, but when you want a kipper, you want a kipper and that’s all there is to it.
As the harpist strummed her harp, we tucked into scones and cream and with well-practiced sleight of hand I was able to slip all the garnishes from the finger sandwiches into my bag for Jean. I was starting to believe that things with Richard and I were perfect in every way until Elizabeth burst my little pre-bride bubble of girlie fun when she asked through a mouthful of cress sandwich, “So, what are you going to do about Charlie?”
I took a sip of tea while I strengthened my resolve. “I’m going to resign.”
“Just like that?”
Clemmie put her cup down noisily on the saucer at the shock of it all. “After all you’ve been through together?”
“Yes, how many years is it? Five?” added Josie.
“Don’t you think he deserves a chance to tell his side?”
Elizabeth put her hand over mine. “Yes, he’s always been there for you, Lola. Are you sure you’re not acting on reflex?”
Clemmie waded in. “He was there when Richard dumped all over you the first time.” Elizabeth and Josie looked at her censoriously.
I put my hands over my ears. “Richard did not dump all over me!”
Clemmie was unbowed. “No? He made you give up work to study interior design and then went bust and you were left without a job. Did it never occur to you that Charlie might have employed someone else in that time? Did you ever—”
Josie put her hand over her mouth with the shock of it all. “Oh God, wouldn’t it be awful to think that someone got fired so you could have your old job back?” she exclaimed.
“Well, it was only his sister, actually,” I interjected.
Elizabeth shook her head. “So? He still replaced her with you.”
I suppose that was true. Charlie had mentioned something about how bringing me back on board “had slightly vexed his sister,” but then as I thought about it, Charlie always understated things, especially unpleasant things. Besides, I told myself, there were plenty of other openings at Posh House. She didn’t have to leave entirely. We could have worked together.
“Look, can we stop talking about bloody Charlie,” I snapped. When you’re confused or in a corner or in the wrong, it’s remarkable how easily righteous indignation comes. I see it all the time with bolshie guests. I’ve heard the implausible, the impossible and the illogical used to justify misdemeanors from theft to violence. Sometimes listening to the sheer madness of the justifications holds me spellbound.
I think there should be an award for most imaginative excuse. There could even be categories like at the Oscars. If so, I would have won it for my speech about how Charlie’s attack was inexcusable on any level and, regardless of how kind and lovely he may have been to me in the past, knowing how he felt about Richard, the man I was going to marry, I couldn’t countenance working for him a moment longer. I didn’t mention that Richard, the man I was going to marry, was a homeless coke addict who had lied to me repeatedly since the day I met him.
If I imagined that the girls were going to put up more of a fight in Charlie’s defense, I was mistaken. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do what’s best,” Elizabeth agreed, calling for the bill.
“Fair enough,” agreed Josie. “Sorry if we, erm…hassled you.”
Clemmie shrugged. “Yes, the point is, we’re behind you. We all felt guilty about our reaction to you getting back with Richard and just wanted you to know that we want you to be happy, to know that you have…”
“Our blessing,” added Elizabeth, putting one hand on my head and making the sign of the cross with the other, “to marry Richard.”
So there it was; as far as they were concerned, I finally had overcome the last obstacle that stood in the way of remarrying Richard. I finally had the support that I’d been begging them to give me since I first saw him that night with Leggy Blonde. How were they to know that their longed-for approbation came at the very same time as my doubts? How could I discuss those doubts now? Now that they were finally telling me I was right to have none?
I had longed for their approval, dreamed of them congratulating me on getting back together with Richard, done everything in my power to convince them that he really was the right man for me. And now that they were saying and feeling all I had wanted them to say and feel, how could I admit to having the doubts they’d urged me to have? I had set a train of events in motion that evening, and now as the train was derailing, I had no one to turn to for help. The train was out of control and I was on it careering toward something terrifying. There was only one person left in the anti-Richard campaign, and that was Charlie. Which meant there was only one thing to do.
Outside Claridges I climbed into a cab as the girls waved me off.
“Posh House,” I told the driver, and then I settled back into the seat and gathered my thoughts for what I was about to do.
twenty
Charles returned to Posche House to support his wife following a letter in which she expressed her concern over the health of Edward. However, by the time his carriage arrived, Edward had already left the house. His health was by all accounts extremely bad.
By this stage he was suffering hallucinations and breathing difficulties, but such was his addiction to opium he managed to drag himself back to one of London’s many opium dens.
Henrietta was devastated and turned to Charles for support. Charles stood by her and offered what comfort he could, but unbeknown to her he was considering having Edward horsewhipped for his treatment of his wife, should he dare
to show his face in Posche House again, a threat that he openly ex pressed to her sister, Elizabeth, in a letter.
Secret Passage to the Past:
A Biography of Lady Henrietta Posche
by Michael Carpendum
In a fantasy mental slide show, this is how my resignation would have looked.
I would jump out of the taxi to pay. The driver would remark—in reference to my lovely Dolce & Gabbana tea dress—“special occasion, love?” I’d laugh insouciantly; a girl of confidence and fortune. I would overtip, the driver would say—“Thank you, love, have a good one”—and I would stride confidently through reception.
Carl or Beth, or whoever was on, would shower me with still more compliments about my dress. I’d be charming, of course, distributing air kisses all round. I’d tell them how lovely they all looked—if it was Carl, I’d flirt slightly; gay men love to practice their flirting skills. I’d release Jean from the confines of her bag and ask them to look after her (so she wouldn’t put me off my carefully planned speech). I would then skip up the stairs and through the secret door and up the tenebrous passage to Charlie’s office. He’d be there, as ever, his long legs resting on his desk, his arms folded behind his head, a wistful look on his face. He’d say, “Ah, Lola, how lovely to see you.” To which I’d reply, “Well, you might feel differently after you hear what I have to say, Charles.”
Then I’d explain that following his violent assault on my fiancé I was tendering my resignation.
He’d probably weep.
Not that I’d ever seen Charlie weep, but in my fantasy he’d at the very least be holding back a tear. Sniffling, wiping his eyes, that sort of thing. He’d apologize profusely. Admit how horrendous and shamefully sickening his behavior toward Richard had been and beg me to forgive him, offering to apologize to Richard and give me a raise. Then we’d have a cuddle and I’d tell Charlie about Richard’s coke habit and how he was broke and homeless and he’d sit me down and tell me everything would be all right.
This is how my resignation actually went…
I tripped as I fell out of the cab and scraped my knee. My tiara fell to the ground. Then as I scrambled in the gutter to retrieve it, a creep going past made a pervy comment. Sticking the tiara back on my head, I asked the driver what the fare was. He told me it was three pounds twenty and I handed him a fifty, telling him to make it five. He said he didn’t have any change and so I ran into reception to get a smaller note.
Instead of one of the regular staff, there was someone new and ultraofficious on reception, Madame Too Big for Her Boots. As I had no swipe card and she didn’t know who I was, she refused to assist me in finding change, telling me that the club didn’t keep money on the premises, which was rubbish. It took me forever to explain who I was. In the end, the horrible girl rang Charlie to see what she should “do about me.” Charlie must have told her to hand over the change, but when I eventually got back to the cab, where the meter was still on, to find I now owed nine pounds sixty, so I just gave him a tenner and he groaned about the heat.
Back in reception, Madame Too Big for Her Boots informed me that Charlie was in a meeting, wasn’t to be disturbed, and I was to wait. By this time I had taken Jean out of her bag and was stroking her ears, so I suggested I’d wait in the courtyard, to which she almost had a fit. She told me it might be better if I sat on the hard wooden pew in reception and asked me to keep Jean in my bag. After an hour I was cheered by a text message from Richard saying “R luvs L.” Eventually, Charlie called down and Madame Too Big for Her Bloody Boots had one of the security staff lead me to his office via the main stairs—as if I was planning on stealing something.
He knocked on Charlie’s door and asked if it was okay to let me in! Then when he got the okay, he asked me to hand over my “animal.” The whole affair was going from bad to worse, but I gave Jean to the security guy and asked him to take care of her. To be fair, he did give her a little stroke and even laughed when she began to hump his arm.
“Lola, I’m surprised to see you,” Charlie said once I was standing before him. He was standing up, the light from the window illuminating his athletic body from behind. He was wearing an old T-shirt emblazoned with The Cure on the front. It had a hole in it on the shoulder and I could see the brown skin of his broad shoulder underneath.
“Well, erm…that is…I am…”
“Let me guess, you’re resigning?”
“Well, I was, erm, that is…”
“No hard feelings, I hope?” He smiled and extended his hand for me to shake. I’m pretty sure we had never shaken hands before, but I shook it like a Japanese businessman and smiled back at him.
“I anticipated you wouldn’t feel comfortable working for me anymore after the weekend’s events. Slightly surprised, actually, that you felt the need to tell me to my face.” He passed me an envelope and smiled one of his lovely easy smiles. “Here, I thought you might appreciate this.” My eyes traveled down his long lean arm holding out the envelope. His skin was always such a lovely tawny color.
All this formality was beginning to distress me. I didn’t open the envelope, but I presumed it was some sort of final payment, so I shoved it in my bag. “Yes…well, thank you. That is, I think this is better, don’t you?” I tried to match his easy smile, but my eyes were about to brim with tears, so I bit my lip.
He looked like he wanted to hold me, and I felt like I wanted to be held, but both of us remained rooted to the spot like actors staying on their chalk marks on a film set.
Eventually he turned away and looked out over the courtyard, leaving me with the back of his neck to study as I pulled myself together. I heard Cinders panting. She was standing at my feet looking up at me, probably wondering where Jean was. I gave her a pat and she licked my hand.
“Well, bye then,” I said to Charlie’s back as my eyes teared up again.
“Yes, goodbye, Lola,” he replied without turning around.
So there it was, a chapter of my life was closing. I turned away as well then, and walked toward the door. Cinders followed me, only to be called back by Charlie. “One last thing though, Lola.”
“Yes?” I asked, turning around hopefully. Hoping for something I couldn’t define, an escape perhaps from the train of events I had set in motion. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure about setting up my own company. Nor was I sure I could bear to lose Charlie in my life, and it was only really now that I saw my resignation for what it truly was. The end of an era; the end of a friendship that had sustained me through the past five years. I wanted to turn back the clock and change my mind, but my hopes were dashed when Charlie said, “You’ll appreciate that I’ve had to cancel Richard’s membership. I’ve written to inform him, but I just thought I should mention it to you.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I pushed open the door to the secret passage and rushed down the dimly lit wooden stairs, collected Jean from the security guy who was playing with her in reception while Madame Too Big for Her Boots looked on in disapproval. I thanked the guy, put Jean in the bag Charlie had once given me for her and ran out onto the street.
I hailed a cab and cried the whole way home.
Inside my flat I switched on the news for Jean and threw myself on my bed and cried my eyes out. When Kitty called, I wailed, “How could he have let me go so easily?”
“Did you ask him why he hit Richard?”
“No, he didn’t give me a chance. It was awful. Kitty, it was as if he couldn’t face me, couldn’t wait to be rid of me,” I sobbed.
“I guess it’s what you wanted,” she reminded me.
My friends were no less surprised. Although Elizabeth and Clemmie were horrified to discover (as was I) that I hadn’t discussed terms with Charlie. As PR for Posh House, I had signed an exclusivity agreement which meant I wasn’t allowed to contact any of my clients or contacts that I’d met during my time at Posh House—in short, I wasn’t allowed to contact London’s A-list.
“I can’t believe you resigned without pr
eliminary discussions, Lola,” Elizabeth told me. “I don’t see how you plan to start your own PR company when you can’t contact any of your Posh House list.”
That was when my first doubts began to creep in. Doubts that only became more incessant when Richard came over after work. He gave me a cuddle and reassured me it was all for the best, but then he said, “Besides, the man’s insane. I don’t want a wife of mine working for a violent-tempered bastard like that.”
I had this urge to scream, “No! Stop! I want to get off!” As much as I loved Richard, I loved Charlie, too (only in a different sort of way, obviously). I couldn’t have him spoken about as a violent-tempered bastard when I knew he wasn’t. But then, I couldn’t say that to Richard because I knew it would hurt his pride. Just the same, doubts began to work away about what I was sacrificing in order to have Richard back, which was just crazy because deep down I knew Richard and I were right.
I told myself it was sheer perversity and anyway I was in too deep. I had effectively wrestled Richard from Leggy Blonde and now that he was broke and in need, I didn’t really see how I could explain that a part of me wasn’t ready to marry him again, especially when he was struggling with his addiction. I had plotted and planned every detail of getting back together with Richard and yet in my master plan I hadn’t built in a contingency back-out strategy, so I said nothing and hoped the doubts would go away.
Richard stroked my hair and said, “Besides, we should be celebrating. I’m taking you out to dinner. I have a surprise for you that I think you’ll like.”
I didn’t really feel it would be appropriate to remind him that he was for all intents and purposes broke and homeless and in no position to take me out to dinner much less buy me surprises. But I walked with him down to Scotts, a seafood restaurant on Mount Street, where we ordered two dozen Irish rock oysters, a lobster and a bottle of Dom, my favorite champagne. I laughed at his jokes and tried to follow the conversation, but the truth was, all I could think about was Charlie and how much I already missed him.
Sex with the Ex Page 19
