Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

by Fox, Lana

  The conversation is slow at first. Small talk with the ex who cheated on you is never going to be a barrel of laughs. I thank him for the flowers and he says he’s glad I like them. Originally, he was thinking of sending me lilies. ‘Wasn’t sure whether that would be too much,’ he says. And after a pause, he adds, ‘Just wasn’t sure.’

  Determined to make him uncomfortable, I look him in the eyes. ‘Because lilies were in my wedding bouquet?’

  Henry clears his throat, nodding. ‘Precisely. I … don’t … Precisely.’

  I flap an idle hand. ‘You needn’t worry, Henry. I’m over you. Really.’

  The look he gives me is haunting. It drains all his colour – pale as bone, he is, with those big, lost, welling eyes, and it’s only now that I notice he’s lost weight. His cheekbones are more pronounced than they used to be and his hair is a little floppier, as if he’s trying to hide behind it. I also notice that he keeps having to push his glasses back up his nose.

  He reaches for my hands and presses them together between his own. ‘I made a huge mistake with you, Debsie.’ He pauses and repeats, ‘Huge.’

  ‘You were more than mistaken,’ I say. ‘You were a cheat.’ But saying these words doesn’t make me feel better.

  He nods slowly. When he speaks, his voice is soft: ‘I threw away the most important person in my life – the most important, Debsie – just for a bit of totty.’

  ‘Don’t call her totty!’ I find myself saying. ‘She’s a person, Henry. And you cheated on her too.’ Holy shit, Kitten! If there’s one thing I never expected it was me standing up for his mistress!

  Henry’s lips are parted in astonishment. His glasses slide down his nose a little and he doesn’t even push them back up. He gawps at me for a long time. I thought it would feel good giving him a piece of my mind, and watching him pine for me. But it actually makes me a little nauseous.

  The waitress brings menus, and Henry breaks the long silence by ordering a bottle of Sauvignon blanc, without even checking with me. I used to love it when he took charge in restaurants, but now I can almost hear Janey saying, What does that bastard think you are? His pet? The waitress asks what we want to eat and I end up choosing the scallops, partly because they’re pricey and I know that Henry will insist on paying.

  Kind of bitchy, aren’t I, Kitten? And I begin to see that it doesn’t suit me.

  Anyway, Kitten, once we’ve ordered, I tell him I expect a full apology – in letter form, preferably – but now isn’t the time to talk about the past. ‘Tell me about your life,’ I say. And of course, he does. He’s moved estate agencies and is happily selling houses. He’s single; he repeats this info several times. Plus he’s taken up a new hobby. Golf. Henry on a golf course! I can just see him scratching his head staring into the distance. And yet, when he talks about it, his face lights up, and he’s quipping about getting lost in the undergrowth, trying to find his ball.

  Typical Henry. Only happy when he’s playing like a boy.

  Soon the waitress has arrived with our food, and he’s tucking into his roast chicken and downing big slurps of wine. I click into a better mood because the scallops are soft as butter and caramelised on top, and it seems that I have missed Henry’s company a little, not to mention his skills as a storyteller, because I genuinely giggle at some of the things he says. He tells one tale about getting stuck in a client’s house because the door got wedged, and in his version he makes himself a cartoon character – a frantic, powerless little man with a goofy brain.

  We both laugh. It’s sweet, in its way, although I don’t look into his eyes for too long.

  But perhaps the most surprising thing is his newfound interest in me.

  ‘How’s it going at Pussyfoot Shoes?’ he asks me.

  I tell him I’m the manager now and he seems impressed.

  ‘Does that mean you hire and fire people?’

  Typical Henry. All about the power. Anyway, I say yes, then tell him about Janey, who’s starting tomorrow.

  ‘You gave your tenant a job?’ he says. ‘Is that wise, Debsie?’

  I want to say, Wiser than cheating on your wife, but I know that’s a bad direction. ‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘She’s a catch.’

  ‘A catch?’

  ‘Yes. Delightful.’ I find myself flushing and fiddling with my necklace. ‘She’s a student.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of the stiletto heel.’

  His eyes widen and he leans right forward. ‘What on earth …? What on earth is her degree?’

  ‘Gender studies, I think.’

  He gives a snort of dismissal and falls back in his chair. ‘Studying stilettos in gender studies! I thought gender was meant to be all serious.’ Then he gives a dismissive laugh – one that assumes I’ll join in. And an old, disused part of me actually wants to please him and be coddled for it. But that’s the old, dejected Deborah. Right now, the new Deborah is so pissed off that she almost rises to her feet and sweeps the crockery onto the floor. ‘Listen, buster,’ I say, ‘I’ll tell you a thing or two about the importance of stilettos.’ And I launch into a diatribe about the feminist adoption of the high-heeled shoe. By the time I’ve added a few details about France in the Renaissance, where men wore high heels as well as women, Henry’s looking mildly bemused.

  ‘I absolutely believe you, pumpkin,’ he tells me, smirking away, ‘but still, you have to admit, it’s hardly a subject for higher study.’

  And there’s that pet name of his. Pumpkin. The old Debs would have felt all coddled, all sweet and adored, like a puppy. But Janey would say, How dare he objectify you! And she’d be right.

  ‘I’m not your pumpkin,’ I say, spearing a chunk of asparagus. ‘I’m your ex, who you betrayed, and Janey puts you to shame in more ways than I can say.’

  His face goes even paler this time. ‘Oh, Debs,’ he says, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘You’re right, of course. But I can’t help expressing affection for you.’ Then he looks right at me and says, ‘I knew I was still in love with you, but hearing you speak out like this … I want you more than ever.’

  I open my mouth like a goldfish, then snap it shut again. Now, I know I said I wanted him to want me back, but sitting here, with his words hanging between us, all I feel is a need to run away. Fast. His gaze is on me like it used to be when we were first together and desire seeped from our pores, and I realise that I could go back to him if I wanted – return to the old Debs who laughed her opinions away and did everything to look after her man. But he isn’t in love with me. Not really. I’m guessing he’s just lonely. So I say, ‘What do you love, exactly, Henry? Apart from my new assertiveness, I mean.’

  Watching me carefully, he puts down his fork, takes a sip of his wine, then leans towards me. ‘You’re always so real,’ he says. ‘You’re always … just yourself.’

  This throws me because I was so damn insecure with the man for so many years that I wasn’t myself – I was waiting, as if ‘being myself’ would drop from the sky if I stood there long enough. In fact, even now, in my new life, I’m not sure I’m really being myself. Janey said that owning your sexuality helps you to be authentic, and I think she was right. But how, exactly, am I owning my sex life? Here I am having dinner with my ex because a man I hardly know just cheated on me and I wanted a grovelling apology from one of the bastards in my life. Here’s what I do in my love life: I flit from one man to another, looking for … what? Prince Charming? A collection of sparkling compliments? A bouquet of flowers that only last until morning? Well, I’m done with that! No more ‘What’ll happen to me today?’ I want a woman – a strong woman – a companion in life. Someone whose love stays as fresh as the day. And I know this ‘someone’ is Janey. And I know she wants me too. But I’ve not had the guts to tell her how I feel.

  Then suddenly, as I’m sitting here filling our table with awkward silence, I wonder if I always date men because they ask me out. I’m just not used to doing the chasing. I suppose, when a woman is heterosexual,
and she’s attracted to the sort of men who boss the world around, they want to do the running, and it’s easy to let them. When have I ever asked someone out?

  Never, Kitten. Not once.

  Under the table, I can feel my feet snugly encased in my peep-toe stilettos, and suddenly, something dawns on me: If high-heeled shoes are meant to empower me, then dammit, I should let them.

  So I put down my fork, dab my mouth with the napkin and say, ‘Henry, I’m sorry. It’s been great to catch up. But if you’re still in love with me, we have to call this a day.’

  ‘I … why?’ he says, his eyes wide with surprise. His glasses slide down his nose and this time he pulls them off and squints at me across the table. ‘I’m not asking for anything, Debs.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ I tell him, ‘and that’s precisely the problem.’

  When he asks what I mean, I say that I don’t want him anymore. And though saying this makes me feel like a bitch, I know I must stop being tossed around by every breeze. ‘We’re broken,’ I tell him. ‘And besides, I think I’m a lesbian.’

  He gazes at me for at least five seconds, then he starts to laugh, falling back in his seat. He claps his hands together, as if he’s about to applaud. ‘Oh, Debs, you’re adorable, but you’re not a lesbian. You haven’t even been with a woman. You’ve always been turned on by men.’

  I tell him I have indeed been with a woman, and a beautiful woman, at that. I admit, it’s satisfying to see the smirk sink from his face.

  ‘You’ve been with a woman?’ he says. ‘A woman? You?’

  ‘And a man,’ I say, ‘both at once, actually.’

  Behind us, I hear somebody mutter, ‘Holy Moses,’ and I notice that the tables around us have gone quiet. It’s strange, but I really don’t care what anyone thinks, right now.

  Henry glances around, then whispers, ‘Debsie, you’re loud.’

  ‘I am loud,’ I announce. ‘Especially when I’m in bed with a fellow lesbian.’

  ‘You are not a lesbian,’ says Henry. ‘Pumpkin, you’re not, you’re just confused.’

  Now there’s some tittering behind us and the clink of glassware.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I say, snarkily. ‘Well, how come, when I caught you fucking that woman, she was the one I was watching, not you?’

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘You were watching Sarah?’

  ‘Sarah was gorgeous. You faded into the background.’

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it again and lets his jaw hang there. ‘You’re not into women. You can’t be into women. You were always so into my …’ He points down at his lap like some kind of pantomime character.

  ‘Your cock, Henry,’ I announce, as he frantically gestures for me to keep down the noise. I have to admit, the surrounding tables have turned so silent that a whisper wouldn’t cut it. Janey will be proud if I tell her about this. ‘Women can have cocks too,’ I say. ‘It isn’t about what bits you have.’

  He looks terrified, stunned, as he shakes his head slowly. ‘You’re not,’ he says, more quietly now. ‘Even if you don’t want me anymore … you can’t. You’re not. Not you.’

  ‘For someone who says he’s in love with me,’ I say, ‘you have a funny habit of refusing to acknowledge me.’

  ‘Debsie, I’m sorry, but listen to me for a moment –’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ I say. ‘Why should I care?’

  And I still feel his eyes on me as I collect my handbag and stride from the room, with the whole world watching.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Give a Queen a Stiletto

  Saturday, 24 March

  12.30 p.m.

  Dear Kitten,

  Last night, after I stormed out on my date with Henry, I came straight home and did two things. The first was to bin the birds of paradise he sent me. The second was to call Glads for a friendly ear.

  ‘Bigoted bastard,’ she tells me, when I’ve given her the spiel.

  ‘He’s just defensive,’ I tell her. ‘What puzzles him most is that I always seemed into his cock!’

  ‘Oh, the ego!’ Gladys snorts. I do too.

  ‘Mind you,’ she says, once we’re both done with laughing. ‘A lot of men think it’s all about that. And it isn’t. It really isn’t.’ She tells me how her new man, Marco, isn’t very well hung at all. Then she adds that what he does with his hands and mouth is beyond compare. ‘Plus his accent!’ she gushes. ‘And he’s so intelligentsia that, when he rails against Milgram’s electric shock technique, I end up jumping his bones.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘And you,’ she says, ‘you’re a sexually political beast! Coming out in front of all those people! You’re rebellious, Debs. I didn’t know you had it in you.’

  I don’t know how to take that last bit. I mean, of course I have it in me to rebel! All the same, when I try and think of an instance, I can’t. Glads is right. This is my first rebellious move. And at the thought my lips spring into a smile.

  Then, this morning, when I notice Janey isn’t up, I consider waking her. But I decide I should trust her. She’ll be at Pussyfoot Shoes by eight, just like she said she would. All the same, I put out her strawberries and spinach, ready for her to make her breakfast smoothie. I place the blender next to them, feeling all warm inside – I love doing things for Janey. It makes me glow.

  And maybe it’s rash, but I also leave her a note that says, ‘Have a nice breakfast and see you at eight. P. S. I have binned the flowers.’

  Now, bear with me, Kitten, because I need to explain what happened when Janey did arrive. See, head office had emailed me the usual printed directions for what a trial member of staff should wear, and I’d forwarded them to Janey. Basically, Pussyfoot Shoes stipulate: for men, a pair of black trousers with a crisp white shirt and tie, and, for women, a flared pink knee-length skirt with a plain white top.

  Does Janey keep to these instructions? Well, frankly, it’s hard to say. Because when she arrives at the shop, bang on the dot of 8 a.m., she’s wearing a pair of black trousers, a crisp white shirt and a long silver-and-black-striped tie. A tie, Kitten! A swankier one than Henry would ever wear – more Guy’s taste, I’m guessing. But, my God, the girl looks far hotter than those men ever could. On her head is a flat-peaked cap, and on her feet a pair of black pointy lace-ups. And her eyes are a defiant blue as she stands in front of me. Her head is cocked and she has one hand on her shoulder, like a character from a gender-bending musical. There’s a twitch of a smile at the edge of her lips and a brightness in her eyes. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘how do I brush up?’

  ‘Um, wow,’ I say, running a hand through my hair. I gaze at her for a moment, trying to fight my urge to grab her tie and yank her towards me, before swooping my lips to hers. The more I drink her in, the damper I feel between my legs. Oh, my God, Kitten, she’s deliciously distracting! I picture her lying sideways along my double bed, naked except for her cap, her tie, and a pair of black lacy briefs. The tie is draped across her lower breast, but her other is totally naked, with its hard, rosy nipple just begging for my lips.

  ‘Well?’ she says, giving me a devilish look. She leans against the doorpost, like a guy who’s coming on to me. ‘Do I look dapper, or what?’

  ‘You look incredible,’ I say. I reach out and run her tie through my fingers. It’s warm from the heat of her body. Half of me wants to kiss her, while the other half wants to take her over my knee and spank her, hearing her gasp with pleasure every time she feels my palm.

  Christ on a crumpet, what am I thinking? I glance up and down the street to see if anyone saw us, and once I know the coast is clear I tell her to come inside. Then I explain my concerns about her get-up. For one, ‘Crabby Carol’ the Area Manager will be coming this afternoon, and she won’t take kindly to gender-bending. Also, how will our customers react?

  ‘Well,’ says Janey, ‘I could take off the tie.’ She cocks a sexy eyebrow. ‘But it’d be a shame, don’t you think?’

  ‘Janey, love,’
I say. ‘We’re here to make money, not political points.’

  ‘I did it for you,’ says Janey, standing so close that I can feel her breath. (Dear God, Kitten! She smells of strawberries!) ‘You threw the flowers away. So I thought I’d get all queer in celebration. After all, I finished with Lil, last night.’

  Oh, joy! ‘And, as of yesterday, I’m finished with Guy,’ I say, beaming away.

  ‘Really?’ Her whole face lights up and she claps her hands like a birthday girl. ‘I thought you went out on a date last night.’

  ‘No,’ I say. And I decide not to mention my dinner with Henry. What good would it do anyway?

  We look at one another, smiling, for an awkwardly long time. At last I say, ‘This is all wonderful. But this is business, love, OK?’

  That makes Janey’s look go sour. ‘I’m wearing what it says in the guidelines you sent me. I mean, I was impressed that they didn’t mention gender.’

  I think for a second. But it’s hard to think when the woman of your dreams is:

  a) single for the first time since you both met;

  b) looking so incredibly hot;

  c) gazing at you with such angry passion that you wonder if she’s going to jump your bones;

  d) still looking so incredibly hot.

  Then suddenly, I’m thinking: I’m in love and lust with a twenty-three-year-old woman; last night, I told my ex-husband and half a busy restaurant that I was a dyke; and I’m becoming a sexual radical. Is that a recipe for conventional clothing? I think not.

  So I say, ‘All right. We’ll let it ride this morning and I’ll ask you to take off the tie by noon. Then, at four, when the Area Manager turns up, you’ll be safe as houses.’

  Janey gives a sigh and stares down at her hands. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Thanks.’

  And I feel like a party pooper.

  But here’s the funny bit. The customers love her!

  Young women clip along in brand-new shoes and flirt with her, asking if their bum looks good, giving her moon eyes as she unpacks shoes from tissue. A smart, older woman, who’s dripping in silver jewellery, says that Janey reminds her of her lesbian daughter. (‘I’ll be coming back here more often,’ she says. ‘We should see more smart women like you dressing in shirts and ties.’) A girl with long red curls held back by black hair combs asks for seven pairs of shoes to try. Seven! And Janey brings them so willingly and is so absorbed in choosing which pairs suit her customer that she ends up kneeling on the floor to get a closer look. I tell her not to do this, of course. Kneeling like nuns isn’t our style! But the girl buys two of the seven pairs and seems delighted with Janey.