Sex with the Ex

by Tyne O’Connell

  “Ah, Lola, darling,” Michael said, air kissing me with trademark grandeur. “This is for you,” he said, passing a copy of the book into my hands. And here’s a copy for dear Jean.”

  “Secret Passage to the Past,” I read.

  “Fascinating,” he declared, grandly closing his hands around my own. “Darling, you must read it. This magical house is a history of gorgeousness!” he declared, kissing the nape of my neck and inhaling me. “Like you, dearest one. Like you.”

  “Definitely,” I assured him, flicking through the pages and scanning the old photographs of Posh House—or rather Posche House, as it was then known. There were hand-written letters composed by the residents, and then a photograph of the secret passage itself. I recognized it immediately as the deep orange passage that led to Charlie’s office, and pointed it out to Michael. “So, Lady Posche used to smuggle her lover up these stairs?”

  “The very same, darling. And you, my dear, are the Henrietta Posche of contemporary London!” he declared, stroking my cheek seductively.

  “I’m definitely reading it, then,” I assured him as we kissed goodbye, and for a moment I felt all was right with the world, so I took a break and wandered upstairs to see what Jean was up to.

  I’d left her in the care of the drawing-room staff. It was only a Tuesday night and fairly quiet. “Carlos, darling, where’s Jean?” I asked one of the staff rushing past with a tray of drinks.

  “Jean, she is with that man over there.” He pointed to one of the corner sofas where a man and a woman were snuggled with their backs to us.

  “Is she okay?” I asked in terror, the image of her humping her way through London’s polite society flashing through my mind.

  “Oh yes, he ask if he can hold her.”

  “All right, darling?” asked Faisel, the manager of the drawing room, as he wrapped me in an affectionate hug.

  “I’m okay, just worried about Jean getting up to mischief.”

  “She’s fine, sweetheart. She’s with what’s-his-name, your ex. He’s had a few by the look of him.” He laughed his trademark dirty laugh as I turned to the sofa and took in the scene more carefully. Dark hair, Richard, sitting beside, blonde hair—Sally!

  “Faisel, could you do me a massive favor and bring Jean back over to me?”

  “Sure thing, gorgeous,” he replied, and then as if grasping my discomfort, he gave me cuddle. “You really okay, babe?”

  “Yes, fine, just pissed off that he’s here, really.” Which was a bit unreasonable as he was a member of the club with every right to be here if he so wanted. Still, after recent events, he had a nerve.

  “You wait here, I’ll go fetch her.”

  I watched from the bar area as Faisel spoke to the couple. He picked up Jean, and then Richard turned around and our eyes met and in that look that passed between us we both gave ourselves away; everything was said.

  I was still in love with him and he was still in pain.

  Leggy Blonde turned, too, but after a brief searchlight gaze, she turned her back on me. Richard didn’t turn back, though, and I didn’t look away until Faisel placed Jean in my arms.

  I went back to the launch using the service stairs to give myself time to pull myself together. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I hugged Jean to my beating heart. I needed to splash my face with water. I needed to call Elizabeth. I needed to take deep breaths.

  I passed Charlie coming up the stairs.

  “Good, I was looking for you.”

  “Well, you’ve discovered me.”

  “Listen, would you join me for a glass of cordial? The event seems to be going splendidly and I wanted to discuss a few things with you.”

  “Perfect,” I replied as if I wasn’t in the least bit conflicted or on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

  Charlie pushed against a curve in the wall that magically opened onto the dimly lit secret staircase, which according to Michael, Lady Henrietta Posche had used to smuggle in her lover. Now painted a shade of Georgian orange, its wooden stairs were worn from the footfalls of centuries.

  It was because of the secret passage that Charlie chose the onetime bedchamber of Lady Posche as his office. He said he loved the idea of all those illicit comings and goings, said it made going over the accounts seem more exotic.

  “Michael gave me a copy of his book.”

  “You should read it,” he told me.

  “Of course I will.”

  “Some of the letters were found here in this room by the builders during the renovation.”

  “How amazing,” I told him as I looked about, and tried to envisage the room as it was in the eighteenth century. Presently, it looked like a BBC period-drama set, book-lined, crystal-chandeliered… In fact, apart from the plasma screen over the fireplace tuned to Sky News Extra (for Jean), it was like walking into another time zone.

  “You know, if these walls could talk we could sell tickets,” he mused as he carefully eased the cork off a bottle of Dom. We both settled on the leather chesterfield with Jean between us.

  “So you thumped the ex?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Hard?”

  I took a sip of my champagne, smiling teasingly over my glass at Charlie. “I thought I’d broken my hand.”

  “Shocked, was he?”

  “I didn’t wait to find out.” I smiled faux proudly.

  Charlie raised one eyebrow. “So the candle of love has finally been snuffed?”

  “The fire of passion utterly extinguished.”

  We both took a long sip of our cordial while taking an even longer look at one another. I was wondering if Charlie was about to give me a raise or a man-to-girl talk, so I preempted him by asking, “So is this one those talks where you give me a raise?” I was only half joking.

  “I suppose it should be, shouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “But no. I’m just wondering if you slapped Richard to mark the end of something or whether there’s someone else?”

  “I slapped him because he’s an arse and I should have slapped him years ago.”

  “So, not because he’s seeing someone else?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, then. Hold your glass like a poem!”

  “What?”

  “It’s the name of a book Lady Henrietta Posche wrote.”

  “Oh.” I nodded absentmindedly. Charlie blushed, but that was probably because during our eye-to-eye contact, Jean Harlot, the little slapper, had clambered onto his lap and was snuffling his…well, let’s just say her behavior was highly inappropriate.

  “He’s in the house tonight, you know,” he remarked as I lifted my shameful pet off him and held her above my nose so that I could give her a jolly good ticking off. “Now, madam, that is not the way a lady treats a man.” I didn’t want to discuss Richard anymore.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” laughed Charlie. “Depends on who the lady is.”

  “Charlie,” I scolded. “You’re sounding quite pervy.”

  After that, we both seemed to relax and we talked generally, about the club and ideas he had for its expansion. He was thinking of buying the house next door and knocking through so we could have a pool. I suggested a few ways we could launch the idea and raise more funds. Soon we were toasting his dreams with our second glass of champagne and giggling stupidly at the maddest things, which was very naughty as I was still officially meant to be working.

  “I’d better take Jean off for a last check of the launch,” I said as I stood to leave. “I’m meeting the girls at the Met. Josie’s bringing her husband. Actually, why don’t you join us,” I invited. “Emmanuel’s joining us, so we’ll need someone to amuse him.”

  “Do you know, if that’s a serious offer I just might. I feel like I never get to escape this place sometimes.”

  “The girls would love it,” I told him truthfully. “Maybe you could pull Clemmie or Elizabeth?” I suggested. “They both fancy you like mad.” I know it was very unprofession
al of me suggesting that my boss shag my girlfriends, but we both knew I was sort of joking.

  “Best not to mix business with pleasure,” he told me sternly.

  I giggled so hard I fell into him and it was definitely just the “cordial” that had gone straight to my head, but I actually thought Charlie was about to kiss me and I was almost ready to kiss him back. Poor Charlie, he must have been horrified, because he went bright red, and once we’d untangled ourselves he started fussing with a cigar box.

  “Erm, so I’ll see you there,” I told him, stroking Jean’s ears, not wanting him to see me blushing.

  “In about an hour, okay?”

  “Right ho,” I replied and scurried off.

  Talk about embarrassing! I slipped through the secret panel and rushed down the stairs, and bam, slammed straight into Richard.

  “Shit!” I exclaimed, because it’s very humiliating to slam into a man you’ve just slapped across the face a mere few hours previous.

  I muffled an apology, but Richard just looked at me in a forlorn sort of way and then said, “Lolly?”

  The last time he’d said Lolly I’d slugged him, but now I wanted to fall into his embrace and rest my fuzzy muddled head on his shoulder. Not that I did, of course; apart from anything else, Jean was wriggling about in my arms.

  “Hey, Jean Harlot, my baby!” With that, he took her in his arms and scratched her ears as if he did it every day. He had beautiful long tapered fingers and I was reminded of the marvelous things he’d done to my body with them only last Friday.

  Without thinking, the words just came out of my mouth. “Make her go away!”

  “Sorry? I was just giving her a stroke.” He looked as if I’d just slapped him again.

  “I’m not talking about Jean. Make her go away. Drop her off and come to mine.”

  “But I can’t, she’s moved in, Lola. I’ve asked her to marry me,” he explained almost pleadingly. “Lolly, I’m sorry, but I do love you, I always will, but we can’t…we can’t go back.”

  Now it was me being slapped across the face. A slap of reality. Richard, for all his flaws and mistakes, was right. I took Jean from his arms. “Well, make sure you never meet up with me again,” I told him, holding back a sob. “I mean it, Richard. I can’t deal with this bumping into you all the time.”

  “Lolly, don’t.”

  Tears began to fall down my cheeks. “I mean it, Richard,” I repeated.

  “Oh, Lolly,” he sighed, pulling me into his chest and stroking my hair. “Please, Lolly, you know we can’t go back to what we had, not really.” He was right, we both had to turn around and walk away, go forward into the future and stop looking back, but I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear the familiar comfort of having Richard’s arms around me. I couldn’t walk away when all I could think of lately was him and all the good times we’d had. The vows we’d made seemed as real and binding now as they did then. I wanted what we had back. I didn’t want to know about Sally, I didn’t want to know about sensible or about right and wrong. I wanted Sally to go away, to cease to exist so that I could have Richard back.

  “Why can’t we go back?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “Oh, Lolly,”

  “Why, Richard. I want you back. Make her go away.”

  ten

  If your life is to be a poem of love, you must not disrupt the verse with doubt or vacillations.

  Whether making love, riding in a carriage, instructing a servant, organizing a party, greeting a guest or discussing politics, every movement, every action, every word, should be in homage to that love.

  I cannot but feel the touch of my lover’s lips on each word that comes from my mouth, whether my conversation be with a parlor maid or my very own true love…

  Extract from Hold Your Glass Like a Poem by Lady Henrietta Posche

  It was a bold gambit but I made a pact with my conscience. If Richard dumped Leggy Blonde and came to me, it meant we were meant to be together, like Anthony and Cleopatra, like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, like, well…like Kitty and Martin. If he didn’t come then fine…all this madness of late could stop.

  I knew, though, in the marrow of my bones, that he’d come.

  I knew because underneath my mad obsession with Richard, I knew Richard…maybe even better than I knew myself. He would have to come, I’d thrown down a gauntlet and Richard had always been one to take on a challenge. I was so sure he’d come, I had even dressed Jean in her darling brown Hermés ribbon that really set off her eyes.

  I slipped into my sexiest underwear, which was so cool the designer still didn’t have a supplier. She was a member of Posh House and all her pieces were decorated with real gemstones, like garnets and rose quartz, which meant it was almost impossible to wash them but they looked divine. Mostly I had them hanging on my bedroom wall with pegs—like an art installation. But tonight I dusted them off—I was to be the work of art.

  I took a bottle of Dom champagne out of my mini-fridge, which doubled as my cosmetics cabinet, full as it was of nail varnish and moisturizers. Apart from champagne, I didn’t keep food or drink in my flat, there simply wasn’t the space. I’d even converted my kitchen cupboard into bookshelves, and I placed Jean’s copy of Secret Passage to the Past on it, because she wasn’t a great fan of biography really. I placed the copy dedicated to me beside my bed, along with the opened bottle of Dom. Then I lit a tuberose candle and inserted the latest Dido CD into my laptop. I was always meaning to buy a stereo, but when you live a nocturnal life, you never seem to find the time to do that sort of shopping.

  The buzzer went and I hastily made my bed as I heard the lift come up. Richard. He looked drained when I opened the door, but as I wrapped my arms around him and led him through to my bedroom, he returned my kisses with equal fervor.

  And in those kisses I knew the truth: Leggy Blonde had lost and I had won. She might have the legs and looks of a model, but they were the looks and legs of a loser. He had chosen me, a girl of ordinary height, attractive enough though definitely no model—the outsider perhaps, but the winner. The only disappointment was that my prize was slightly damaged from the battle. After sex, Richard rolled off me and groaned. Not a groan of ecstasy but a groan of pain, of problems pushed aside now back and demanding to be dealt with.

  I turned away and pulled the sheet around me. Not even the sweet little scratching sounds of Jean hopping into the room could make reality any less miserable in that postcoital moment.

  He said he couldn’t stay the night.

  I said he could.

  He kissed me before falling back down against the pillows. Then my phone rang.

  “Lola! What happened to you?” It was Elizabeth.

  “Oh shit, I forgot, I was soooo knackered after work I just came home and fell asleep,” I lied. “I’m sorry, I should have called.” I yawned. “How’s it going anyway, what’s the DJ like?” I climbed out of bed and took the phone into the living room.

  “The DJ’s fine, but listen, Charlie’s here, he seemed rattled that you didn’t come. Slip on your heels and run down now.”

  “I don’t know, Elizabeth, I don’t really feel like going out, I think I need a night in.”

  She laughed. “That’ll be the day. But not tonight. Come on, we have to celebrate your afternoon of violent assault. We’ve ordered champagne, everyone’s here. Wait there, Clemmie wants a word.”

  “Lola, get down here now! Charlie’s here.”

  “Well, I’m sure you and the girls can entertain him. The truth is,” I lied, “I’m not sure I’m up for anything tonight, gem, I’m feeling a bit crap actually.”

  “He’s here with some gorgeous blond creature, as it happens,” she teased, whispering. “I always thought you should have a fling with Charlie.”

  “Nice!” I replied. “Especially as it sounds like he’s with someone.”

  “You could make mincemeat of her, Lola, you know these thoroughbreds don’t have the staying power. Besides, girl or no girl, he
really wanted to see you tonight. Sashay on down, your glass awaits you, darling.”

  As I hung up the phone, Richard walked out in his trousers.

  “You’re not leaving?” I was aware of the slight whine in my voice.

  “I can’t do this, Lola,” he stated simply, and I thought how he looked like a dog that’s been beaten, not a man who had just been made love to. “We can’t do this, Lola. You know that.”

  So I said goodbye, at a loss for anything else to say.

  “I do love you,” he told me as he was leaving. “I don’t want to lose you in my life…I just can’t…” His voice trailed off as I shut the door.

  I didn’t want to hear anything beyond the “I love you” part. The rest was just verbiage. So I ignored the doubts, the conflict, the nagging voices of doom in my head, the traces of a line of cocaine I later found left on the cistern of my loo, and clung to that. He loved me. I was like the proverbial child with her hands over her eyes, chanting, “If I can’t see the monster, it’s not there.”

  All that mattered was he loved me.

  By the time I joined the others, Charlie and his gorgeous blonde had already left. I felt bad but I justified my behavior by telling myself that it had only been a suggestion that he join us at the Met, a suggestion made so that he could feel flattered and flirt with the girls. I mean, Charlie and I spent enough time together without socializing outside of work.

  The girls saw it differently. “You invited him down, you should have been here.”

  There was no point hiding it, so I told them what had happened.

  “You told him what?” Clemmie asked in disgust.

  “To make her go away,” I repeated as if it was the most marvelously daring thing to say in the world.

  Even Emmanuel looked appalled.

  “But the point is, don’t you see, he did!” Why were they being so obtuse. Couldn’t they grasp the point here: Richard had chosen me over her.

  Elizabeth looked into my eyes. “The point is, Lola, he did a line, shagged you and probably did another line and left…back to shag her.”