Sex with the Ex by Tyne O’Connell Page B

litter box, and by four in the morning I was climbing the walls, having reorganized my entire wardrobe (trying Richard’s phone every half hour), lined up all my shoes, taken a Polaroid shot of each pair and glued it to the box. I’d always meant to do that even though I have never managed to put a pair of shoes back in their box in my life, preferring the more traditional strategy of throwing them in a heap in my wardrobe.
    Doubts began to grip me as the dawn light started to creep through my blinds, so I took Jean down to Berkeley Square for a run. Sitting on my usual seat, I tried Richard again. Eventually he’d have to get up for work, I told myself as weariness seeped through my bones. Then again, eventually I’d have to go to bed.

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    â€œFor God’s sake, do not complain that you do not see me, Hen. I believe I suffer not less in this matter than you, but ’tis not to be helped. You undo me by dreaming of how happy we might have been. Alas, how can you talk of defying fortune, for nobody lives without it, least of all you, Madam.”
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    A day after Henrietta received this letter from Edward, he arrived in her bedchamber at dawn, penniless, with the stench of dissipation all about his person. He claimed he was a victim of muggery. It is true that his haunts were plagued with skulduggery and dark deeds. Henrietta gave him laudanum for the pain and tended his wounds herself, keeping him in her room while pretending that she was ill so that suspicion would not be aroused by the servants.
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    She wrote to her sister, Elizabeth: “This madness is part of my love. He is so excellently good when he isinjured, Elizabeth, so gentle and obliging. If you could only see the way he looks upon me, ’tis as if he believes me an angel. I fear I may love him all the more at these times…”
    Â 
    Secret Passage to the Past:
A Biography of Lady Henrietta Posche
By Michael Carpendum

 
    R ichard finally called me on Monday night as I was fighting my way through the white light of the paparazzi lineup outside the launch party for a new jeweler on Old Bond Street. I’d left two messages on his mobile and one at his home and three at his work. I was covering all bases, so he’d probably worked out by now that there was no escape. I wanted answers…or rather I wanted confirmation of the answers I’d already made up in my head.
    â€œDid you not get my messages?” was his opening gambit.
    â€œLola…stand between Tamara and Niki!” the paparazzi yelled.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I told him calmly, one finger in my ear, a smile glued to my face. Niki arranged me in the center as the white light of a thousand flashbulbs exploded in my face. “I was upset, and I just deleted them all.”
    He exhaled. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”
    Niki and Tamara left me just inside the entrance, out ofthe glare of the press, told me they’d catch up with me inside while I listened to Richard’s long pause. Even above the noise of the throng I could feel the pain in his voice and my heart went out to him. “It’s not your fault she pitched up like that,” I told him in my most indignant tone, just to reassure him that I understood.
    â€œNo, I mean I’m sorry you didn’t listen to my messages. I mean, I should have said—”
    I cut in, determined to believe the explanation I’d concocted for him, “Waltzing in like that, unannounced. It just frightened the life out of me,” I told him. My learner wheels were off now, I was playing the role of supportive wife perfectly. “It wasn’t exactly ideal, and given the circumstances, the best thing I could do was leave you to you. Poor you, having to deal with her on your own.”
    â€œNo, that’s what I mean, Lola. Will you give me a chance—”
    I made it inside and took a glass of champagne off a tray. “I suppose you gave her a key so