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coat and put his arms around her and I flashed back to all the times he’d wrapped me in his arms and said, “God, I love you, Lola, I can’t live without you.”
    But clearly he had lived without me. There he was, standing right in front of me, living, breathing and getting on with life without me…and loving someone else.
    It was all so horribly wrong. And then I did something I have never done in public, I began to cry.
    â€œI think you might need a drink, old thing,” Charlie said, interrupting my hell.
    I wiped my errant tears away and pulled myself together. “No, honestly, I’m fine. Just premenstrual something-or-other. It’s been a long night,” I assured him in my CCC voice.
    Charlie put his arm around me and pulled me in for a hug as we watched Richard and the blonde climb into a cab and disappear into the night.
    â€œMy car is probably here now, isn’t it, Charlie?” I asked crisply, to show I was so over Richard.
    I don’t know what—if anything—Charlie said, but somehow he must have put me into the car, because the next thing I remember was driving past Selfridges thinking of all the good times Richard and I had shared. Because there were good times. You don’t marry a man and agree to share your life, your body, your secrets, your finances without there being good times.
    Richard and me, we’d had our good times. I was a fool to throw it away according to Kitty. Memories of the two of us cuddling up in bed on cold winter weekend mornings with the newspapers. Newspapers that were more often than not abandoned in favor of delicious sex—at least far more delicious than the sex I’d been having lately with the stream of “boyfriends” I picked up and dumped like…well, a bit like Charlie dumps his greyhound girlfriends, really.
    The familiarity of Richard’s body, his touch, his smell, all came flooding back to me as the taxi finally pulled up outside my flat on Grosvenor Street.
    Once back in the microscopic confines of my Mayfair flat (only marginally bigger than my cupboard-cum-office affair at work) I tried to shrug off my nostalgia by reminding myself that I was a quirky single, and tried to put all thoughts of Richard from my mind. I deposited Jean in front of the television to watch the news. She’s got a thing about keeping up with daily events, Sky News being her favorite.
    I set about getting dressed for my evening out with the girls. First choice, Earl jeans, sling-backs and my latest Top Shop tighter-than-tight T-shirt—a girl has to make the most of her C-cups, as Clemmie is forever reminding me.
    â€œOh bugger!” I cursed, doing a practice Mick Jagger strut in front of the mirror. I turned to Jean for her opinion but she was engrossed in a story about an accident on the M4 motorway. I threw my wardrobe over the bed and changed and rechanged and changed again. I settled on my oldest pair of Levi jeans with the worn holes in the knee and tight T-shirt. This time I wrapped a big green Voyage belt around my hips—the one with the diamante green V on the buckle. V as in very, very, cool.
    By this time I was running late for the girls, so I opted for rock-chick glam hair, which is an exotic way of saying I couldn’t be shagged blow-drying it straight. So with my hair tumbling down my back in an unruly cascade of curls, I slapped on some mascara and lip gloss, slipped on my impossibly high Gina sling-backs that Charlie had given me for my last birthday (and which added four and a half inches to my height of five foot five). Finally I grabbed my latest little favorite clutch—the one I bought myself for a tenner at H & M, crammed it with my makeup, slipped my mobile down my cleavage and grabbed my keys.
    â€œDon’t worry, Jean, I won’t be late tonight,” I promised, about to scoop her up for a cuddle, but she hopped away huffily, her focus firmly on the television. Apart