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from anything else, she knows a lie when she hears one.

three
    Henrietta eventually agreed to marry Lord Posche when she was twenty-two after having failed to persuade her father to grant her permission to marry her lover, Lord Haversham. By this stage Lord Haversham was renowned for his gambling and drabbing in Shepherd Market, London. He had lost what money he had through gambling and the general skulduggery that was prevalent in this part of London at the time.
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    Her marriage to Lord Posche was not a loveless match, but she never completely gave up on her first love, Edward, Lord Haversham.
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    Secret Passage to the Past:
A Biography of Lady Henrietta Posche
By Michael Carpendum

 
    W ithin the hour I was at my usual red cozy booth at the Met Bar, a private members’ bar on Park Lane. Elizabeth, Clemmie and I usually meet there after work around midnight for a cocktail as it was licensed until three.
    Elizabeth and I had met when we studied English literature together at Bristol. Back when we’d both had dreams of running our own PR companies, a dream only Elizabeth had succeeded at making reality. She ran Quantum along with the irrepressible Clemmie. With Elizabeth’s brains and Clemmie’s connections, they owned the teenage-party scene, throwing everything from personal rich-kid parties to major teen balls.
    I suppose the reason people become friends is always in-definable, but in our case it had a lot to do with the dusk-to-dawn lifestyles we all shared. Every so often one of us would go off on one and bemoan our shadowy vampire existence, yet none of us has ever done anything to change it.I love the random madness of London at night and, even more, I adore the quiet stillness of the London dawn too much to miss it.
    â€œMy God, Lolly, I love your hair! What have you done to it?” asked Clemmie as she slid into the deep red half-circle booth. “It looks amazing!” she enthused, kissing both my cheeks.
    â€œCollege-slob hair?” Elizabeth suggested knowingly, refer-ring to our lazy hair days in college when we used to share a blow-dryer between five of us.
    â€œGot it in one,” I admitted, leaning over to kiss her as I called over one of our favorite gorgeous waiters. I didn’t mention the sighting of exes at first (although I was completely dying to!). Instead, I listened intently as Clemmie and Elizabeth explained how they had decided to spread their teen-scene wings into Europe.
    It took two watermelon daiquiris for my resolve to abandon me, and I finally told them of the scene I’d spied from behind the drinks station, taking care to conceal how seeing Richard again had churned me up. Soon we were coming up with a thousand more names for a gathering of exes and gradually I began to unwind. In fact, I must have unwound more than I planned, judging by the muddle of dark curls on the head on the pillow beside me the next morning.
    His body had that sweet sweaty post-sex smell that is so delicious on a man you’ve been loved up with for an age, but somehow is never the same on For One Night Only Guy. It just smells…well…sweaty.
    I watched his eyes as they began to flicker awake and tried to understand what force of nature or destiny had brought us together—apart from the tequila shots he was doing off my body at Soho House.
    We’d both dozed off about an hour ago after what can only be described as capital-letter SEX. We’d made love in every position in every nook and cranny of his Fulham terrace, which was decked out a bit like an expensively decorated squat—you know, all those boy’s toys everywhere?
    Giant plasma screen television with surround sound.
    Bang & Olufson sound system.
    Vintage pinball machines.
    Expensive black leather and chrome everything.
    Mess and chaos everywhere.
    All of it scrupulously dust free, though. Further evidence of the Ultimate London Bachelor Pad accessory—the daily! In his case, a gay