Altar Ego by Kathy Lette Page A

asked …’
    ‘What do you need? A written invitation? Jesus!’
    ‘Oh, well, while we’re at it, what else is bothering you sexually? Why not make a list!’
    ‘Well, okay.’
    ‘I was joking!’
    ‘Your approach to sex could be a little more, um, spontaneous. It’s the same approach you have to deleafing the gutters, a task you dutifully undertake, say, once every other week.’
    ‘The spontaneity has
not
gone out of … What about when we had sex in Vivian and Simon’s house? When we went over to feed the cat?’
    ‘Julian. You hung up your clothes first. You don’t talk enough in bed either.’
    ‘I’m a lawyer. If I talk I have to charge.’
    ‘There you go. Why do you have to relate everything back to work? You’ll soon have me plea bargaining for foreplay …’
    ‘Good idea. Just outline your sexual requirements on a yellow legal pad, will you, and I’ll take them under advisement.’
    There was a beat while we watched the wipers cha-cha across the windshield, before we both spluttered into laughter. Julian was laughing so hard he had to pull over. When he calmed down, he laid his warm, dry hand on top of mine.
    ‘I love you so much, Becky. I love your chutzpah, your cheek. Your wit … Not to mention the best legs in London.’
    The tidal wave of guilt I’d been damning engulfed me in one giant roar. I seized his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Jules. I’m a vile, loathsome excrescence. I belong on the bottom of somebody’s shoe … I’ve been behaving like Betty Davis on crack. I can’t believe you can still love me after all the …’
    ‘I’d do anything for you, Beck, you know that … Well, anything which doesn’t involve sex-change operations in Thailand.’
    I squeezed his hand. ‘Let’s go away. This weekend. And just fuck our brains out. Like we used to. And in between, we can talk everything through.’
    Julian winced. ‘I can’t. Client dinner. Saturday night. Actually, I was hoping you’d come with me …’
    I groaned loudly. ‘Oh no, not the Wife Thing.’
    ‘Please, Becky.’ He leant over. The kiss he gave me was sultry and succulent. ‘There,’ he said, eventually, resurfacing for air. ‘Can a vibrator do
that
?’ How about some “heavy petting”?’ he suggested wryly.
    ‘I think I’ve finally solved one of life’s great mysteries, namely, why men prefer to have sex in cars,’ I said, shedding clothes. ‘Because objects in the rear-view mirror always appear larger than they actually are, right?’
    Julian laughed, unbuckling. The Man Who Took Women’s Breath Away, I sighed inwardly, would not
ever
need to make love in a car.
    When the car phone rang seconds later, we both jumped. My mother’s t-glottalling assaulted our eardrums over the loudspeaker. I wouldn’t have picked up except that it was the first time we’d spoken since my non-wedding day.
    ‘So, Anouska got ’erself a bloke then, did she? Why can’t I ’ave a daugh’er like ’er … Instead of a thirty-two-year-old spinster.’
    ‘Oh Mum. Why do I have to be thirty-two years
old
? Why can’t I be thirty-two years
young
?’
    ‘Ya ’aven’t gorn and met someone else, ’ave ya?’
    I dashed thoughts of my one-night stand from my mind. Well, one-lick stand, really. I also made a vow never ever to breathe a word about Zack to anybody. I didn’t understand what I’d done myself, so how could I expect anyone else to? Having so recently jilted Julian at the altar – an act that put me on a par with, I dunno, a puppy vivisectionist – a full carnal confession was not exactly going to win me any points, not even with my girlfriends. Besides if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s the definition of a secret: something your girlfriends tell everyone not to tell anyone.
    ‘Can’t ’old me ’ead up in public.’ This from a woman whose only claim to fame is winning every wet T-shirt competition for Seniors the length and breadth of the Costa del Sol. ‘I’m tha(t) bi(tt)er abou(t)