‘Fine,’ I say, without committing. ‘Good food. Good company. My Versace dress stole the show. Crap sex.’
Josh’s charming, confident laugh rings around the park. ‘Your problem is that you are from Mars and you keep meeting men from Venus.’
I grin. ‘I just wanted some good sex to round the evening off but for all my fascination with other people’s sex lives right now, mine is going through a rough patch. I simply can’t conjure up the energy. Of course I’m still sleeping with men but it’s becoming tedious. For example, this morning I just wanted to slip away. I didn’t need a post mortem, but Ben wanted to be all twenty-first century about our encounter. He wanted to discuss what it meant. I told him it meant nothing.’
Issie gasps. ‘Why did you say that?’
‘Because it’s true,’ I state simply.
‘It is impossible to sleep with a stranger and not risk suffering or inflicting serious emotional carnage. Casual sex is what we enter into, not what we come out of,’ Issie chides.
I blame Josh for this outburst. He gave Issie the book Responsibility for Yourself Reconciliation with Others for Christmas. Apparently it was intended for me, and the book Women Who Love Too Much was meant for Issie. He got the tags mixed up. I thought it was hilarious.
‘But I do come out unscathed, without a fractured heart and absolutely free of bitter recriminations,’ I point out to Issie.
‘Do the men you sleep with?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say without faltering.
Issie and Josh both draw to a dramatic halt and glare at me.
‘Yes,’ I insist and I try not to think of Ben’s hurt look this morning or the pathetic messages Joe keeps leaving on my answering machine or the numerous Christmas cards that I received from men suggesting that we could ‘do it again some time’. Problem is I can rarely remember doing it the first time. My conquests are a homogenous blur.
‘Well, in your case there are two options. Either you are internalizing the damage or you are an animal. I know you are not an animal.’ Issie is suddenly serious and she lets go of Josh’s arm and runs to hug me.
Poor Issie. This constant search for something deep and meaningful in me is exhausting. Why can’t she just accept me for what I am? Someone led by hedonism, eroticism and base animal instincts. I say nothing until at last her face settles into sad acceptance. Weary of fighting with me, she grudgingly laughs, ‘Oh, OK, you are horrid.’
We all go back to my flat. Josh immediately goes into the kitchen to see what he can rustle up. My fridge is surprisingly well stocked. This is because my mum has a key and must have popped round today. There are fresh vegetables, leftover turkey and a load of mince pies. She’s also left a small Christmas cake on the coffee table. Josh starts to chop vegetables and Issie opens some wine whilst I call my mum to thank her and wish her a Happy New Year. By the time I get off the phone, Josh has made a huge pan of thick vegetable soup. We sit with bowls on our laps in front of the TV.
‘Didn’t your mum want to come round?’ asks Josh.
‘No. I invited her but she said that she and some neighbour or other are going to put their feet up in front of the TV.’
‘Bob?’ offers Issie.
‘Could be.’ I shrug. Sometimes it seems as though Issie knows more about my mother’s life than I do.
It’s a big night for me. The wedding episode of Sex with an Ex is playing out as an hour special. Half an hour on the wedding, then half an hour on the usual programme. The fact that I secured an hour spot on primetime TV on New Year’s Day is hugely exciting. For all Issie and Josh have made it quite clear that they don’t approve of the programme (which I think is hypocritical of Josh, considering his behaviour was inspirational to the original concept), they both have to admit that it is compelling. Neither of them has missed a show.
‘Why is she wearing a leopard-skin tracksuit?’ Issie asks.
‘It goes with her hair,’ notes Josh. ‘Why do they do it at all?’ he adds incredulously.
‘Fame,’ I assert happily. ‘It’s compelling.’
‘She’s awful,’ says Issie, ‘she keeps clapping herself. Why does she do that?’
‘Too much orange squash as a kid,’ I offer.
The scene cuts to some moody music, something that builds