‘So staid and boring, Penny. Where’s your sense of adventure?’ I bite back a burgeoning smile. Sex in the kitchen seems pretty adventurous, not that I can tell her about any of it. ‘And stuff supper. We’re hitting a club.’
‘Can it be a club with beds?’ I ask. ‘I wouldn’t even mind if it’s a sex club. So long as the sheets are clean, and I have a key to lock myself in the room.’
‘You would abandon me in a sex club? And you call yourself a friend,’ she chastises, picking up her glass and smiling around the small straw.
‘You could ring Tim. He might be up for a roll around a bed with more DNA than a sperm bank.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asks sharply. The answer is, not what she’s thinking.
‘You’re always telling me you and Tim screw like bunnies, and that you’re adventurous and stuff.’
‘Yeah, we do have a great sex life,’ she agrees, her expression lightening. It looks like the inquisition is averted. I hope the same can be said for the later vodka-induced, tear-stained questioning.Why? Why doesn’t he want me to live with him?
I’m not the kind of woman who has the answers. If I was, maybe I’d have seen my own fiancé was about to leave me. Good riddance, I say now. But two months ago, I was crying a different tune.
And now? Now I’m having casual sex. Go figure!
‘I think your sex life is a key indicator of how strong your relationship is.’
‘Mel.’ I send her a narrow-eyed look. ‘You haven’t been thinking about you and Tim in terms of business marketing, have you? You know you can’t judge a relationship like it’s an organisation? Give it KPIs, strategic goals, and stuff.’
‘Why not? Big businesses measure performance and take initiatives to prevent issues and failures. So long as the take is quantitative rather than qualitative—’
‘You’re mad.’ I shake my head. ‘Human relationships can’t be judged like that.’
‘I disagree. And to my mind, if you’re in a long-term relationship and you’re not having sex, you’re doomed to fail.’
‘Hmm. That settles that then.’
Mel glances cautiously my way. ‘What settles what?’
‘Liam didn’t leave me because he needed a little freedom tofind himself.’I quarantine his awful statement with air-quotes. ‘According to you, he left because we weren’t having sex.’
‘What? Not at all?’
‘Occasionally.’ I find myself looking down at my wine glass.
‘How many times did you ...’ Mel makes an “O” with one hand but before she can complete the lewd gesture, I answer.
‘Not a lot. With work and the house, sometimes it could be weeks in between.’
‘Weeks,’ she repeats, not without incredulity.
‘Sometimes months.’ I shrug then realise I’ve had more sex the past two days than I had the last three months of my engagement.
‘I think couples who’ve been married for decades have more sex than that.’
‘Yes, okay.Harhar,’ I respond, thankful for the lack of light in the bar to spare my blushing.
‘In fact,’ she continues, beginning to giggle, ‘I’ll bet couples in nursing homes get it on more than you and Liam did.’
‘I’m pleased I’m keeping you amused.’
‘You always, babe. Whenever I’m having a bad day—when the new Louboutin line doesn’t arrive on time, or I can’t get the Stella McCartney must-have gym shorts in my size, I just think of you, working in your pyjamas and those terrible shoes—’
Theatre shoes!
‘—covered in birth gunk and baby poo.’
