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rekindle things with him were unlikely to get a great reception from her. She never liked Richard…well, nor did Clemmie…but Elizabeth was the most convincing when it came to talking me out of things. And I didn’t want to be talked out of this.
    â€œLook, Clemmie, I really need your help, I have this dilemma, see,” I explained.
    â€œOh well, if there’s anything I can do. Is it a work thing?”
    â€œNo, it’s a love thing, actually. I think I want to get back with Richard.”
    She giggled her little-girl giggle, and even though I normally found her giggle adorable, I told her I didn’t see what she found so funny.
    â€œSorry, I was just thinking of Kitty and Martin, you know, married, divorced, married, divorced and so on. Bit like Henry VIII.”
    â€œWithout the beheadings,” I reminded her. “And Richard and I were only married once. ”
    She stared at me with her big blue eyes. “You’re serious, then.”
    â€œYeah, I think I am.”
    â€œBut where did this come from? I don’t understand. You’ve never spoken about him before then suddenly you see him with his girlfriend and you’re having doubts. Why?”
    â€œYes,” I told her as our coffees were delivered to our table by a grumpy girl with a face like a smacked bottom. I gave her my gracious grin—the one that has been perfected on a million graceless patrons at Posh House who live to complain about everything from the ceiling paintings and the brightness of the chandeliers, to the size or number of bubbles in their Cristal champagne. Yes, some people actually measure and count them; it seems to be an increasinglypopular pastime—bubble counting. Tiffany’s will probably bring out a bubble caliper next Christmas.
    I could tell that the smacked-bottom-faced girl still hated us, but I think she was thrown by my grace as she eventually sloped off.
    â€œSo, Richard?” Clemmie repeated, twirling one of her ringlets in her fingers, her blue saucer eyes wide with shock.
    â€œYes, Richard. Why is that so surprising…we were married once, after all.”
    â€œOh, Lolly, you are nuts. Have you told Elizabeth?”
    â€œNo. I know what she’ll say, but I’m genuinely worried.” I lowered my voice to signify the seriousness of the matter. “I mean, what if I did the wrong thing in divorcing him?”
    She looked stunned. “But it wasn’t just you, was it? It was a mutual thing.”
    â€œMmm. I’m not so sure,” I mused as I stirred the froth into my coffee. I hate getting that mustache thing when I drink cappuccinos, only I’d rather have cappuccinos than lattes because they look so luxurious, like clouds you can make go away.
    â€œWhat do you mean you’re not sure? You signed papers, you employed solicitors. We had numerous ‘am I doing the right thing divorcing Richard?’ dirty martini parties, just so you could be totally sure. I thought we were all going to die of liver failure by the time you finally decided it was what you really, really, really wanted.” She was mocking me now, not taking it seriously the way I had hoped she would. She was saying all the things I knew Elizabeth would say and it was annoying me deeply.
    â€œBut that’s just it. Maybe the reason I agonized over my decision so much was because I wasn’t sure. I’m not sure now because I don’t think I was sure then either.” Then againmaybe I’m never sure about big decisions involving my personal life.
    I remember the first time I was given the decision of my new school shoes. “Buckles or laces?” Martin kept asking me—he and Kitty were heading toward their first divorce at the time. I’ll never forget the pressure of it all. Would the other girls laugh if I wore buckle shoes? Would they think I was incapable of tying my shoelaces? But then again, the buckles were so pretty, they were