Free The Ex-Wives by Deborah Moggach

BlomfieldMansions flat was rented so she couldn’t get her claws on that. No, she had simply moved out, taking her designer clothes and her cookery books. Not even all of those. This was even more of a snub, of course. She was obviously far too preoccupied, too blithely happy, to bother about mere possessions. Too sexually sated to argue. Once the rows were over and the decision taken she had been rather kind, actually – more considerate and generous than she had ever been before. Nauseatingly condescending, in fact. Once she had actually asked: ‘You sure you’re going to be all right?’ Like a torturer bringing you a cup of tea after they had just been pulling out your toenails.
    He couldn’t involve Celeste in all this; it was far too sordid for her. Look at her now, munching her second Viennese slice! The resilience, the appetite! The miraculous possibility of renewal! His past was a ditch clogged with half-submerged debris and broken prams. She was a lotus flower, rising out of it, unfolding her petals one by one.
    â€˜Have I got cream on my chin?’ she asked anxiously.
    He shook his head; he couldn’t speak.
    â€˜What’re you looking at?’ she asked.
    â€˜Just you.’

Ten
    THE NEXT DAY , her day off, Celeste took the bus down to Soho. In their woollen gloves, her hands were clammy.
She lives above a pasta restaurant
. She felt nauseous yet excited, as if she were about to step onto a stage. She also felt furtive – a new sensation, this; one of the many new sensations that were assaulting her nowadays. This one wasn’t unpleasant, however; it was like a feather duster stroking her insides, heating her face and tingling her eardrums. As she neared her destination the buildings changed. They became pregnant with meaning; they almost bulged with it.
She
, Penny, had seen them. Maybe
she
walked past them each day.
    Celeste got off in the Charing Cross Road. Thank goodness Buffy couldn’t see her. He would think itreally odd. They hardly knew each other and yet here she was, tracking down his ex-wife! Somebody pointed her in the right direction. Soho. She pictured strip clubs and scantily-clad women lounging in doorways.
Want a good time?
For a mad moment she pictured Buffy’s ex-wife in a suspender belt and patent leather boots, blowing cigarette smoke at passing men. Soho was such a wicked word that her parents would only have spoken of it in lowered voices. If, that is, it had ever come up. The naughtiest thing in their street was Wanda’s lurex leggings.
    It was ten in the morning and a light drizzle was falling. Celeste stood, undecided, in Old Compton Street. Men approached her, one by one. They didn’t want her body, however, they wanted her money. ‘Got fifty pence?’ A hand stretched out. ‘Got some change for a cup of tea?’ A purple face loomed close. ‘A quid, God bless you, miss?’ She couldn’t see any women at all; maybe they emerged at dusk, like slugs. The only person she could see in a doorway was so bundled up she couldn’t tell what sex it was; it sat there, surrounded by carrier bags.
    She walked past boutiques selling clothes so unwearable-looking they must be fashionable. A lot of shops were closed, with
To Let
signs on them. On a corner, some Japanese tourists were standing around looking pinched. It was a chilly day. In thedoorway of the Prince Edward theatre there was a large cardboard box with
Sony
on it; inside it, somebody was stirring. Soho wasn’t how she imagined, but then none of London was how she imagined. There weren’t any strip clubs, as far as she could see. None at all. Only pasta restaurants.
    Lots and lots of pasta restaurants.
Pasta Fina. Fasta Pasta. Pasta’N’Pizza. Fatso’s Pasta Palace
. Above them were rooms, she could see that all right. Lots of rooms, lots of flats. Windows with blinds on them, windows with curtains.
    Which one was Penny’s? How on