Never Have Sex With Your Ex (Regular Sex #2)

Regular
Sex 2
~
Never have Sex with Your Ex

By

Kitty
French

Welcome to the second issue of
Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make
sure your weekend starts with a bang!

Enjoy, and remember to check out
issue 3 next Friday.

Happy reading,

Love Kitty x

Regular Sex 2 ~ Never have Sex with
Your Ex

‘I don’t care if
he’s signed the contract! He goes or I do, Art, it’s as simple as that.’

Of all the men
in all the world Art could have chosen to replace Stanley with at the last
minute, why did he have to go and choose Reuben Turner? Stanley is the leading
man in the new West End production I'm starring in and I have to practically
hump him, which is fine because I’m an actress and I can detach. Even a last
minute change of actor shouldn’t pose too much of a problem, except for the
small matter that I used to be married to Reuben Turner and there is no way on
God’s earth I’m having sex with him, even simulated sex with my knickers still
firmly on.

Fucking Hell!
Maybe I'll be able to appreciate the irony of starring in a play called ‘Never have
Sex with Your Ex’ with my actual honest to god ex one day, but that day is most
definitely not today.

Bloody stupid,
ridiculous Stanley! Who the hell goes skiing a couple of weeks before they're
due to open as the leading man in one of the most hotly-anticipated West End
productions of the year? Months we’ve been rehearsing for this, and it’s all
down the drain for the sake of a stag do piste up that's left him in plaster
from the hip down and out of action for the foreseeable.

I wouldn’t mind,
but he was bloody hot and call me shallow, but that matters when I have to
pretty much boff his brains out in public every day for the next three months.

But this…Three
months starring opposite Reuben. I can’t do it. I won’t! Bloody hell, he was a
prize cock to me at the end of our marriage.

He of the sexy
Irish accent and sparkly brown eyes. Women go gaga for him, so much so that their
underwear just dissolves as soon as he looks in their direction. I grew tired
of it.

We were too
young to be married really. Everyone said so and they were all quite right. True
to form, he’d left me standing in the dust when an undeniably exciting job
offer whisked him off to the bright lights of Hollywood and my commitments kept
me here in London.

Oh, we tried to
keep things going for a while. A token effort really, sexting each other, naked
Skype, those kind of things… actually, those bits had been quite fun. But the
fun had stopped abruptly when he’d moved to the arse end of Africa for a six-month
filming stint on a big budget movie. Sketchy net coverage and beautiful co-stars
proved to be our undoing in the end; we’d been away from each other for the
best part of two years and the cracks yawned so wide we both fell down them. Or
he did. And then he clung on by his fingernails, begging me to help him, to
take him back and try living together again, anything but split up.

Do you know what
I did? I stamped on his fingers and let him tumble. I don’t regret it. If he
was so easily seduced away once, he’d always be that way. I always maintain
that I saved myself a lifetime of heartache by screwing my stiletto heels into
his nail beds that day.

And now here we
are, one week from curtain up on the show that everyone who's anyone is
claiming will be the one that propels me into the big time, and according to
the director, Reuben has stepped bravely into Stanley’s shoes and saved the fucking
day. Well, step aside, Nicolas Cage. My ex-husband always did have a hero
complex.

‘Lisette, we’re
incredibly lucky to have him,' Art scolds me like a sulking child. 'His acting
credentials are second to none, and even you can't deny that the man is
electric on stage.’ His voluminous shirt billows around him as he struts and
flounces around the set. Lord knows how he ended up directing, he's an actor
begging to happen.

Reuben is electric
in bed too, I think, and then I hate myself for remembering that so easily.
There is no denying it, though; no one since has come anywhere close to making
me feel the way he did. Two sets of neighbours moved out of the flat next to
ours when we were first married, and I’ve no doubt it was due to the volume and
frequency of our filthy, crazy, beautiful sex life.

If we’d had
chandeliers in that grotty one bedroom flat, I have no doubt he’d have had me
swinging from them.

‘You do know I
used to be married to him, right?’

Art waves his
hand in the air, a
'comme ci, comme
ça
,'
gesture that infuriates me. It's all very well for him to be flippant; it's not
his heart under threat.

‘Like, a
lifetime ago.’ He rolls his eyes in the style of a bored teenager. ‘And anyway,
it’s good that you guys have a history. It adds chemistry.’ He shrugs,
thoroughly unapologetic.

‘Chemistry?’ I
bark. ’The only chemistry around here will be the fucking poison that I tip in
his coffee.’

Art smirks,
happy as a clam.

‘I love it,’ he says,
almost rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘That’s it, girl, get yourself
good and riled. He’s reading the script on the plane today, rehearsals start tomorrow.
Fire yourself up.’

He practically
pirouettes off the stage, leaving me alone. Tomorrow. He’ll be here on this
stage with me tomorrow.

I can’t believe
it. This play is such a big bloody deal for me, I can’t walk away from it now.
Not that I’d do that anyway, my reputation would be in tatters and I’ve worked
too damn hard to get where I am to let everything go now.

But starring
opposite Reuben every night? Seriously?

I rummage around
in the bedside cabinet for the brandy Stanley’s character stores there as part
of the plot. It shouldn’t actually be the genuine hard stuff in the bottle, but
Stanley keeps switching the cold tea for the real deal, and right now I’m
beyond glad.

This play… well,
it’s incredibly intimate. It’s a two-hander, just me and Stanley, or just me
and Reuben now, so it seems.

I haven’t seen
him in more than five years, but I remember the last thing I said to him as
clearly as if it were yesterday.

‘Go on, Puss in
Boots. Go follow those streets of gold and see where they lead you. Just don’t
come back around this way again with your big old tail hanging out because I’m
putting a huge fucking no-entry sign up and activating a shoot first, ask later
policy.’

It didn’t help
that we had this conversation whilst he was dressed in costume as actual Puss
in Boots. Or maybe he was D'Artagnan or something, but to my mind he looked for
all the world as if he was about to swashbuckle his way onto the panto stage.
Oh yes he did. And did he ever test my shotgun cordon after that day? Oh no he
didn’t. Not once.

He disappeared
from my life more like the Genie of the Lamp than Puss in Boots, never to
return again. Until now, right when I’m about to take on the most challenging
and high profile role of my life. Jeez, I was already nervous. Now I’m verging
on hysterical and necking brandy straight from the bottle, which isn’t good
whichever way you shake it down.

I’m deliberately
slow getting into work the following morning. I don’t want to leave time for
Reuben to come by my dressing room beforehand for a heart-to-heart or a no hard
feelings handshake. The fact is I do have hard feelings. Hard as concrete,
mostly because no-one has managed to make me so deliriously happy since he left,
nor so pull-my-hair turned on, or so balls out furious.

And you know
what? I like my life as it is just now. I don’t need the drama, and my battery-operated
boyfriend never makes me scream with frustration. He never makes me yell out
his name in bone melting pleasure or cry big fat, happy tears either but let’s
not dwell on that.

Don't get me
wrong, I’ve every intention of being professional, but the only words I plan on
saying to Reuben throughout the entire run of this production are the ones written
in the script. Someone else’s words; not mine, and certainly not his.

In fact, I have
a plan. After a sleepless night, I concluded this morning over toast and
marmalade that the only way I'm going to get through this is to just pretend
he’s Stanley.

It’s cool. I’ve got
this.

Oh shit. He’s
not Stanley, and I haven’t got this.

He’s just walked
onto the stage and there is no way on this earth I can pretend he’s anyone but
Reuben Sex-On-A-Stick Turner, my ex-husband, beloved by millions of women and a
fair few men too for his sexy abs and killer smile. I can’t breathe. Has no-one
noticed? Call a doctor, call the paramedics, call a priest! I can’t fucking
breathe here, people! Is this what it’s like to die? I turn away and try hard
to regulate my breathing as Art introduces Reuben around the company. He takes
the time to shake people by the hand or kiss them on the cheek and share a
laugh or two with them. He's like that. He has a special way of putting
strangers at ease, of making people feel as though they are the only person there,
even if they're in a packed room.

He’s coming my
way. Ohmygod, don’t come my way. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem able to hear my
internal monologue, because he's advancing across the boards in my direction.
Can I exit stage left? I could, but it would only draw attention to me, to us,
and that’s the last thing I want to happen. Oh, I know that everyone here is
aware of the history between Reuben and me. Of course, they are. No doubt it’s
been the star topic of gossip in the canteen, and I’m sure I’m not just being
paranoid when I say that more than the required cast and crew are here in the
theatre this morning. The place feels as packed as opening night, for God’s
sake.

Pull it together
Lizzie, come on. I give myself the sternest of lectures and force my shoulders
back and down from around my ears.

He’s still
heading my way. Three people away. Two people away. One person away. This is
like the most agonising session of counting sheep ever. I wish like hell that I
was at home in bed about to slide into sleep rather than here on stage about to
meet my ex-husband for the first time in some years.

‘And you know
Lisette, of course,’ Art brays loudly, then practically thrusts Reuben at me to
the point where I have to take a step backwards or else clash chests with my
ex-husband.

I look up into
his face. He looks down into mine. Don't look at me like that, don't do that
only-person-in-the-room thing to me because I won't fall for it. Oh God. Am I
the only person in the room?

‘Yes,’ he says. 'Lizzie
and I go back a long way.'

I nod and tip my
pursed lips into a small, tight smile that actually hurts because my jaw is
clenched so tight. I don’t speak because unscripted words are off bounds.

I can feel every
eye in the place watching us with varying degrees of interest, and I refuse to
feed the gossip beast for even a moment longer.

‘Right then,
introductions over,’ I call out, loud and over-chirpy, and I clap my hands for
effect as I move away across the stage. ‘Let’s dive right on in folks, we’ve a
lot of ground to make up and not a lot of time to do it in. From the top?’

Art narrows his
eyes at me, rightly confused because he’s the director and I’m kind of doing
his job, but thankfully he holds his tongue, takes his cue, and ushers everyone
into starting positions.

I’m in bed with
my ex-husband. Well, there’s a sentence I never expected to say. Holy
shitballs, this is weird, isn't it?

The play opens
in the bedroom, and I'm supposed to wake first. The lights are low, designed to
emulate dawn on an autumnal London morning. I have to look at him adoringly; study
his sleeping features. I gamely try to imagine he's Stanley.

Stanley who? Well,
that game’s dead in the water, because Reuben is filling my eyes and my head,
every last nook and cranny. He’s asleep, or rather he has to appear to be to
the audience. Rumpled white sheets cover the bed and he is naked from the waist
up, slightly on his side facing me, one arm casually flung above his head.

The sheet drapes
him from the hip, and I know that it doesn’t matter what I look like in that
instant because every eye in the place is on the glorious golden expanse of his
chest. No doubt that will always be the case at this point in the play from
here on in. I resolve to do something slightly different every time after
opening night, something random just to see if anyone even notices. I’d bet
good money that they won’t.

So, he’s asleep,
and I’m studying him. In the play, my character is deeply in love with this
man, and so, because I'm a damn good actress, I let myself be in love with the
man in the bed again too.

I haven’t let
myself think one single solitary good thing about Reuben since the day I
threatened to shoot his sorry ass if he even came back, but for the benefit of
my career and this production, I let myself remember all the good things about
him now.

I feel as if
someone has punched me in the chest.

The wall of emotion
comes out of nowhere and blindsides me; I’m glad that there are no words in
this scene because they would never have made it out of my mouth.

I have to touch
him. The script calls for me to reach out and trace his features with my fingers.
Christ, I really haven’t thought this through, have I?

My hand is
trembling as I reach out, and I’m sure he flinches almost imperceptibly when my
fingertips first make contact, gentle over his cheekbone. I wonder if he’s
thought this through properly either, if he’s finding this as difficult and
frankly bizarre as I am. It’s barely ten in the morning, we parted on the worst
possible terms and haven’t spoken in the intervening years, and here we are in bed
together in front of at least three dozen people.

This isn’t my
usual sort of Tuesday.

His skin, oh my
god, his skin. He’s beach warm from the stage lights and oh so reassuringly solid,
and as I smooth my hand lightly down his face and over his jaw, he sighs and
his lips part just the tiniest bit. Jesus, I don’t think I can do this. I’m
looking at his mouth and remembering how thoroughly he kisses. This man doesn’t
know the meaning of a peck.