The Ex Chronicles

Precious watches Z cross the street. Even in oversize camouflage pants, combat boots, and a turtleneck, she is stunning. Precious shakes her head. There should be a law, she thinks.

“Sweetie, come here,” Z says, pulling Precious out of the chair and hugging her; her locks, fragrant with vanilla oil and shea butter, drape around them. Then she sits her down, flops across from her, and signals for the waiter. When she’s ordered her English Breakfast tea, she turns to Precious.

“Check you out, you sexy tart. I see the misery diet is working. You look lovely.” She gives Precious’s tight jeans and cropped blazer the once-over. “And you dressed up. The blazer looks far better on you than it did on me.”

“Thanks, girl,” Precious says, smiling weakly. “If not for my friends, I wouldn’t have any clothes at all.”

Precious looks as though she’s just gotten a death sentence. “It was fantastic,” she whispers.

Z sighs as she pulls a packet of Splenda out of her bag and pours it into the teapot. “Please don’t tell me he made you come.”

“Oh dear God.” Z puts her cup onto the saucer with a clatter. “I’m shipping you off to my mum in Kent. You can work in the garden and get fat and hairy.”

Z doesn’t say anything, just drinks her tea and watches the parade on the street. Precious looks outside. Moshood has their spring line in the window. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day. A couple walks by holding hands; the girl is pregnant. When they stop at the light, he puts his arms around her and kisses her as though they are the only two people in the world. Precious misses that feeling.

She loved Darius, loved him so much that she’d ignored all the warning signs: how he’d disappear some weekends or she wouldn’t be able to get him on his cell for hours. But most of her friends were getting married and pregnant; even lesbians are marrying men and having babies. She wanted to be with someone—partnered, cared for, and loved. She, who never let herself trust, who never let herself fall in love.

“I thought he was the one, Z.” She sniffles loudly. “I remember it as though it were yesterday. He’s in bed, the music I’d made for him playing, the sheets wet and rumpled; Darius on his back, the girl sitting on his face.” She smiles ruefully. “No wonder he hadn’t heard me come in. What’s worse is I still love him.”

Then her throat closes up, and her head fills with a pain so great it shocks her. She starts to sob. She cries so hard she can barely breathe. The few patrons in the café turn to look at them.

Z gives them an evil look and hands Precious her napkin. “Go ahead and cry; you’re right on time for a breakdown. In fact, you’re overdue.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Precious wails, her face wet and snotty. “Why did he ask to marry me, Z? Why, why, why?” She sobs into the napkin. “Why did he have to turn out like all the rest?”

Z sighs. “I can’t explain it, Precious. They’re all horrid little boys, aren’t they?” She puts a hand on Precious’s arm and squeezes it. “Clarity is hard-won; you couldn’t have known it would end this way. Anyway, you don’t want my advice; I can’t stop seeing Malcolm.”

Z looks out again at the street, but this time she’s far, far away. “I was making movie-star money in Europe, but I moved back to the States because that’s what Malcolm wanted. Now I have to hustle for my commercial gigs. Thank God I bought my flat back when I had money and Fort Greene was still the ghetto.”

Zenobia looks at Precious. “Sweetie, according to my careful calculations, Malcolm and I should have been married and renovating our brownstone by now.” She shakes her head. “Instead, within six months of being in New York he was straying. After a year of that I finally had to put him out. But he always comes back to me, and I always take him back. It’s like that saying, ‘the devil you know . . .’”

Z smiles but her eyes are filled with pain. “I still love him, you know.” She takes a sip of cold tea. “But nothing worth knowing can be taught. You have to find out for yourself.” They sit in silence, lost in thought. A few moments later Zenobia says, “You’re going to get through it.”

“You are. You need to. We both do . . .” Z trails off. “Yes, yes, and Hope—that reptilian ex-fiancé of hers did a number on her.” She looks at Precious. “And while we’re cleaning house, Bella too—Julius is pure poison.”

“That’s a good thought, Z. But Hope’s knocking back happy pills like M&M’s because of her mom and the magazine, and Bella sneaks out to see Julius—we can’t keep her under surveillance twenty-four-seven—”

Zenobia interrupts. “Rubbish, we’ll figure it out. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t get each other out of trouble we didn’t even know we were in?” When Precious opens her mouth, Zenobia puts down her teacup and shushes her. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. It’s as good as done. Yes?”

Precious nods dumbly. There’s no stopping Z when she’s like this. She reaches out to Precious and grips her shoulders. “This nonsense has gone on for too long. We’re going to make it, do you hear me? All of us.” She says it so definitively that Precious wouldn’t dare disagree with her. Z gives her the smile that won her Miss Great Britain and the Face of the Nineties.

“It’s all sorted. See? Not all models are stupid.” Then she leans in close to Precious and mock-whispers, “Just the Brazilian ones.”