The only time that Edwina and Patsy have sex, it’s the late seventies and Eddy’s marriage to Justin is already crumbling. They spend a weekend in Paris where Patsy has been sent on assignment by the magazine, but instead they spend it partying.
It happens sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning, and it’s bloody fantastic. Eddy never knew that sex could be that good, but with Patsy touching, kissing and tasting her, she feels like she’s never truly experienced sex.
Eddy remembers falling asleep in a tangle of limbs, satiated and truly in love for the first time in her life. When she wakes up and dusk is painting the white ceiling of the hotel in shades of plum and violet, Patsy’s gone. At first, she thinks that Patsy’s just gone to do the things that Patsy does. But by the next morning, she knows Patsy gone.
She stays in Paris in their hotel room like a love sick fool until the letter arrives on Tuesday, fifty-nine minutes after eleven in the morning. It instructs her to come back to London. In cold language that only Patsy is capable of, it informs Eddy that Paris was a mistake and that if she comes back home all will be forgiven.
So Eddy does the only thing she can, she packs her bags and pretends that she never had mind-blowing sex with her best friend. And she never tells anyone that she’s fallen in love for the hard and cold woman.