After I sent a light, non-accusatory text, telling the German I’m in Milan and then Paris, hoping his wedding trip goes well, nothing.
Ooh, a text from Wood Finishes Direct, and one from The Kennington Tandoori, a place I’ve only eaten in once; I certainly didn’t have sex there seven times over the course of three bookings. He did open my message a couple of days later, at 6.30am, but no reply. Then, a couple of days later, this:
‘How did I miss this message? Sorry. Gosh, you are busy. I hope I can see you when I’m back – just want to keep connected. So happy to see your message. Plans after this wedding thing.’
During his wedding weekend, I texted: ‘Try to avoid snogging strange women on terraces x’.
Him: ‘Ha ha. Only one for that.’
So, of course, I felt buoyed. I told Nic. ‘I can tell by your face you are going to see him again,’ she said. ‘All I can say is, you deserve everything that comes your way.’
Which is a bit harsh from someone who never takes my advice on board. I’m not looking to get married, just someone lucid to meet for dinner, who tells me I’m beautiful, who says after breakfast, ‘Let’s go back to bed.’
I’m trying to piece together his motives. Why say let’s meet every weekend, that he loves me, that he is the lucky one, we need to get moving and love each other, if it’s not true? I’d expect that of a teenager, but a man hovering near 60? If you don’t mean it, you are inviting conflict. I didn’t ask for reassurance so early on.
I’m wondering what’s going on. Is he back with his ex? Has he met someone else and is moving in with her (re-examining the evidence, he told me he was moving at the end of September but, ‘I didn’t expect to meet you’. Eh?). In jail? Thinks I’m too old, has found something awful on Google? Stupidly, clinging to ‘I have no greener grass elsewhere’, I start browsing Bottega Veneta on Ebay and MyWardrobeHQ. My head was turned in Milan; I always believe that if only I can own that outfit, someone will love me.
But then, of course, the Georgian vicarage with its river view, the Atkinson blanket on the bed (it will never recover from his emissions), the mid-century Danish sofa bought at speed didn’t prevent him standing me up on my birthday. I wonder what does impress men. Do we have to be needy, petite idiots with filler in our lips? I found a photo of him online. He is on a red carpet, arm around an Eastern European woman. I sent it to Andrea, with the caption, ‘Maybe I should 70s- pluck my eyebrows, buy a long scarf and awful ballet pumps.’ Maybe I was too much for him.
I’m not so much mourning him (ooh, perhaps he’s dead?) as the exciting new life I was about to lead. On Thursday, I planned a day out in London. Why wait to be invited? I made a list: Selfridges for some new underwear and those pyramid chickpea samosas that can’t be found north of Watford. A visit to my dentist to have my teeth cleaned. Lunch with a friend in Primrose Hill. And a trip to the National Gallery to see the new Van Gogh exhibition. I will feel I’m in a Woody Allen film, and someone might chat me up. I love the scene in Play it Again, Sam where Woody asks a braless young woman what she is doing Saturday night.
Her: ‘Committing suicide.’
Him: ‘What about Friday night?’
Am I hopeful he will get back in touch? I’ve never been so physically attracted to a man before. Normally during sex I’m a bit Miranda Hobbes: ‘Just get it over with!’ Now I keep replaying our nights together in my head.
Anyway, not wanting to mope, I booked the 9am train from Darlington. The roads were flooded, so I had to park and sprint. The train was at the platform, the doors just closing. ‘Can you let me on?’ I said to the guard. ‘Please! The Gucci slides slowed me.’ She ignored me.
I asked her if I could catch the 9.30. ‘Not without buying another ticket.’ I went home and sobbed.
This weekend, unable to bear the silence, I got David 2.0 to text him, ask what’s going on.
‘I’m keeping a low profile.’
What does that even mean?
Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week
- David 1.0 is still demanding I return my engagement ring. He sent a link: ‘In some jurisdictions, engagement rings are considered a “conditional” gift…’ I’d like the gold Dunhill lighter, the Burberry suit, the Dunhill watch and the iPad returned: gifted on ‘condition’ he wore shoes and owned teeth. The £400 set of Banham keys, given on the ‘condition’ he didn’t lose them. Anyway, tough, the ring’s already on Vinted.
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess
