LIZ JONES: ‘Your fingerprints are on my thighs’, I textual content him

My house is currently like that scene in the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera, when a cabin is filled to bursting with room service, plumbers, maids, Groucho, Harpo, Chico and more before they all tumble out when Margaret Dumont opens the door. Today the sash window restorer, kitchen fitter, plumber and carpenter are all vying for space. 

My office, its huge window overlooking the river, is finally finished. I now have shelves and have been able to unpack my boxes of books. Each one has a memory. My pony books. Hundreds of books on fashion. Orange and green Penguins. Anything along the lines of Abnormal by Michel Foucault and Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth were clearly left behind by my ex-husband, like so many annoying skin cells.

I’d normally be stressed by the dust everywhere, but because I’m in love with the German nothing else seems to matter. I realise even my mistakes have led me to this point. Several times a day I put my head in my hands, squealing, incredulous that someone so handsome is even interested in me. And I have, sadly, been re-watching Marcus Wareing Simply Provence, just to feel closer to his doppelgänger.

In the week after our dinner in Soho, I texted saucily, ‘If it weren’t for your fingerprints on my thighs, I would think I imagined Friday evening.’

‘It was a beautiful night.’

He later texted, ‘We need a proximity solution. We have to connect weekly. Means I come to you twice a month, to the perfect country bolthole, but how do you get to London twice a month? For the whole weekend, not one night. Sorry to be looking for a solution.’

We all know how much I miss London. Whenever I step off the train at King’s Cross, I’m like a different person: more confident, smiling, much more positive. I’m like Joey in Friends, ‘It’s London, Baby!’ Every street is a landmark: a kiss by the National Portrait Gallery, dinner at the top of the Shard, the spot off Piccadilly that used to house the disco Legends, where I once flirted with Limahl, too naive to realise he was gay.

To spend weekends in the German’s apartment by the Thames would be a dream come true. Then I remember my dogs.

‘I’d have to bring the collies.’

He doesn’t think his apartment is at all suitable. ‘My place won’t be adequate. Dogs can’t be in London.’

I say we should talk when we meet at the country-house hotel in Suffolk. He agrees, adding he’s fine to have a massage, but only if it’s a couples’ one.

The next day, I recount our conversation to Nic who, as you know, looks after Swirly, my horse, and dog-sits when I’m away for work. She says no way should I take the dogs: Mini is 16, Missy is extremely nervous (she’s even scared of her water bowl) and Teddy is reactive if he sees another dog: it’s like owning a lion. Nic is worried, though, that the German seems to rush off after each date. When he came for the weekend, he left before lunch on the Sunday. In Suffolk, he says he can’t stay for the Sunday night.

It’s weird, given all my hang-ups, that I’m not needy or jealous when it comes to men. When he said he could only do two nights in Suffolk, my only thought was, ‘A night in a luxury hotel on my own. Bliss.’ My feeling is if someone wants to be with you, great. If they don’t, you can’t force it.

A big change for me is that I’m completely myself with him. I’m not trying to be younger or pretend to be more well-read than I am, richer, more successful. I am struggling, though, with the reining in of my impulse to shower anyone close to me with gifts (I get this from my mum; I’d turn up at her house with artisan bread, flowers, chocolate, and as I went to leave she would thrust everything back into my hands). But I have bought him an N Peal cashmere sweater, as it will be his birthday the night he arrives at the hotel for dinner.

I tell him not to worry about the distance. ‘I’m not worried,’ he says. ‘I know we can solve it. I just want to be near my partner in crime.’

JONES MOANS… What Liz loathes this week

• The NHS. I have tonsillitis. I call my local surgery, they say they have no appointments, and to call 111. I call 111. After about an hour telling the man at 111 my symptoms, making my throat much worse, they tell me to call my local surgery. I think I have used my local GP about once in 25 years.
• I’ve just received my first birthday gift in the post, from a reader: a box of matches and firelighters. A bit mean…

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess