On Sunday, the day after we parted, a ream of texts from my new man. He can’t stop thinking about me. I tell him I keep staring at the undercover photos I snatched of him at the party where we met. I don’t even care if he eats meat or smokes in bed. Nothing he could do would ever get on my nerves.
Rather than resenting my career, he thinks my success is a magnet. He says he needs a photo of me. I send four. Journalist that I am, I caption them, ‘From the set of Celebrity Big Brother. Me in a swimsuit. Me with Tracey Emin.’
‘You are so beautiful. You are the most sexy woman I have ever known. The best tactile kisses and holding hands ever. You could have any man. Any. Any.’
‘I’ve never had success with men.’
‘Thank god.’
He is very open and passionate, I think because he’s not English. Says he can’t stop thinking about me. He thought I was out of his league when we met, that other men would hit on me (they didn’t), but he knew we would connect. He says he comes across as happy, arrogant even, but that is far from the truth.
‘How on earth are you still single?’ I ask him.
‘People judge me. You kissed me with love.’
His kisses were urgent, strong.
Reams and reams of texts. Our meeting was magical, like something out of a film.
I tell him I never flirt, but I had feared him leaving the party without giving me his number, so I had plonked down next to him.
‘I loved and noticed that you did. Then you said you would share your raffle prize with me. How nice was that?’
I’ve given my £400 Mr & Mrs Smith voucher to Nic, as she was the one who insisted I go to the party, which I had moaned would be boring and corporate.
He then types: ‘Liz. Beautiful. I will be honest…’
Oh god, no. My hands are sweating. Now what?
‘I did think maybe my feelings got carried away as I found you so sexual. But we didn’t kiss outside for any other reason than an emotional connection…
‘OK, then I fancied the ass off u.’
The hotel staff must have thought we were on our honeymoon. ‘We were the naughtiest couple there,’ he says.
And then, on Monday, while I am suffering badly from honeymoon cystitis… Nothing. I keep staring at my phone. I tell Nic that as I had texted last, I can’t text again. That would go against all the rules of dating. I am so dejected. I think at last my luck has changed. I ask Nic whether he can see me rereading his texts. ‘No, he only knows if you start typing.’ Phew.
And then, on Tuesday afternoon, boom! We are off again, back and forth. He says all he wants is unconditional love. I invite him up for the weekend. I’d shown him photos of my bedroom (!), the collies in the garden, and he says I could live in a tent and he wouldn’t care. He suggests in two weeks’ time. ‘I hope it rains so we have to say indoors. I will have to kiss you a lot.’
I am now working backwards from lift-off. Hair. Pedicure. Waxing. I’ve defrosted my fridge. I’ve ordered food, though he won’t say what he likes. I then email a woman I’d met at the party and ask if she knows how old he is. ‘He’s nearly 58. A toy boy! Age doesn’t matter, and it’s hardly a huge gap.’
Oh no. No! He is bound to be put off when he finds out my age. I suppose he must have looked me up online in more depth. I’ve been watching videos of him giving talks, being interviewed. Over breakfast I’d told him – when he said, while caressing my face, that I have lovely skin – about my cosmetic surgery, and he didn’t seem to care. I have just bought a mid-century Danish sofa from Vinterior, which arrives tomorrow. Nic found me a reconditioned Miele vacuum cleaner on Ebay. I really hope he doesn’t cancel…
Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week
- A day without getting a text.
- Why does everyone want payment up front? The firm making a window seat cushion. Even when you buy a coffee you have to pay first. Checking into a hotel, they pre-authorise (steal) your card.
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess