For our next date, MLP arrives on my doorstep in an immaculately-pressed check shirt which he fills across the shoulders to perfection. His muscular thighs are straining the denim of his tight blue jeans. I can hardly see him behind a bouquet of the most exquisite, deep red velvet roses all wrapped up in cellophane with a huge red bow. His cute and happy face swells my heart to the size of a watermelon and his utter gorgeousness is Eye Candy Central. He hands me a huge box of Thornton’s Premium Collection Chocolates. Barbie’s cup runneth over.
In return I hand him an ice cold bottle of Lanson champagne with the Liqueur de Cassis and he pours us two kir royales. We toast the occasion and I send him to the sofa while I finish in the kitchen. When the meal is ready, I call him in for his first taste of caviar. He bites into the cracker trepidantly then gobs it out like Tom Hanks in Big, scraping the world's most expensive snack off his tongue with his fingers whilst gagging into the sink. I would have found this pathetically unsophisticated coming from anyone else but from him, it is sweetly honest and innocently endearing.
I screw the jar back up, return it to the fridge and quickly rethink the first course. I throw together a warm goat’s cheese salad, followed by chicken soup like my Bubba used to make because he’s had a chest infection all week. My Boeuf Stroganoff with green beans goes down a treat as does the fresh raspberry jelly prepared in my heart-shaped jelly mould. I manage to turn this neatly out onto a plate without it hitting the deck.
We spoon it into each other’s mouths with copious amounts of Double Thick Clotted Cream and this idyllic evening of romance and passion is marred only by the fact that Arsenal are playing Bolton in the FA Cup Fourth Round and this match obviously has to be watched out of the corner of one eye whilst attempting to give me his (less than) full attention with the other.
We repair to the living-room as Bolton equalizes in the 90th minute which provokes an extra half hour of play. I resign myself to the fact that as we have been going out for over a month now, the gloss is already off, and boys with be boys. He’ll owe me later and I shall collect...
Halfway through the night, marvelling at the fact that he’s not snoring for once, I stretch out a leg to make contact. I can't find him. I strain to listen for his breathing, realise I can’t hear a thing, and pat the mattress vigorously all over only to find that he has gone. I panic, look on the floor on his side in case he’s fallen out, leap out of bed, check the ensuite then search the rest of my flat.
I find him asleep on the couch wrapped in a bath towel. His breathing is laboured and chesty and I presume he hadn’t wanted to disturb me - poor little chap. I go back to bed feeling guilty, wondering if I should cover him with a spare duvet as it will get cold towards dawn. I fall back to sleep before putting this act of mercy into practice. The atmosphere in the morning is a bit strained but we get over it.
As he is not working today, he hangs around with me, having nothing to go home for. I am therefore obliged to take him with me on a series of business appointments, and it feels like having a child on half-term and no-one to leave them with. He does the driving which helps somewhat. We run across Knightsbridge hand in hand as I have a meeting with the buyer in the Cigar Department at Harrods. He confesses to this being first visit to the venerable store and then snogs me on the escalator, which tickles me pink but couldn’t be less appropriate. I’ve been a supplier to Harrods for many years and I know a lot of the staff. What this may do to my cred if I’m seen can only be guessed at.
We get home at 4.15 and I end my working day early to make us tea and crumpets. I spoon into him on the couch and he enters me from behind in full view of Richard & Judy...