In the evening I pack MLP off home with a food parcel, as I have a cocktail party to go to at The Bolivian Embassy. A good-looking suit is standing in the street outside holding a glass of wine and having a furtive fag. He sizes me up as I approach, I enquire if I'm in the right place, and we start to chat. He hands me his business card which boasts an unpronounceable Hungarian name with a title in front of it. I reciprocate with mine (card, that is, not title) although tonight I feel like Countess Barbie.
I enter the elegant drawing room on the first floor of the grand stucco Belgravia house, and go in search of my hosts. I network a little, making acquaintances out of strangers, swiping canapés off passing trays and necking Bolivian plonk. Baron Czykzyncsky von Eurolech appears through the throng undressing me with his eyes, and subliminally slamming me up against the wall without buying me dinner first.
My friends and I go to Mimmo’s afterwards, where I am introduced to the elderly but amusing Sir John O’Groats who invites me to be his squeeze at the Berkeley Square Ball. I accept graciously so as not to have to fork out the £150, but squeeze me he shan't...
Thursday. My Little Ponytail is forever on my mind and although we have yet to confirm the weekend, I presume we will be spending it together. I am horrified to learn, therefore, that he has a ‘karioke’ party to go to on Saturday night to which I am clearly not invited.
I go into a tremendous inner strop while trying to appear cool and unbovvered. It’s absolutely fine for me to have other arrangements which he must obviously work around, but it’s ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN for him to!!
After a protracted period of sulking, I shape up and revert to whatever is normal between a 28-year old and me.
That evening, adopting the mantle of Pathetic Barbie, I text him ‘If I don’t see you on Saturday, when will I see you then?’ hating myself even as the words are leaving my thumb.
He answers that if it’s OK with me, he will come over late Saturday after the party. Yay! I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.
Friday. I spend the evening lovingly pressing two of MLP’s shirts which he’s left behind in my flat. The mother/lover/doormat gene is alive and well and doing the ironing in front of the tele. We text a bit and I feel secure. Because of my seniority, I’m never quite sure whether he expects me to make the running. I still like the man to be the man and chase a little, but sometimes you have to chase them until they catch you.
Saturday. He calls me briefly on his way to footie but he doesn’t mention seeing me later or the following day. Hallo!! It’s the weekend in case you hadn’t noticed!! I quash the surging desire to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s playing at...