There is no news from him for the rest of the day until 9.40 p.m. when I’m in the cinema with a girlfriend. My phone, which I've stuck under my coat between my legs, begins to vibrate thus causing me to leap out of my seat and grope around for it like a demented onanist.
‘Hi babe. I’m staing hear tonight. How was your day x?’
Well fuck you with a big fat cactus, you rotten bastard! And learn how to fucking spell! I slam my phone shut, and stuff it back under my coat disturbing the people next to me. I fold my arms in a churlish grump muttering:
‘Fine. See if I care. Have a great time with your stupid friends, you useless wanker’.
Don’t let anyone ever tell you that with age comes dignity and understanding.
My girlfriend is deeply ensconced in the film and oblivious to my volatile behaviour. When I calm down, I realise I’ve completely lost the plot. Of my life and that of the film. Twenty five minutes later, the phone vibrates again. The same excited groping in the crotch area takes place. Certain that he’s changed his mind, I’m ready to emergency exit the cinema and rush home.
‘Hope your not cross with me hun. Will speak tomorrow xxx’
Cross? Cross?? I’m hyperventilating with disappointed but he's not to know that, so I text back:
‘It’s cool. Am at movies. Have a fun one x’.
I go home, watch TV until 1.30 a.m. and in spite of it all, fall sleep in blissful, selfish, starfish silence certain I’ll hear from him early next day.
Sunday 16.40 p.m. Well I don’t know if he’s called you but he certainly hasn’t called me. Determined to retain a semblance of cool unavailability and force him into making desperate, angst-ridden contact, I busy myself throughout the morning.
Trouble is with the female multi-tasking gene in permanent play, we can build an Ark, collect the animals, and set sail for Mount Ararat whilst still managing to obsess 24/7. At 1 p.m. I give up the fight and text him – chatty, friendly, ending with a question.
He doesn’t reply within the requisite twenty-two minutes so I go to the supermarket and roam around the aisles aimlessly, picking things up and putting them down again, eventually abandoning the trolley half full and walking out with my cup half empty.
The phone is cemented to my arse on vibrate in my back pocket. It fails to go off despite my checking it every seven seconds. I go home and call a girlfriend to have a mammoth whingeing session. She listens attentively then tells me to get a grip.
I put my phone on to charge in the bedroom and sit down to watch the EastEnders Omnibus in the living-room thereby missing his call. When I eventually hear my text go off, I hare down the corridor like a runaway train almost smashing into the glass door on my mirrored cupboard.
Do I really need another seven years bad luck?