Instead of making him wait for an answer, out comes a spontaneous attack of textual diarrhoea:
I’d love u to make it up to me. I’d also love to spend some quality time with u like we did at the beginning. All I wanted tonight was to have a long hot bath together, massage yr poor foot and sleep in yr arms. U don’t know how much you mean to me either. I’ve been really sad this week not seeing or hearing from u. Go and have fun with your mates. I would never begrudge u yr lads time! U r totally free. But I’d like to know when I’m seeing u so I can look 4wd to it or plan other stuff. So how would you like to make it up to me?! And when? X
I'll start tomorrow morning with a suprise he replies. C u then x
Shit. He’s going to turn up on my doorstep at 8 a.m. and find me looking like an unmade bed, And it’s Saturday and I like to have a lie-in. And I have plans for the rest of the day. And I still need waxing.
Saturday. I wake up at 6.55 a.m. and follow my instinct into the shower. I spend thirty minutes doing my make-up to look like I don't have any on (it's easy - just leave off the lippie). At 8.36 I get a text from him:
Hi babe I’ve broken a bone in my foot. What do you want for breakfast?
I wonder if these two sentences are in any way related. I also wonder how he plans to get up my stairs with a broken foot and actually, how dare he even contemplate arriving on my doorstep uninvited?!
I text back: I want you for breakfast but you should probably be in A&E.
No reply until 9.40 a.m. when my doorbell rings and what happens next is probably the most spontaneous and romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
My boy limps in carrying a bouquet of yellow roses, a box of Godiva chocolates, and a carrier bag from the terribly overpriced local deli containing two cappuccinos, four fresh croissants, a loaf of nutty, seedy bread, six organic eggs, a jar of homemade raspberry jam and a piece of wonderfully oozy Brie. Blown away does not even cover it!
Smiling from ear to there, I take the flowers and carrier bag from him and hug him as tightly as I can. He smells like heaven, looks slightly sheepish, and is so orgasmically handsome that I just want to hold him close forever and forget the stupid self-imposed and unnecessary agony of the week before.
We discuss our situation over breakfast, and I realise that he's actually done nothing wrong. I just created one gigantic over-reactive obsessively female misunderstanding. His only reason for not calling was that he didn’t want to intrude on my busy life. This is not a hanging offence – until I made it one.
He would prefer me to make the running, which I’m delighted to do and wants to see me as much as we both can, within the confines of our individual lives. After breakfast, we go to bed – a delightful way to spend an hour or so, except for the fact that both my mobile and landline keep going off which is normal for a Saturday morning. I ignore them both which is not normal at all.
We spend the day together. He comes with me to Portobello Market where I have some antiques business to attend to. I enjoy having him with me despite the slight encumbrance and in the afternoon, I leave him sleeping on the couch while I visit my children and my mother for the minimum time possible. In the evening he takes me to Ping Pong in Marylebone for dinner.
High and happy from the day’s events, I rapid neck two very strong Mojitos then do the stupidest thing a woman can do when he goes to the loo. I text him I luv u x. The minute I've sent it, I want to disappear and die in my own handbag. I am so embarrassed by the impetuous action of my drunken thumb, I pray that he's left his phone at home and I can get to it and delete the message before he opens it. How can I have been so unbelievably uncool?
He returns to the table as if nothing has happened and I realise with relief that my prayer may have been answered. Halfway through the next course however, his back pocket goes off and he brings his phone out and reads the message. I suddenly find myself deeply fascinated by the internal contents of my duck spring roll while blushing like a Bloody Mary.
He reads the message, says 'Aaah', smiles at me and carries on eating. I start gabbing about Darwin’s theory of relativity or something equally space-filling much too loudly and much too fast. If only someone would take the spade away and hit me over the head with it, I could stop digging.
How dare the Mojitos do my texting for me? I am mortified beyond belief.