Friday. I go to a business meeting which finishes early and I call Flash Gordon to confirm. We meet near Marble Arch. He is a really nice-looking, well-dressed, articulate guy BUT…he is a veritable toy boy – surely no taller than 5’2”. We buy some cappuccinos and go and sit in Hyde Park. I find it hard to meet his very blue, long-lashed eyes which are boring into me the entire time. I ask myself what the hell I’m doing here, and how would I like it if my so-called ‘boyfriend’ was meeting other women for afternoon tea? After 20 minutes, I tell him my meter has run out and he walks me to my car, kisses me goodbye and says he hopes we can meet again soon.
Within seconds, he’s texting me:
‘You took my breath away. I was not prepared for the searingly beautiful, stunningly attractive and disarming lady I met. Wish it was I opening a bottle on the sofa with you tonight! Going to the gym to get you out of my system.’
Blimey! Keep talking…I text him a thank you for the compliment and he hits me again:
‘You were wonderful company and if all that transpires is a friend then I’m all the richer. I’ll think of you at the gym with every press, thrust, sprint and jerk!’
Wow! Er…hmmm…What a shame I don’t feel the same …
I go to my mum’s for dinner and try to stay above the surface despite no message all day from MLP. I’m starting to founder when a welcome text comes through from him.
‘Hi hun I’m at my cousin’s avin a smoke xx’
Now I can rest easy tonight and start worrying again tomorrow.
Saturday. My daughter drops my grandchildren over to me for lunch and in the afternoon I take them out to the park opposite. They’re wearing their Heelys so I take along a pair of ski-poles, tuck one under each arm, while they grab hold of the ends. I then begin to jog while dragging them along, whooping and screaming with joy. I’m the horse and they’re the cart. After a circuit round the perimeter, I collapse onto the grass laughing and panting, thinking how blessed I am to have these darling little girls in my life.
They go off to the playground and I watch them from a nearby bench. For no particular reason, I text MLP to ask him if he likes stuffed peppers. My instinct tells me that anything that involves me cooking for him should provoke some response. His reply comes straight back and we enter into a dialogue filled with innuendo about what to stuff them with, which culminates in him accepting my invitation to dinner on Tuesday.
In the evening my old friend, Martin, takes me to the Mandarin Oriental on our usual understanding, where we drink champagne while he eye-prowls the joint like a lounge lizard looking for prey. He has no luck there, so we go on to Zuma where again, he fails to find anything remotely pullable. Me: I ain’t bovvered. I’m not sure where MLP is tonight but I presume he’s out with friends. I am slightly miffed about not seeing him on a Saturday night but c’est ma vie. I can’t be making the running all the time.
Around midnight, I have a very strong sensation that he’s snogging someone. She’s probably a fat chav with cheap shoes and her tits hanging out. I hope I’m wrong.
Tuesday. The two-day silence is broken by a couple of texts from Flash Gordon wanting to see me again ‘if nothing else just as friends’. I don’t really need any more friends. I also get one from the long lost Rugby Player who I wind up by pretending not to know who he is.
I shop for food for the evening and spend the afternoon lovingly preparing the stuffed peppers and other delicacies for MLP’s 7 p.m. arrival. At 5 p.m. his name appears on my mobile screen, and my heart leaps then sinks. A foreboding of doom swirls malevolently around my head like fog in a 50s thriller.
I answer hesitantly and as my instinct has warned me, he sounds subdued. When he begins a sentence with: ‘My mother…’ I mentally finish it with: ‘…doesn’t want me to see you any more.’
A small tornado blows the fog away as I listen to what he has to say. Dear Mama has come home from work feeling unwell, so being the dutiful son that he is, he has helped her into bed and made her a fried egg on toast. He does not want to leave her so can he come over tomorrow night instead?
*&^%@~>?/£$!!!! But at least he’s not cancelling altogether, and the food will keep. I’m disappointed and relieved all at the same time and I make the right sympathetic noises, wishing his mother better (bitch) and looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.
I immediately dial Nutty Best Friend and invite her to come round thereby staving off an evening spent thinking about all the other reasons why he may have cancelled. The imaginary chav with the big tits comes to mind, but if he’d been making up a story, surely he wouldn’t have used his beloved mother’s name in vain?
I beat Nutty Best Friend roundly at Scrabble and give myself a pedicure before going to bed.