In a weird way I manage to compartmentalize. This interlude with Eurotrash in no way affects my feelings for CC which are in a totally separate box marked PARANOID FIXATION OF 2008.
If CC comes up trumps, all bets are off but I am hedging those bets by keeping the other horses in my stable fed and watered and exercising them around the paddock at regular intervals to ensure their readiness for riding if, as, and when required.
My masculine side endorses this behaviour, while my feminine side weeps and wails and rents its clothing.
Sunday. I have lunch with my family and power walk two miles around Regent’s Park with Calm Best Friend. This solves nothing but makes my calves ache rather pleasingly.
Monday. I finally meet Rough Stuff for dinner. He looks like a cross between Ray Winstone and Alec Baldwin both of whom I fancy, but I don’t fancy him. He’s a working-class geezer who appears to have broken into a Jermyn Street Gentleman’s Outfitters and walked off dressed in the spoils.
He’s hard-nosed and savvy with a film script life story, but the cockney accent really jars with me. Although I’m attentive enough, all I can think about is:
When I wake up in the morning, I’ll be seeing CC ‘tomorrow’.
Unless, of course, he bottles it…
Tuesday. Well whaddya know? I should have gone down to William Hill and bet my flat on it - I could’ve retired on the proceeds.
Didn't I know it? Didn't I FUCKING KNOW IT. I switch my mobile on at 8.47 a.m. and there are two texts. One’s a ‘Good Morning, Princess’ from Rough Stuff, the other is a voicemail alert.
I dial 901 and YUP! it’s CC ‘postponing’ our dinner date.
The fucking, wanking, cunting, shitting, cock sucking bastard has blown me out. To give myself time to absorb this, I go to the fridge and check the sell-by date on the cheese I bought for the infamous fondue. It’s good for another couple of weeks. I may boil his head in it. But not until it’s gone off.
He’s left me a jolly upbeat message, though, considering he’s a manic depressive, bipolar, emotionally-arrested, dysfunctional nutcase. His voice mail is positively bubbly which I find very annoying. How dare he sound normal when he’s calling to cancel me?
What’s happened is, he tells me cheerfully once he’s commented on what a beautiful day it is, (TOSSER!) that he’s got into the office and checked his diary and found that he’s double-booked tomorrow evening. He’s heading up a think tank for his senior management to institute a media-related strategy whereby high-profile hunter gatherers can brainstorm their passive-aggressive admin exec counterparts.
Oh for the love of Christ, get over yourself, you twat.
He does however apologize four times and offers an immediate alternative, suggesting that in order to make it up to me, instead of me cooking, he’ll take me out instead.
Cold Comfort Farm, but at least he didn’t say: ‘…so I’ll see you around’.
Funnily enough, I’m not actually that devastated because I know that once tomorrow has come and gone, I’ll be back to square one again with nothing to look forward to.
I replay the message about eight times but I don’t read anything more onerous into it except that which I presume to be the truth. It’s too convoluted to be otherwise even from a half-baked potato like him. I decide not to reply just yet. A little mind game, methinks.
I compose texts in my head then go to a business meeting which takes up the rest of the morning. At 1.30 p.m. when he’s almost certain to be at lunch, I text to say that I’ve received his message and when shall we re-schedule for?
I purposely ask a question in order to provoke an answer but none is forthcoming.
I wait all day to hear from him until I can stand it no longer, and at 8.45 p.m. I call him back. It goes straight to voicemail.
I say ‘Hi, it’s me. Call when you’re free’ in Voice no. 32 : Bright and Breezy but Three Steps Away from a Shotgun. I get no reply.
Yet again with this man, I'm left feeling sad, let down and disappointed. I’m even starting to piss myself off never mind anyone else, and all this for a person who’s about as much use to me as a glacier mint is to a polar bear.
I beat myself up a little bit more thinking I should have called him back this morning, when the matter was fresh in his mind and his diary on his desk in front of him.
Now I’ve used up my text credit and instead of a mind game, I have to play the much reviled waiting game. I can’t help thinking that he’s obviously ‘not that into me…’
I play around on a dating site and make arrangements to meet a 23-year-old which cheers me up no end.
Friday, 29 August 2008
Saturday, 16 August 2008
THE DAILY MALE - continues...17/08/08
We have a slightly stilted conversation about what we’ve both been doing (I’ve been staying home every night pining, obviously!) and he’s been mostly working late. Thrilling.
When the conversation looks like it’s running out of gas, I leap into the driving seat and slam my foot on the accelerator.
‘I’m thinking of making a fondue one night,’ I say, winging it, 'the one we never had on holiday, remember? It would be a shame to go to all that trouble just for one, so how about you come over and share it with me?’
Expecting a hesitation or downright refusal, I am staggered when he answers:
‘I should really take you out.’
My heart bounds like Baryshnikov across the dining-table and lands elegantly atop the sideboard.
‘I’ll do the fondue this time and you can take me out the time after how about next Thursday?’ I end the sentence gasping for breath.
He can’t do Thursday, I can’t do Wednesday so we make an arrangement for twelve days hence.
That’s Twelve Days.
Hence.
‘7.30?’ he asks, as if he actually intends to keep this date.
‘Perfect!’ I reply and hang up.
I look around to see if a bunch of red-nosed clowns aren’t pissing themselves laughing behind my back but they’re not. I walk over to the hall mirror and kiss myself full on the mouth, then I turn on my heels and moonwalk backwards down the corridor until I reach my bedroom.
Did you see what I just did there? I ask the curtains. They stare back at me impassively as if to say: 'What?'
For the next twelve days, I spend a lot of time singing If Tomorrow Never Comes. ‘Looking forward to’ is the sweetest foreplay. I contemplate what mood he might prefer to find me in: light and fluffy? Deep and serious? Sexy and seductive? Will he keep the date or suddenly decide he has to go salmon fishing on the banks of the Clyde?
Time drags along like a half-dead donkey and every time the phone rings, I’m convinced it’s him calling to cancel. Notwithstanding this, I carry on planning the menu like I’ve got Gordon, Jamie and Heston coming to dinner.
Wednesday.
I’m in the local wine bar with my laptop when I get an email from Eurotrash. He wants his art book back. I tell him I’ll drop it off when I’m next passing but he suggests picking it up one night after work.
I decide to drop the book back there and then. I go home, tart myself up a bit and drive to the gallery.
Loud music is playing and he's absorbed on the computer so he doesn’t look up as I walk in. I place the book down on his oversized desk and slide it slowly towards him. He jumps when he notices it, clutches his chest, and stares up at me. The blueness of his eyes is astounding. He bounds out of his chair and comes round to hug me so tightly I can hardly breathe.
‘I heffen’t herd vrom you in such a long vile’ he complains.
‘Ditto!’ I answer. ‘And why should you hear from me? You virtually stood me up last time.'
‘I really vasn’t vell,…’ he vhines.
‘Self-inflicted, by all accounts.’ I retort. ‘No sympathy there, I’m afraid.’
‘No, really… I had zuch a zore zroat. I shtill don’t feel right…’
I raise one eyebrow and walk off to look at the new installations. He follows me and grabs my arm.
‘I like the vay you’re so angry’ he breathes, his lips almost touching mine. ‘Like it vas important to you…’
‘I’m not angry’ I snap. ‘I just don’t like being dumped at the last minute, that’s all.’
He shrugs apologetically and carries on stroking my arm.
‘Vy ish it…’ he goes on, ‘…zat I always get so horny venever I see you?’
‘Cos you're a dirty bastard and I'm hot!' I answer and I leave the gallery with an extra swing in my step.
No sooner am I out on the street than he texts me: YOU ARE SO DELICIOUS XXXX
'So come up and eat me sometime' I reply and go home to do the ironing.
When the conversation looks like it’s running out of gas, I leap into the driving seat and slam my foot on the accelerator.
‘I’m thinking of making a fondue one night,’ I say, winging it, 'the one we never had on holiday, remember? It would be a shame to go to all that trouble just for one, so how about you come over and share it with me?’
Expecting a hesitation or downright refusal, I am staggered when he answers:
‘I should really take you out.’
My heart bounds like Baryshnikov across the dining-table and lands elegantly atop the sideboard.
‘I’ll do the fondue this time and you can take me out the time after how about next Thursday?’ I end the sentence gasping for breath.
He can’t do Thursday, I can’t do Wednesday so we make an arrangement for twelve days hence.
That’s Twelve Days.
Hence.
‘7.30?’ he asks, as if he actually intends to keep this date.
‘Perfect!’ I reply and hang up.
I look around to see if a bunch of red-nosed clowns aren’t pissing themselves laughing behind my back but they’re not. I walk over to the hall mirror and kiss myself full on the mouth, then I turn on my heels and moonwalk backwards down the corridor until I reach my bedroom.
Did you see what I just did there? I ask the curtains. They stare back at me impassively as if to say: 'What?'
For the next twelve days, I spend a lot of time singing If Tomorrow Never Comes. ‘Looking forward to’ is the sweetest foreplay. I contemplate what mood he might prefer to find me in: light and fluffy? Deep and serious? Sexy and seductive? Will he keep the date or suddenly decide he has to go salmon fishing on the banks of the Clyde?
Time drags along like a half-dead donkey and every time the phone rings, I’m convinced it’s him calling to cancel. Notwithstanding this, I carry on planning the menu like I’ve got Gordon, Jamie and Heston coming to dinner.
Wednesday.
I’m in the local wine bar with my laptop when I get an email from Eurotrash. He wants his art book back. I tell him I’ll drop it off when I’m next passing but he suggests picking it up one night after work.
I decide to drop the book back there and then. I go home, tart myself up a bit and drive to the gallery.
Loud music is playing and he's absorbed on the computer so he doesn’t look up as I walk in. I place the book down on his oversized desk and slide it slowly towards him. He jumps when he notices it, clutches his chest, and stares up at me. The blueness of his eyes is astounding. He bounds out of his chair and comes round to hug me so tightly I can hardly breathe.
‘I heffen’t herd vrom you in such a long vile’ he complains.
‘Ditto!’ I answer. ‘And why should you hear from me? You virtually stood me up last time.'
‘I really vasn’t vell,…’ he vhines.
‘Self-inflicted, by all accounts.’ I retort. ‘No sympathy there, I’m afraid.’
‘No, really… I had zuch a zore zroat. I shtill don’t feel right…’
I raise one eyebrow and walk off to look at the new installations. He follows me and grabs my arm.
‘I like the vay you’re so angry’ he breathes, his lips almost touching mine. ‘Like it vas important to you…’
‘I’m not angry’ I snap. ‘I just don’t like being dumped at the last minute, that’s all.’
He shrugs apologetically and carries on stroking my arm.
‘Vy ish it…’ he goes on, ‘…zat I always get so horny venever I see you?’
‘Cos you're a dirty bastard and I'm hot!' I answer and I leave the gallery with an extra swing in my step.
No sooner am I out on the street than he texts me: YOU ARE SO DELICIOUS XXXX
'So come up and eat me sometime' I reply and go home to do the ironing.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
I'M BACK! 08/08/08
Hi readers everywhere!
Thanks for being patient with me while I toiled away on the cliff face of literature (a lovely terrace in Andalusia...) working on my novel Blood on the Sand.
I'll keep you posted as to how that's going but for now on with The Daily Male:
Friday. I set off for a couple of days away with an old friend to his country cottage in Devon. PT and I have known each other for many years. When we first met, he made a bit of a play for me, but I wasn’t attracted to him in that way and he seems to have accepted it. He does still try it on occasionally but I slap him down affectionately and he takes it in good part. I think...
As we are closeted in his car for the long drive West, I tell him all about CC. He listens attentively but doesn’t express much, except to say: ‘He sounds like trouble’.
The weekend is pleasant enough. It’s always good to get out of town as long as you know you’re coming back.
On the Sunday afternoon, I return to London by train as PT is staying on. I’ve got the steak date with Eurotrash to look forward to but as the train is chugging through Berkshire, the trashy bastard texts to tell me he’s ‘not feeling very well’, having had ‘a large one’ the night before.
How fucking dare you! I think to myself. You knew you had to be on top form for Sunday night! I could have stayed on in the country and now I've got nothing to do when I get home. I consider hurling myself into the path of an oncoming express, but Mr. Branson realises this sort of thing might happen (he obviously knows men like Eurotrash personally) so he's sealed up all the windows.
My disgruntledness of the bloody awfulness of Sundays in general, and cancelled dates on Sunday nights in particular, reaches an all time high. I console myself with a cosy, little homily: Life sucks and then you die.
I draft some texts to CC to pass the time on the rest of journey. Writing to him is like talking to him…
My darling, I haven’t slept for nights. (not strictly true). I do not wish to harass you emotionally (strictly true) but is there any way we could stay in touch that you would be comfortable with? I can’t bear the thought of losing you forever… I miss you every day...(totally true).
I save these in my drafts folder.
Wednesday. Unable to keep my counsel any longer, I send CC the favourite from among my drafted texts:
I’ve waited with the noose around my neck for you to kick the chair away. Please either do that or come and lift me down.
After several hours, I receive the much-dreaded reply:
I’m really sorry lovely Wendy but I have read your memoir and I know that this perhaps overly private and sensitive man cannot do this. I wish I could but I can’t. Sorry sorry sorry. Your adventure is bold, courageous and I respect what you are doing xxx
I only wrote The Toyboy Diaries to inspire other women that all things are possible no matter your age. I never expected it to come back and bite me on the bum.
Through a mist of tears, I text back:
Sweetheart, I am devastated... please don't judge me by the contents of a book. I am worth more than that... And I am.
I get no answer.
The massacre of my last vestige of hope leaves me lost without a cause. I feel like a rat swimming against the tide in a maelstrom of muck of my own making. Now what? Now what? I feel like my life has turned sepia. Where did all the colour go?
Another week begins and unable one night when I am home alone, I decide I have to phone him. I psych up myself for at least an hour, composing disjointed sentences the words of which shatter into a crazy alphabet which swims around in my head.
Finally, hardly making any sense, I dial his number. It rings a few times and goes to voice mail.
‘H-hallo?’ I stutter. ‘It’s…er… Wendy?…er…I’m…er… not sure if I’m allowed to do this?…Am I still a…er…friend or an ex-friend…? (nervous laugh) I just wanted to say… I think about you often and I’d really like to know how you are? You see… I…er…I really miss you? …and I care about you?…and er…it would be nice to hear from you?… to know you’re OK…?
I have no idea why I’m talking Australian? but I know I sound vulnerable and insecure, and this is not an act. What I’ve created by making the call is renewed hope…the hope that he will call me back.
Had there been a brick wall within bashing distance, I may just as well have impacted my weary head against it but within a few minutes, my mobile rings and it’s him!
Thanks for being patient with me while I toiled away on the cliff face of literature (a lovely terrace in Andalusia...) working on my novel Blood on the Sand.
I'll keep you posted as to how that's going but for now on with The Daily Male:
Friday. I set off for a couple of days away with an old friend to his country cottage in Devon. PT and I have known each other for many years. When we first met, he made a bit of a play for me, but I wasn’t attracted to him in that way and he seems to have accepted it. He does still try it on occasionally but I slap him down affectionately and he takes it in good part. I think...
As we are closeted in his car for the long drive West, I tell him all about CC. He listens attentively but doesn’t express much, except to say: ‘He sounds like trouble’.
The weekend is pleasant enough. It’s always good to get out of town as long as you know you’re coming back.
On the Sunday afternoon, I return to London by train as PT is staying on. I’ve got the steak date with Eurotrash to look forward to but as the train is chugging through Berkshire, the trashy bastard texts to tell me he’s ‘not feeling very well’, having had ‘a large one’ the night before.
How fucking dare you! I think to myself. You knew you had to be on top form for Sunday night! I could have stayed on in the country and now I've got nothing to do when I get home. I consider hurling myself into the path of an oncoming express, but Mr. Branson realises this sort of thing might happen (he obviously knows men like Eurotrash personally) so he's sealed up all the windows.
My disgruntledness of the bloody awfulness of Sundays in general, and cancelled dates on Sunday nights in particular, reaches an all time high. I console myself with a cosy, little homily: Life sucks and then you die.
I draft some texts to CC to pass the time on the rest of journey. Writing to him is like talking to him…
My darling, I haven’t slept for nights. (not strictly true). I do not wish to harass you emotionally (strictly true) but is there any way we could stay in touch that you would be comfortable with? I can’t bear the thought of losing you forever… I miss you every day...(totally true).
I save these in my drafts folder.
Wednesday. Unable to keep my counsel any longer, I send CC the favourite from among my drafted texts:
I’ve waited with the noose around my neck for you to kick the chair away. Please either do that or come and lift me down.
After several hours, I receive the much-dreaded reply:
I’m really sorry lovely Wendy but I have read your memoir and I know that this perhaps overly private and sensitive man cannot do this. I wish I could but I can’t. Sorry sorry sorry. Your adventure is bold, courageous and I respect what you are doing xxx
I only wrote The Toyboy Diaries to inspire other women that all things are possible no matter your age. I never expected it to come back and bite me on the bum.
Through a mist of tears, I text back:
Sweetheart, I am devastated... please don't judge me by the contents of a book. I am worth more than that... And I am.
I get no answer.
The massacre of my last vestige of hope leaves me lost without a cause. I feel like a rat swimming against the tide in a maelstrom of muck of my own making. Now what? Now what? I feel like my life has turned sepia. Where did all the colour go?
Another week begins and unable one night when I am home alone, I decide I have to phone him. I psych up myself for at least an hour, composing disjointed sentences the words of which shatter into a crazy alphabet which swims around in my head.
Finally, hardly making any sense, I dial his number. It rings a few times and goes to voice mail.
‘H-hallo?’ I stutter. ‘It’s…er… Wendy?…er…I’m…er… not sure if I’m allowed to do this?…Am I still a…er…friend or an ex-friend…? (nervous laugh) I just wanted to say… I think about you often and I’d really like to know how you are? You see… I…er…I really miss you? …and I care about you?…and er…it would be nice to hear from you?… to know you’re OK…?
I have no idea why I’m talking Australian? but I know I sound vulnerable and insecure, and this is not an act. What I’ve created by making the call is renewed hope…the hope that he will call me back.
Had there been a brick wall within bashing distance, I may just as well have impacted my weary head against it but within a few minutes, my mobile rings and it’s him!
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