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.
‘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.
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.