I throw on some make-up, fluff up my hair, change my flats for heels and walk down to the local wine bar.
God! Rugby Player is way better looking than I remembered and he has indeed lost a couple of stone. He’s got a strong jaw with a cleft chin, a thick head of graying hair, and very large green eyes. He’s tall, well-dressed and from his generous present is on the right side of rich. Not that this matters to me, but if I’d passed him in the street, or anywhere else for that matter, I’d have tripped myself up and fallen headfirst into his lap.
I thank him effusively for the lurvely lingerie and ask him if he presumes that by sending such a gift, it buys him the right to handle the goods contained therein.
‘Not at all...’ he replies. ‘There’s no obligation whatsoever…though it would be very nice…I enjoy spoiling beautiful women especially those to whom I am attracted.’
I can’t argue with that. I drink a tomato juice and we chat for a while then he has to go. I kiss him goodbye and by the time I’ve walked home, he’s texted:
You are both striking and have great chat. Looking forward to indulging you xx.
Ooh! OK...Indulge away, I think to myself. I sure as hell ain’t gonna stop you.
Later that evening, while having dinner with my mother and aunt, he texts me again and because I’ve slung some Chilean Chardonnay down my neck and convinced myself that I really fancy him, I’m a little more overt than usual in my reply...
Saturday. I shoot down to Portobello Road to have coffee with an occasional customer of mine, a darling young chap I've wanted to 'mother' since the day we met.
There is a certain je ne sais quoi in the air between us and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got Benjamin-style designs on me. My maternal feelings are rather like reverse MILF i.e. SILF (son I’d like to f***…)
When we say goodbye, he kisses me fondly and says: ‘We must go out for dinner sometime.’ Yes, I think. We must.
I go home to prepare some pasta for my children, and while I’m doing this, I’m on the phone negotiating a lower price for a piece of furniture I saw in All Saint's Road.
My mobile goes off, but I ignore it and carry on with my wheeler-dealing while stirring the Bolognese. I lean over to look at the mobile screen and it says a name I don’t immediately recognize. I have a habit of giving people code names when I save them and I can't always remember who they are.
I think it may be my son-in-law’s father, but as I hang up the furniture call and pick up the mobile, I realise who it actually is.
My joy at seeing his name on the screen is totally disproportionate with any emotions I’ve experienced in the last ten years and I savour the moment before pressing the answer key.
‘Hallo?’ I say innocently, as if I don’t know who I'm speaking to.
He introduces himself and I come over all warm and soppy. As usual (he's really such a wimp) he starts with an apology.
‘I’m sorry...I’ve felt guilty all week at not phoning you.’
‘Well I was going to come round and pour melted cheese through your letter box,’ I counter, but of course I couldn’t have done this, as Mr. Cagey has never given me his home address.
‘I suppose you have a whole list of creative vendettas to draw on,’ he comments fearfully. ‘Nothing as mundane as cutting up my ties…’
The conversation carries on in this vein but by the end of it, we have another date arranged. I've agreed to let him take me out, and somehow this time, I think we’ll make it. I feel so happy I could fly.
The children arrive, eat, play and leave, and remaining on my high, I get ready for the evening.
I drive to the station and park the car where I can see the exit. Cute Face arrives on time and I see him clocking another woman. He looks like he might dive back down the tube as she’s a dog and I can tell by his uncomfortable body language that he thinks she might be me.
I bound out of the car and cross the road, and his relief is evident. We kiss Hallo and he hands me a carrier bag which contains a bottle of Taittinger. Nice one. When he’d asked me this morning if I preferred red or white, I told him to surprise me. He has.
We have a couple of drinks at the Elgin then go home as planned to watch TV.
We make kir royales with the Taittinger and once we’ve finished those, I liberate some peach and raspberry schnapps shots from the freezer. I then send him into the kitchen to concoct a toxic cocktail into which he throws rum, vodka, amaretto, brandy and fruit juice. For someone who doesn’t drink, I’m doing a passable impression of a very boozy floozy.
I put on some Bon Jovi and we crash around the living-room in what we think is dancing but which is, in fact, bumping into things. This isn’t clever, as my furniture - and I – bruise quite easily.
He then decides he fancies some more champagne and without asking, he raids my fridge and opens the nice, cold bottle of Moët I’d been saving for a special occasion. (I can’t be sure that this is not it...)
We throw the bottle back and forth to each other, spilling a fair amount on the settee and carpet. I suddenly think I’m going to throw up and rush to the loo, but the nausea passes and I lurch back into the living-room and change the music to the Pointer Sisters.
The neighbours will surely appreciate our authenticity as we obey the order to Jump!
At around 11 p.m. having had no dinner and enough booze to sink the Bismarck, we stagger like drunken sailors into the bedroom where we embark on an orgy of rampant sex.
I can’t remember the finer details of this fuck-athon except to say that I really enjoyed it.
And it goes on for a very long time.
And apart from a Cute Face, Cute Smile, Cute Body and Cute Bum, he has a Huge Cock.