So, on Thursday night, I was in bed with several cats, dotted in commas around me, SATC on the TV.
And an email popped into my inbox.
The heading stated: Me and Ms Jones. What now? It read:
Dear Liz,I’m an author and journalist living in Hampstead. I was chatting with Nirpal over a bowl of noodles this evening about what my next book project could be and somehow we got to discussing your latest column about how lonely you were.I told him I wasn’t surprised that you felt that way, and he told me there is a different side to you that no one knows and that he still thinks of you with great fondness for your wit and humour and warmth. As he got up to go to the loo he joked and said, ‘That should be your next book – go and live with Liz for a year and write a book about the side of her that no one knows’. So that’s why I’m writing to you now. I’d love to do that.If you want to meet me and see if I’m the kind of person you could get on with, do let me know and we can go for a coffee or dinner to discuss it further. Best wishes, M xUm, hello? I was shocked and outraged.
Nirpal thinks I have a side that people have no idea about, and that no one knows I am funny?
My agent did this exact same thing to me the other day, over lunch with someone important. ‘The thing people don’t know about Liz,’ he said, ‘is that she is really, really funny.’
I pulled him up on this, slamming down my fork. ‘People do know I’m funny!’ I shouted. ‘That is my USP!’
I can imagine my ex-husband being grilled yet again by a doe-eyed dining companion – and ‘chatting over a bowl of noodles’ is the most passive-aggressive phrase I’ve come across; oh, and why isn’t she surprised I am lonely? – about his ancient ex-wife.
He must bring something new to the table, I suppose, especially as he never used to bring his wallet. And live with me for a year to write a book, when I am a writer?
I was shocked and outraged. Nirpal thinks I have a side that people have no idea about, and that no one knows I am funny?Is she insane, or was she overly praised as a child?
I’m so glad that I am no longer party to these endless dinners in trendy places where people spout nonsense.
Maybe he was just joking, but he must have given her my personal email address. I am making progress, though.
The woman gave her full name, but I did not Google her. In the past, I would have typed in her name, studied photos, worked out her age and wondered whether or not she was married.
I might have replied, too, and arranged to meet so I could work out her BMI, see how interesting she is.
All those years, all that energy, monitoring a man who wasn’t interested in me, who never Googled me, only ever himself: I once spied, over the bulk of his shoulder, that he had typed ‘Nirpal genius’ into the search engine.
Last night, unable to sleep, I watched the Golden Globes on the E! channel.
Rachel Weisz unfurled from a limo, hair in shiny waves, tiny body encased in black lace, followed by the manly form of Daniel Craig.
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I interviewed Rachel when she was a schoolgirl. I was on Company magazine, and she came into the office with her mum.
She was 13, and I knew she was destined for a fantastic life.
As she left, taking her Brooke Shields brows with her, I was deflated for decades, knowing I could never be that young, that beautiful.
She would glide while I would always scrabble, and claw, and sink back to the bottom again.
I watched Daniel Craig take her hand, then I thought, I am so stupid!
I have let the memory of a man cloud everything, even my judgment. I have someone who will hold my hand, steer me by the small of my back.
And I have pushed him away because I am not a 32-year-old babe with a misplaced sense of importance. It was now 3am, but I called him. I interrupted, I impinged.
We’re going out on Wednesday night. And it won’t be for a bowl of noodles.