I went on a work trip, having got up at 4am to make an 8am flight.
At the departure gate I met the woman I was travelling with, and the (male) photographer. She was young, blonde, blue eyed.
The photographer remarked on her sparkly T-shirt. ‘Oh, it matches your eyes,’ she said. We talked about the fact she and I are vegetarian.
‘I’m not,’ the photographer said. ‘Oh, we’ll convert you,’ she said saucily, touching his arm. He could not take his eyes off her.
I felt like Thora Hird faced with a Victoria’s Secret catwalk show. God, men are so easily swayed. No wonder I have only had three and a half boyfriends.
This is the conversation I have just had, over the phone, with the Rock Star.
Him: ‘I think the reason I started drinking again is because I’m nervous about making a comeback.’
‘Are you making a comeback?’ I said, surprised.
‘Yes!’ he said, sounding outraged. ‘How could you not know this?’
‘I don’t listen to Radio 2,’ I said.
Oh dear. There was a strange sound at the other end of the phone. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘That was me banging my forehead on the oak console.’
‘Oh. How is the spa?’
‘It’s not a spa. It’s a clinic. Did I leave the flat OK?’
‘Yes, it was fine,’ I said. I didn’t mention that my cleaner had said he’d used my White Company towels to plug the gaps in the windows; they are now covered in black grease.
He didn’t mention keeping the taxi driver waiting for 45 minutes, or the hammering on the door. Perhaps he had forgotten, or was embarrassed.
‘The clinic is lovely. The balcony overlooks pine trees, and the fire is laid each night in the shape of a tepee.’
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This from someone who was brought up in a tenement. And people have the cheek to write to me to tell me I should bathe in plain water for a change, not an oily bath courtesy of Bamford.
‘What planet are you on?’ I said. ‘You trash my flat, use my bedside light from Atelier Abigail Ahern as a table to put your toast on, which by the way I would never even use to put my earrings on, keep the taxi driver waiting, which is rude, lie to me, drink gin and fill up the bottle with water and think I won’t notice, sleep all day, then you have the cheek to tell me the fire is laid in the shape of a tepee! Never mind me, you have children and grandchildren you need to stay alive for!’
There was silence. Then a big inhalation, which told me he was smoking. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me off for smoking.’
‘At least that doesn’t change your personality. I hate you for being like this. It’s weak. It’s disrespectful to your parents. It’s self-indulgent.’
‘It’s an illness.’
‘No, it’s an addiction. An illness is cancer. You can’t wake up one day and decide not to have leukaemia; you can decide not to drink.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘You are a walking cliché.’
I’ve never been so direct with a man, with anyone, before. When my husband tipped 18 stone on the scales, I didn’t say, ‘Your stomach looks like a pair of buttocks’, I hired him a kickboxing trainer and sent him on a yoga retreat to Ibiza.
But to hell with that. All this touchy-feely supportive stuff doesn’t work. They take their new body and use it to have sex with other women. I am sick of tiptoeing around people.
We were both silent. I started to search for whiskers in my magnifying mirror. There is nothing like a magnifying mirror for making you think you might have been a tad hasty.
‘Yeah. You’re right. I’ve been appalling.’
I immediately felt guilty. ‘No, you haven’t. H [my cleaner] said she will bring some Vanish next time she comes.’
‘No, appalling to you. While drunk. I slept with someone else. In the cupboard.’
I heard roaring in my ears. ‘In a cupboard. An airing cupboard?’
‘No. In your flat.’