He arrived at my hotel at 9:30 p.m. He was impressed by the luxury suite with its huge Christmas tree, copper bathtub and minibar.
I noticed that he was soon nibbling on KitKats and Pringles, like a mouse. He opened a bottle of wine. We had sex until 1 in the morning and then went to sleep. He had to get up to work the next day.
We had morning sex.
Later he texted me: ‘Thank you for a wonderful, magical night. I loved being with you. It was a kind of paradise. It doesn’t happen in my world. It’s so special, I’m very lucky. Nothing makes me feel valued. Are you doing this? Sorry, no one does this. I don’t feel like I deserve it.’
He said he would text every night over Christmas, since his ex-wife and daughter would be staying with him. He didn’t do it. But we had made firm plans for the New Year. I’m ironing my bedding. Here is my shopping list. I swear on Mini’s life that I repeat it word for word: steak, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, bread, champagne, smoked salmon, Dijon mustard, KitKats, Pringles, N Peal sweater.*
Against my instincts, on December 30th I went to Sainsbury’s and spent just over £200. The woman at the checkout said, “Is he coming then?” I unloaded the groceries, went upstairs and dyed my hair and eyebrows.
I cleaned the wood stove.
At 4:47 p.m. I get this. ‘My daughter sadly left yesterday. I am broken and my body is broken (sic). I need three days of rest.
I text Nic: ‘He didn’t have the guts to say he’s not coming. He needs three days of rest.
Unfortunately I sent it to you.
I call Nic. How do I forward it? Aid! She tells me to update my software. It takes six minutes!! No, nooooo! You’ve read it! It’s like an episode of 24. He responds. ‘Yuck. I’m not well.’
I tell him I bought smoked salmon, he obviously doesn’t like it, so let’s leave it for today. I’m sending you a photo of the inside of my refrigerator.
He sends this: ‘It stands. I’m sorry, it’s okay.’
I’ve had enough. Do you remember Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle? I am her. I hire a private detective agency. They are going to put surveillance on their apartment (they send me a photo of the place) tonight, New Year’s Eve, and they are going to take photos in the back of the building. I feel like I’m in an episode of Black Doves.
It’s New Year’s Eve. Send a series of text messages. ‘You know how special you are. You have always done a lot for me. It is very significant. You have been the only kindness in my life. We will be in each other’s lives. Thank you with all my heart.”
Surveillance is outside your apartment. At 7:27 p.m. they sent me a video.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. A blonde woman rings the doorbell. She waits. He comes down, greets her, she enters his hallway. I see his body language, the way he takes off his glasses, his sweater, his angles. I can still smell him, see his face on top of mine while we made love. He takes a box of candy from her and puffs out his cheeks with the effort. She turns and looks briefly at the camera, but has no idea she is being filmed.
I am devastated. It’s like an assault. I can’t tell you what I feel. It’s in my stomach, like I’ve been punched.
I was the best I could. I was very generous. I had so much hope in my heart. Why am I not good enough? Why do men do this? Because? Look at his coat. Her hair. New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake! The first in my new house. When I thought I was rebuilding my life. I needed three days of rest.
“We will still be in each other’s lives,” he had texted me at 6:50 p.m.
Ten minutes later, at 7:01 p.m., he opened that door. You.
*The only thing I can eat is bread. I am allergic to mushrooms.
Jones moans… What Liz hates this week
- Why aren’t there more subtitled screenings in cinemas? The Station Cinema in Richmond has no information on their website and when you call, they don’t answer the phone. My local Vue doesn’t have subtitled screenings of the new Florence Pugh, but it does have clear instructions for wheelchair users.