Good news! I had been shaking in my Gucci slides over columns for the past few weeks, awaiting the fallout from David 1.0, oh, and everyone else in my life.
David was bound to be furious when I wrote ‘Never Again’. And that he couldn’t lift a pot of daffodils without moaning and groaning. And that he looked like a homeless man.
Then this morning I got a text from him.
I read it between my fingers. ‘Hello, I just tried to read your column but I can only see the first paragraph without subscribing. Which I’d rather not do. However, I could see that you are having difficulty finding your deposit and thought maybe I could help you. How much do you need? Your column last week sent me over the edge and I went out to buy tobacco. A decision I immediately regretted. I want to quit smoking not only for you but for me.
The paywall! Oh, thank the lord! It’s like I’m writing this column in pre-Internet land.
I would tell my then-husband, who would ask me if I had written about him, as he had just received a concerned text from his lesbian best friend: ‘No, of course not! I’ve written about Squeaky and Snoopy and their special cookies. He was too lazy and too stingy to go out and buy the newspaper. It was fantastic, liberating. I felt free of restrictions.
David 2.0 (the Ferrari man) is obviously not a tightwad, as I know he still reads this column, because he WhatsApped: ‘I miss the banter we had when you used me as column fodder, but it was fun.’ He used to howl with laughter. It’s clear that you love David 1.0, but he is in no way worthy or compatible. I don’t know why you bother.
“I know,” I replied. “Has no cure.”
I have no idea what turned me off about David 2.0: he just bought a beautiful house with floor-to-ceiling windows. He sends me photos of his bathroom renovation. I think the fact that his Ferrari was white and not red made me not want a second date, and the fact that he made me go sit in it.
A fellow writer recently wrote, in an article about joining a £10,000 dating agency, that the fact that the man she had been matched with at the restaurant had taken the comfortable banquette seat, rather than the thin chair, it made him nauseous.
Are we too picky? Do I always choose men who depend on me financially to give me an advantage?
Anyway, I text David 1.0 back. ‘Hi D. I’m sorry that my column made you start smoking again. You had promised not to read it. You should know that you are very difficult to be around, it is not a surprise. You never say anything significant. You didn’t ask about my sister, her funeral.
You didn’t even bother to walk a few feet to see Swirly, the thoroughbred, and you were here for three days. She is the only horse I have left. Being a partner means being interested in her passion. I learned the names of your two children, remember*. I should receive news about the sale of my next novel in the United States next week; I really hope my agent isn’t giving me false hope. Again.
But just in case I sell everything I have. I think you need something to distract you from smoking besides watching TV and obsessing over me. Thank you for the offer of help with my deposit, but I couldn’t accept your money**.’
He answers. “It was difficult for me to breathe. “It really surprised me.”
Oh my God. So. Reading my column almost killed him. But he still offered to give me money for my deposit. My God. Nobody ever gives me anything. Now that I’m behind a paywall and this part is almost at the bottom of my page so you can’t see it without subscribing, I can safely say that you are completely and utterly in love with me. What do we all think? Should I propose it on February 29?
*I have forgotten what the daughter’s name is.
**I am not an ordinary prostitute.
Jones moans… What Liz hates this week
- Valentine’s Day. Did you survive? Or is there some gypsophila in a garage yard rotting on a window sill, which meant it was demanding sex when all you wanted to do was watch Great British Menu followed by Love Island All Stars and now you’ve got cystitis to boot? I’m not talking about myself here. Absolutely.
- The National Lottery. It’s like going on a date, all hope for the future: I’m saved! – And he discovers that the man has spinach between his teeth and asks for octopus. Surely it is a poor tax.
- Dog hair in the refrigerator. As?
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and stalk her @lizjonesgoddess
