Liz Jones’s diary

In which I text David while tired and angry

ASI DROVE home, for hours, on the journey from London to North Yorkshire, I became more and more angry. I was upset, too, that I had taken the puppies to London. It doesn’t suit them. It’s too busy. Too dangerous. I got home to nothing to eat and a text from David. ‘Hi. You home safe? x’ Red rag to a bull. Seriously. ‘I’m just unpacking. The dogs are really upset. Gracie tried to climb out of the car because she needed a poo. I had to stop, let her out.’

‘I think it’s too much for them. Poor things, perhaps they were car sick. I hope I can trust you to keep my financial details confidential.’

He was referring to our discussion over a frankly awful breakfast (his poached eggs were raw) about us moving in together. Me paying the rent. Him living in a lovely house, with the ashen-faced cleaner. Him keeping his housing association flat as his safety net.

I’d said, not wanting to repeat past mistakes: ‘What if I get home after work, tired, and I resent you for being horizontal and not getting any fizzy water in?’ And he’d said, ‘There’s a quick solution. I leave. I come back to my flat.’

Yeah. That will work. Over breakfast, I’d noticed all the weeds had grown in his ‘garden’; there was an empty plastic bottle in the middle. I pointed it out. ‘Oh, I haven’t been in the garden. The weather hasn’t been nice enough.’

Can you imagine me, with an empty plastic bottle in the middle of my garden?

So I sent him this. ‘Relationships are a two-way street. The line that you “haven’t been in the garden” to pick up an empty plastic bottle was the final straw. You need to find a girlfriend who doesn’t care about stuff like that.’

I went on. I was tired. You know me. I don’t let things go.

‘You think you can do nothing and still have me? Insane. You would sit back and let me pay all the rent and yet apparently you have more money than I do. True colours at last. Easy to say, “I love you.” Those are just words. I’m sick of people treating me like this. You’d be lucky to have me.’

‘I understand. It’s a good thing. And probably timely. I explained, that’s not my money! I implore you not to expose my financial situation. I am not ready to leave here. If I want to see you then I will have to make it acceptable to you. Problem is, what would that look like? You have set me up for a fall. Agreeing to live with me, when you know I live on my pension. I always said, “Can you afford this?” Then you accuse me of using you. I have always tried to pay my way. It’s academic, anyway, if the puppies can’t travel.’

I replied: ‘ No. You asked me if we could live together. It never works if one person pays for everything. You say you don’t see empty bottles in your garden… that’s pathetic. Your flat stinks of smoke. You’ve gone weird, living alone. You paint me as the extravagant person, but I’m not. I’ve not had children. I don’t smoke. I don’t go on holiday. The suit I showed you this morning, the Helmut Lang I’d packed to do my interview with a model, is 20 years old; even then, I’d bought it in the Matches sale. You say you’re on a pension. At least you have one. I don’t. You sit back and do nothing. Same as when you proposed: I never got a f***ing ring. You showed zero interest. I am the hardestworking, most generous person YOU WILL EVER MEET!’

I kept going. ‘What do you mean, “Problem is, what would it look like?” and “Set me up for a fall”? You know the journey to London will kill me. You’ve never grown up. I’m not made of steel. What woman would put up with your flat? You got a friend to clean it!’ Him: ‘Please don’t mention any names.’ Me: ‘Oh, p*** off.’ Him: ‘And then, dear reader…’ Me: ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re not depressed, you’re lazy. Clean your own f***ing flat!’

Oh dear.

I got home to nothing to eat and a text from David. ‘Hi. You home safe? x’ Red rag to a bull. Seriously