LIZ JONES’S DIARY
In which David invites me to watch the sky light up
ONMONDAY, DAVID sent me this: ‘ Hi lovely, everything OK? Sort of miss having you around. xxxx’ Sort of?! Sort of?! So I typed, ‘Sort of?!’ ‘I didn’t want to appear too needy. I am nothing without you.’
I don’t think people should type things like ‘I am nothing without you’ when they wait until after you have arrived after an eight-hour drive to get fizzy water. But still, I let that go. Who says it’s not possible to change?
‘I’m sorry the dogs made a mess.’ In London, Mini refuses to eat (she takes after me) and she had buried her supper under his kitchen rug. Gracie had had a little chew on his skirting board, though she’d been delighted to see Prudence. Gracie simply loves cats. If you are out and you say, ‘Gracie, where is Leo?’ she sits up, ears to the sky, and scans the horizon anxiously. She cannot wait to get home to see him. Leo, a muscular, very solid black cat, even comes on our evening walk, which is why I think all my neighbours are really scared of me.
‘Not a problem. I love them almost as much as I love you.’
Anyway, he has invited me to something at long last: an evening watching the Perseid meteor shower. He suggested we have dinner at The Saddle Room (his treat), then go with the puppies to the middle of the moor, where there is zero light pollution, to watch the meteor shower. It sounds quite dangerous. What if one of them lands on Mini Puppy?
I expect it will be cloudy. Nothing ever lives up to the hype. I once got up before dawn to see the sun rise over Angkor Wat with my ex-friend Kerry (she might deny she’s an ex-friend, but I didn’t get so much as an email when my mum/sister/horse/Sam/Hilda died, or when I was made bankrupt and homeless) and was disappointed that everywhere just seemed to get lighter. It turned out we were facing in the wrong direction.
I’ve just broken the news to David that I’m no longer coming to London on Thursday as the last time I drove back it almost killed me: ten hours, due to people thinking their hobby of cycling should impact adversely on me, making me sit in a traffic jam in London for several hours due to all the bridges being closed. He replied: ‘That’s disappointing. What about your viewing on Friday?’
I’d arranged to see a house near Bath. I figure Bath might be the way to go: near The Pig, Babington House, Wells, The White Company. My friend Isobel is so sweet that when I told her my plans she said, ‘Well, I could rent out my house and come with you.’ I don’t think she wants to be in North Yorkshire without me. She’d miss our Scrabble nights.
‘I will try to go to see it, but Fridays are always a nightmare, work-wise. Which is why I want to move nearer to London or, as Basil Fawlty said sotto voce to Mrs Richards of the sea, ‘preferably in it’.
Seeing Lawn House, the home I lost to revenue, on the cover of a glossy magazine last week really threw me. I keep thinking of Hilda, buried in the garden. I’ve been studying photos of the garden makeover to see if it’s possible they might have dug her up. I’d buried her in her navy Christmas tank top, with a heart shape on the back picked out in spangles. I asked Nic if she’d read the article. ‘No, but I looked it up on gorgeous-cottages. com. It made me feel sick.’
I’d had a frank discussion about my situation with David in his awful kitchen before I left on my terrible journey. I kept telling him that I don’t think he really understands what has happened to me. We never talk about my finances. He never once said, ‘Oh dear. I read you sold your chest of drawers to pay for my birthday week.’
‘I do understand,’ he said, almost in tears but still unable to look at me. ‘I lost my home too, you know.’
‘Yes, but you had an affair. You were married, with a son. Of course your wife would get the house. But I did nothing wrong!’
I expect it will be cloudy. Nothing ever lives up to the hype