In which I contact a ‘big, burly’ blast from the past

IGOT THIS IN response to my (second) invitation that David come to mine for Christmas. ‘Why? So you can shout at me then throw me out. You have been vile to me both personally and in print. I have done more to try to help you than anyone and yet you treat me like this. So unless it is to apologise and promise to at least try to mend your ways then it has to be no. Sorry but I’ve had enough. It hurts me to have to say this because I still love you.’

I’m a little upset by that, actually. Mend my ways? Mend your ways! And do you know what, when I suggested I send some wine to his friend who’d been offended by my column, he wrote, ‘I think he would appreciate a new visitors’ book.’ I’ve been made f ****** BANKRUPT!

I have always put on my best face for David. I tried to be cheerful when in the car on the way to Edinburgh all he could do was swear at other drivers. I remember the night before I went into Celebrity Big Brother I was so terrified, I was reading my favourite book to distract me. All he could say the next morning was that it was a sign I didn’t want to have sex. It was all about him. He’s like a baby, mewling.

But, despite all this, on Christmas Day I sent him a text, saying I hoped he was having a lovely time. ‘Hard to be truly happy with a broken heart. Not that you would understand.’ ‘Come to Yorkshire tomorrow. Or for New Year?’ He shot back: ‘Why? What has changed?’ Well, not him! He’s the one who needs to change, not me!

I’m writing this on the morning my three girlfriends have just left after a week spent with me over Christmas. Everything at first was lovely: I lit candles, built a huge log fire, slaved for ages over a nut roast on Christmas Day; I even sieved onion gravy from scratch. My poor, pristine cooker felt assaulted. But by New Year’s Eve, when we were all having lunch, one of my guests said she didn’t want to go out later, as she couldn’t stand being surrounded by ‘people eating and drinking’. OK. Fair enough. But she then said, ‘You won’t write that I ruined New Year’s Eve in your column, will you?’

I’m afraid I snapped. It was a cumulative thing, in that she hadn’t lifted a finger – not emptied the dishwasher, or taken out recycling, or placed one log on the fire, or cooked a thing – and for her to now say, ‘You won’t write about how I’ve ruined New Year’ was the final straw.

‘If you are worried about being written about, don’t go and spend Christmas in the house of a writer.’ ‘I was joking.’ ‘You were not joking. I have only mentioned you once in ten years, but didn’t even name you. And I apologised. Ninety nine point nine per cent of the things I’ve written about you have been expressly to promote your business. Yet you have the cheek to say, “Don’t write about me!”’

I then said about how I’m an artist, and I think I brought up the fact my dad fought the Nazis. I left the room and left them to it.

On New Year’s Day, I was on the sofa with my other friend, and she asked if I’d heard from David. I told her he hadn’t even entered my brain. ‘Well, who do you want to hear from?’

I told her about a war reporter I’d met on a trip years ago. Oh my God. He looks like Liam Neeson! ‘He’s big and burly.’ ‘Email him!’ she said. ‘No! I’d never do that, he’s married with children.’ She wanted to see a photo, so we googled him, giggling. ‘Look, look!’ she said, getting really excited. ‘He’s divorced!’

Bugger! For a year or so after our trip, I’d looked him up on the internet, typed his name and the word ‘Divorce’, but nothing, nothing, nothing. And then I’d been so busy with David, I’d stopped stalking him online, feeling that to do so would be disloyal. And all this time, he’s been single! He’s probably hooked up with a new young floozy.

But even so, and only because my friend encouraged me, I sent him a friendly email saying happy new year, and that I hope we can work together again one day. The rest of the day was spent with her asking, ‘Has he replied yet? Has he?’

A few hours later, PING! We opened it, for all the world as though we were 16 again, and we both screamed. His email began,

‘Darling Girl…’

I’D BEEN SO BUSY WITH DAVID THAT I’D STOPPED STALKING HIM ONLINE. AND ALL THIS TIME HE’S BEEN SINGLE’’