LIZ JONES’S DIARY

OH DEAR GOD: DID I SLEEP WITH HIM JUST TO HAVE A DATE ON MY BIRTHDAY?

I T WAS STRANGE, actually, the way I fell into bed again with David. I had led him up to my room at Home House, and handed myself to him on a plate, clad only in a flesh-coloured Myla thong. He was, I suspect, grateful, bewildered. Grateful, mostly. His reaction since has been puzzling, too.

I got home that evening and fully expected an adoring text. Plus an explanation as to why he has still not replied having read in my column that I realise I love him. He had said, ‘You know how much I love you’ in bed, but we all know that doesn’t count. In the cold light of day? Nothing. I kept checking my phone. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I didn’t get anything, in fact, until the following morning. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening. x’ My friend Sue, whom we had joined for dinner, had been far more effusive, texting promptly at 8am the next morning. So I ignored him. Twenty four hours later: ‘Are you OK? Am I going to see you next week? Are you in London for your birthday, or up north?’

So many questions! I really wanted him to take some initiative, not merely pack a (bald) toothbrush in his top pocket on the off chance. It is my 60th. (Oh dear God. I’ve just had a thought. Did I invite him for dinner, sleep with him, just to have a date on my birthday? No, surely not. I’m a feminist!) Sue’s husband bought her a gold ring. Another friend, who has also just reached that monumental milestone, was given a brand new horsebox by her husband. How I wish David would just say, ‘Meet me at the Eurostar terminal at 10am on the day before your birthday.’ Or, ‘I’ve got tickets for The English Patient live at the Albert Hall.’ (The English Patient is my favourite film of all time. I was so drawn to Naveen Andrews, who plays Kip, I think that’s a large part of the reason I ended up marrying a Sikh.)

I felt some gentle prompting, a poke across the ether, as it were, was in order. But I would also give him a get-out clause. See if he grasps a metaphorical rubber ring tossed into the dating pool.

Me: ‘I could be up north or in London for my birthday, I really don’t mind. Or we could wait until after I’ve moved into my new flat, have a quiet dinner somewhere within walking distance in Primrose Hill? That might be easier?’ I waited. And, very quickly, I got this: ‘Don’t make a special trip. I’m meeting [his best friend] Geoff* later, to see if we can arrange our road trip to France, which would mean being away on the 5th, the actual day. I will also be away now for when you move, so won’t be able to help with any boxes or lifting. If you don’t mind celebrating your birthday a few weeks late, we can do that. I will let you know later. X’

What do we all think of that? Let me know later! I am aghast, to be honest. He grabbed that rubber ring, clung to it and swam away in the opposite direction! He is blowing me out for a trip with a friend he has yet to arrange! I am not going to reply. I am going to ignore him. If he fails to send a humongous (and perfect; no leaves, no berries, no glitter, no spiky bits, no lilies) bunch of flowers, already in a vase so I don’t have to go to all the bother of finding one, snipping off the ends of the flowers and filling the vase with water, he is a dead man.

But you have met me. You know I can’t help myself. I type an ambiguous, ‘Yeah, let’s leave it.’ And I press send. Let’s see if he panics. *Maybe Geoff will bring him to his senses