In which I experience déjà vu dismay

CANDID, CONFESSIONAL, CONTROVERSIAL

The evening started well. I attended my party to celebrate the protection of elephants abroad (and equines, ostriches, dolphins, etc) at the Garrick Club, stuffed to the gills as it was with baronesses and lords. Then I took a black cab to stay at David 1.0’s. The driver asked for the address.

I’d forgotten it, as it’s been so long. I couldn’t even find it in my phone. ‘Um, I know it’s in Camberwell, on a corner.

Next to a hostel. Doubtless an old washing machine dumped in the front garden.’

We drove for a bit, me going, ‘This looks familiar’ every now and then. Eventually we got to a park and, on a corner, standing in the doorway, light shining, was David. It was so sweet to see him standing there, expectant, in his pyjamas. I paid the driver about a million pounds and went inside.

I had a bath and noticed there was a new grey tiled floor in the bathroom, replacing the stained cork. An overhead light. This was promising, though there was something strange splattered up the wall, as though there had been a murder. When I got into bed, I remarked, ‘New bedlinen?’ It was green and soft. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘It’s bamboo.’

I fell asleep, and the next morning got up to make coffee. The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it. Just piles of stuff everywhere, washing on a rail, dirty plates, cat litter, chaos.

The fridge was empty bar a jar of something horrendous. The shelves in the fridge were crusty; I dismantle mine once a week.

David had promised me, if I stayed to save on hotels, that he would get professional help. He’d had plenty of warning, like a small town expecting a visit from the Queen. I think he needs a psychiatrist, not a cleaner.

Who lives like this? I can’t have sex with a man who doesn’t wash up! I had invited him for Christmas, but the sight of his kitchen tells me he will never change, he can never be bothered, he just wants to attach himself to my life like a chippy mollusc. I should have worn a hazmat suit, not

Victoria Beckham bodycon.

I had even gone to Selfridges to purchase Touche Éclat.

He must have known I would be disappointed, so why didn’t he get off his skinny arse and clean up? And this isn’t me being an OCD nightmare – it’s what anyone would expect from a partner.

Even my 82-year-old dad with cancer still pressed his slacks and mowed the lawn. I’m reminded of my one time at Glastonbury, when I took a bin bag with me everywhere, which I proceeded to stand on. I noticed David had, in his sitting room, replaced the sofa with a gaming chair.

I planned to invite him for breakfast on my way back to the station, given he had nothing in. I managed to get dressed, trying to balance my make-up on the edge of the sink. Hang on, he’s now smoking. Indoors! I thought that was illegal. ‘Do you want to go for breakfast?’ I asked him. ‘How about

Farmacy in Notting Hill?’

‘No, I’m not hungry. I will give you a lift, though.’

And so we drove over the Thames, sunlight reflecting off the water, the Shard glinting, almost in silence. As we crossed the river, he said he might go to Borough Market on his way home, get some delicious food. He hadn’t asked about my house purchase, so I brought it up. ‘Have you got the keys yet?’ he asked. ‘No! It takes longer than that. I don’t know where I will be at Christmas, so not sure about you coming.’

‘I hate Christmas anyway,’ he said.

You might wonder why I keep going back. The truth? I don’t believe I can get anyone else.

It was sweet to see him standing in the doorway, light shining, expectant