In which I don’t call my agent
CANDID, CONFESSIONAL, CONTROVERSIAL
I cancelled on the married man with the non-dead wife. I already know I don’t fancy him, despite his big… windows, so why waste each other’s time?
My excuse was that I had the farrier that day, which was true. He retaliated by saying his invitation to go up to his lovely room for sex was ‘a joke’. All of which made me very weary of this whole dating business. If it even was a date. Better the devil you know, who is house-trained, good on the lead and comes when you call? There is nothing like disappointment to send you scurrying back to an ex. So… I texted David 1.0.
‘Are you looking forward to Valentine’s Day?*’
He replied. ‘Was that an unsubtle reminder? Cos I seem to remember being dissed and rejected by you.’
What is he, a 12-year-old wannabe gangster? Kriss or
Kross? And strange, as he seemed OK the other day, even postcolumn, offering to help with my house-purchase deposit. He must have stopped smoking again.
I didn’t reply for a few days, then I got a bit cross, had a glass of wine, and typed, ‘Sorry, I’ve only just seen this**. Instead of constantly berating me for writing, which is actually my job, why not think about what you do to me? Your behaviour. You cannot have me with zero effort from you. No conversation. Nothing of any depth. You can’t just sit in a chair and not soak your teeth overnight and expect to have me. Relationships are a two-way street. I make myself nice for you, I try, I do my best to be funny and interesting and attractive.
You know that I’m a writer.
Taylor Swift writes songs about her relationships, so does Adele. As does Paul McCartney. Deal with it or go out with someone else.’
In the immortal words of Ariana Grande, Thank u, next!
I’ve been repeat watching Tracy Chapman at the Grammys, reprising ‘Fast Car’. She is so beautiful, aged just shy of 60. No make-up, hair flecked with silver. Happy. No dance routine. No spangled leotard. How wonderful to be so comfortable in your skin.
I’ve just pitched a podcast idea to someone who claims to champion women, who bemoans the fact the top 20 podcast chart is stuffed with middle-aged white men. My podcast, to be called Why Do I Hate Myself?, will explore the reasons why we have plastic surgery, diet and jog, stretch our inner thighs on machines at pilates and buy Fendi baguettes we can’t afford, and take notice of stupid women who say, of your man’s demands in bed, ‘Well, if you won’t do it, someone else will.’ I’m an award-winning former glossy magazine editor, but I haven’t even had the dignity of a reply.
I did hear back, finally, about a possible book deal for my fully completed and rather racy second novel. ‘We want to publish it in the US, but we cannot offer an advance.’ What?
People are always telling me that I’m successful, but I’m really not. I wrote a one-woman play, sent it to seven different producers. Only one response, and that was a no, having the cheek to address me as ‘Lucy’. I think back to when I was a lowly cog in a wheel, in charge of the knitting patterns at
Woman’s Realm, or a trainee at
The Sunday Times Magazine (‘Liz. It’s good, but it’s not poetry’) and I wonder why on earth I decided to reach for the stars.
I no longer have an agent, the first time since 1998. For their 20 per cent, all I was ever told, during a meeting with Channel 4 in the Groucho Club, was: ‘TV isn’t a great place for older women.’ When I was sacked for doing
Celebrity Big Brother, my agent came to my London flat to break the news to me. I started sobbing. ‘But Liz, you still have your animals, your lovely boyfriend, David. I met him backstage. He bothered to turn up every night in case you were evicted.’
Bloody patronising bastard.
*On 14 February, I received a card with a London postmark, but my address was wrong so it couldn’t be from David. Thankfully, the Kennington Tandoori still loves me.
**Always a good line to use.
Along with, ‘Sorry, but who is this?’
I was once a lowly cog in a wheel. Why did I decide to reach for the stars?