privacy notice

Tormented? Driven witless? Fear not, help is just a short letter away

and more…

SINGLE RIGHTEOUS FEMALE

DEAR E JEAN, I’m 26, and I love my job (I’m a marketing director) and the people I work for and with. But there’s a 70-year-old lady here and, since I started work, she copies everything I do and wear. If I join a gym, she joins a gym. If I buy boots, she buys similar boots. If I buy makeup, she buys the exact same makeup, and so on. Now she wants to know my hairdresser’s name and number! I hate to hurt her feelings, but I’ve just about reached the point of screaming. I realise that imitation is the greatest form of flattery, but I could stand to be flattered a whole lot less. – Uniquely Yours SLEEK, SLEEK UNIQUE Love your fan base, Miss Unique. Do you think Rihanna reaches “the point of screaming” when someone copies (just to choose an instance totally at random) her workout gear? No! She wants to clothe the naked pulchritude of the entire world with her own personally designed Puma Creeper shoe. Anyway, you should be so lucky to live to 70. It’s the best possible age you can be. (Plus, she’s still working! No-one’s forced her to retire! Excellent!) Your error is in thinking that the lady is old. No. No. No. The lady is young. So tear out this column and put it in your bag. Then leaf through the magazine and choose four or five looks for your friend – looks entirely different from your own. Mark them with Post-its and make her a present of this ELLE (hell, get her a subscription!) with a note saying, “I think you’ll look smashing in these outfits!”

OIL SLICK

DEAR E JEAN, Last month I was in an airport lounge waiting for my flight and ran into a guy I know. I had met him and his gorgeous wife (and cute baby boy) last year at my cousin’s wedding. He’s the president of an oil company. Anyway, we discovered we were both heading to London for work. I’m an investment banker and I’ve been married for four blissful years. Well, after two intense days of meetings in London, I was out on the town with my colleagues celebrating and was on my fourth champagne when I called the guy. I don’t even recall how we got to my hotel (colleagues say they remember me getting into a cab with him).

We had sex three times that night. Clearly I screwed up! I flew home feeling terrible and decided to forget it. Last week I learned I was pregnant. I came clean with my husband – I sent him an email and apologised to him for everything. He was livid! He told me he was filing for divorce. Then he told my parents everything. I heard from my cousin that the guy who impregnated me is living a very normal life with his wife and kid. That information makes me so mad. I want to tell his wife about what happened. I don’t need financial support; I have a great career and can provide an excellent home and education for the child. But I feel we both should pay for the mistake we made. At least I was drunk – he has no excuse. – Stay Out Of Airport Lounges! LUV! MY LUV! Do not tell his wife. With the tenderest respect, Lounge, my lass, you licensed Oil Man to drill, you called him, you banged him three times, you flubbed up by emailing (emailing!) your husband before thinking things through – so, to repeat: you may not inform his wife. Anyway, are you absolutely, 100 per cent certain the child is not your husband’s? Get the tests. Only when you’re sure do you call Oil Man – not to make him “pay” (this is not a punishment!), but to discuss plans for the future education and happiness of the child. You’re going to need him, maybe not right this minute, but – trust me. Make friends (or at least not enemies) with him.

I’m hesitant to close with this possibility, but think about it: who’s to say this won’t turn out to be the greatest thing that’s happened to you? Because it does seem you wanted to blow up your “blissful” life. Perhaps the champagne spree and the email confession to your husband were ways to tear up your existence and start anew. Perhaps you wanted to get pregnant. Perhaps you wanted another life. Like the Big Bang, it takes only one trillionth of one trillionth of one trillionth of a second to change everything. But don’t explode Oil Man’s family in the bargain. Because you can never, ever predict how the pieces will fit in your Jigsaw Puzzle of Fate.

PS: May I just say you’ve got the most unchivalrous bunch of “colleagues” Auntie E has ever beheld?

? I’ve been in and out of love with several men, but I’ve been told by a psychic that I’d marry a foreigner, and I can’t get it out of my head! Should I wait? ! All men are foreigners. Go get one.