In which I try to arrange a getaway
Of course, I invited David 1.0 for a week in Sicily. I’ve been in love with him for exactly 40 years this summer. I couldn’t imagine meeting David 2.0 again, what with his Ferrari and badminton habit. Apparently, he’s now taking flying lessons, doubtless to impress me. I don’t have the energy to break in a new man or be on top, which is what they always want you to do once they crawl past 60.
So, I texted David 1.0. ‘Do you want to go to Sicily for a week in June? All expenses paid. With me, not on your own, obviously.’
He replies almost immediately. ‘That sounds like fun. Never been, have you? Do you know where you want to stay?’
Me: ‘Well, it’s to visit someone who lives there; I know his girlfriend. It will be a gang of us. I think there will be a yacht, though I get seasick. I was once on a £3 million yacht to watch the grand prix, and complained that the water kept lapping and the cars were noisy. I just have to organise flights.’
This holiday is going so well, so easily! Then he texts:
‘Just to remind you, I can’t walk fast or far. I don’t want to embarrass you.’
Me: ‘Will put you on casters.’ Him: ‘I will need a buggy to get me to the departure gate. If you let me know flight numbers, I will book one. I’ve always wanted to be driven in one.’
Oh dear, poor David. I find it interesting that men are very upfront about their failings, as unashamed as naked newborns, whereas a woman would be, ‘Oh. My. God. I can’t go on holiday as he won’t fancy me, I’ll be too embarrassed. Waagghghgh!’
I remind him of when we went in an actual golf buggy; the only time I’ve been in one, apart from on the set of Big Brother, where I was whizzed around like I was Grace Kelly.
I’d been sent at the last minute to cover Donald Trump’s arrival to open his new resort in Scotland. Me and David had to abandon our takeaway curry (I never did claim it on expenses), and drive through the night, with him at the wheel.
On arrival, we found no one had arranged accreditation. We were faced with the heavily armed security contingent, who kept whispering into their sleeves. ‘Just google me,’ I told the secret service guy, and he did. Said I could go inside. ‘But who’s this guy?’ the agent said, pointing at David.
‘He’s the photographer,’ I lied. ‘Where’s his camera?’
And David, quick as a flash, replied, ‘It’s in my pocket.’ They just waved us through, and we were able to stand within inches of the man who was about to become the most powerful in the Western World.
Remembering, David replies: ‘We had great fun. There is a reason his hotel, Turnberry, was built from granite, as the new extension was starting to weather and rot.’ I’m slightly reminded of Cliff Clavin in Cheers.
You see, you invite a man on holiday as you don’t want to get couples envy, be treated like a maiden aunt, given a single bed in a breeze-block annexe. And you do so thinking you will be entertained and he will carry your case and sort things, when so often the reality doesn’t measure up.
Of course, I have sympathy, but I can’t be in charge. It’s meant to be a holiday. I don’t know why, when I am supposedly doing something nice, I must smooth the way, as though in a frantic game of curling.
I’d been worrying, having sleepless nights, about David seeing me at the airport as
I look quite different. Something disastrous happened, which I have been legally compelled to keep quiet about. I’ve turned down so much work that someone in The Times commented I seem to have disappeared. But I suppose up against David in a buggy I’m suddenly Florence Pugh.
In the end, it seems, I might not go. Then life will have stopped, and what on earth will I write about?
I remind David about the time we were whizzed around in a golf buggy