It was our first proper date. You know, one where you wear clothes, sit normally, eat things. I arrived at Soho House* three hours early (my friend Sue, who was supposed to meet me at the bar to deliver her verdict, cancelled). I don’t think I’ve been more nervous. I went down to the bar at 6pm, wanting to find the most flattering spot. I took a photo of my champagne coupe, sent it to him. ‘That’s a sexy thigh,’ he replied. My leg, clad in see-through Prada, was in the frame. My top was sheer as well, so I resembled a thin Bianca Censori.
When he arrived, the concierge and the waitress both gave me a raised brow that said, ‘Wow.’ A pianist was playing loudly next to us, so I told him we should maybe continue to converse via text. We moved to the dining room, slid into a banquette. He put an arm around my shoulders and said, ‘If anyone were to come into this place, or any restaurant in Soho, they would clearly see we are the couple who are most in love.’
I told him all about my wedding in a branch of Soho House, how I had paid for everyone to stay, but out of all the guests, I am only in touch with one person who was there. ‘We are so the same,’ he said, telling me about his second wedding in the Maldives. I found myself suddenly outraged that anyone could be mean to him. Like me, he’s damaged, disappointed.
He told me I’m his number one. That it’s no longer about having children or buying houses, it’s just about being together. That he remembers every detail of the night we met, when we kissed on the hotel terrace. But he did say two things that sent a chill down my osteoporosis-riddled spine: that in the past week he has felt ‘disconnected’ from me and the distance (he’s in London, I’m in the Dales) is a problem. ‘You might say you’re coming for the weekend, then can’t leave your dogs, your horse. But maybe we can do both.’
I was already finding it hard to accept that here I was, sitting on a banquette with a handsome man, feeling something I haven’t felt, ever: happy. The trouble with happy is you always know it’s going to disappear. ‘I know beauty when I see it,’ he told me.
We went up to the lovely room. We had sex even before I could take off my Louboutins. He raided the mini bar and for the first time I wasn’t worried about the cost or the mess. He told me that he’d had a row with a male friend, who had been googling me, reading things out. I felt sick. Why do people interfere? He told me he is not interested in my past. That he doesn’t read anything I write about him. But all the things I’ve confessed to in print will haunt me, always. I feel like Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, telling Hugh Grant that every time someone writes a story about her, they will dig up her naked photos. ‘At least you know I have nothing to hide,’ I told him. ‘That I tried to kill myself, twice.’
He woke me at 6am to have sex again. It was a revelation.
He was naughtier this time. I told him he’s an amazing lover, but he said it ‘takes two to make loving perfect’; that we have a weird sexual chemistry he has never experienced before. ‘Love you so much. So fancy you.’
We went down for breakfast. We are meeting in two weeks’ time at a country house hotel in Suffolk for my birthday and it turns out his birthday is the day after mine. I had no idea. ‘Call yourself an investigative journalist?’ I was already shopping for his gift on the train home: an N Peal cashmere hoodie. I texted Nic from the train, told her the evening was amazing, but that the distance could ruin everything. The fear of losing him is like a stain, seeping into what should be pristine. ‘I don’t think I’m that exceptional for him to keep telling me I’m beautiful.’
Nic shored me up. ‘You are exceptional. Talented, beautiful, clever, funny. A catch for any man.’
The sweetest thing about him? He has learnt to sign the word ‘beautiful’, just so he can tell me in bed when I have removed my hearing aids. No eye rolling. No shouting. Just kind. He really is too good to be true.
*Kettner’s in London. Do you remember they threw me out in the middle of the night during the Queen’s lying in state? I vowed never to return, but needs must. The staff were thrilled to see me.
Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week
- My dry cleaner. I discovered, making the spare bed, that the duvet was not my duvet. I took it back. My duvet was wrapped on a shelf. It hadn’t been cleaned. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ the manager said. Why is that the prevailing attitude, in every corner of life?
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess
