A DANIEL IN SHINING ARMOUR

Wednesday 5 September 2012 (continued)

‘Jones, you little devil,’ growled Daniel when I called. ‘What are you wearing, what colour are your knickers and how are my godchildren?’

Daniel Cleaver, my former Emotional Fuckwit ‘boyfriend’ and Mark’s former arch‑enemy, has, to his credit, really done his best to help since Mark was killed. After years of bitter one‑upmanship, when Billy arrived the two of them finally made it up and Daniel is actually the children’s godfather.

Daniel’s best isn’t exactly everyone’s best: the last time he had them to stay, it turned out he just wanted to impress some girl by boasting that he had godchildren and . . . suffice it to say he dropped them off at school three hours late, and when I picked up Mabel later, her hair was in an incredibly complex plaited chignon.

‘Mabel, what fabulous hair!’ I said, imagining Daniel had brought John Frieda in to do full hair and make‑up on Mabel at 7.30 a.m.

‘De teacher did it,’ said Mabel. ‘Daniel brushed my hair wid a fork,’ adding, ‘it had maple syrup on it.’

‘Jones? Are you still there, Jones?’

‘Yes,’ I said, startled.

‘Babysitting call, Jones?’

‘Would you . . .?’

‘Absolutely. When were you thinking?’

I cringed: ‘Tomorrow?’

There was a slight pause. Daniel was obviously doing something.

‘Tomorrow night is absolutely fine. I find myself at a loose end, having been rejected by all human women under the age of eighty‑four.’ Awww.

‘We might be quite late, is that OK?’

‘My dear girl, I am nocturnal.’

‘You won’t . . . I mean, you won’t bring a model or–’

‘No, no, no, Jones. I shall be a model. A paragon of babysitting. Ludo. Wholesome vitamin‑packed fare. And by the way . . .’

‘Yes?’ I said suspiciously.

‘What kind of knickers are you wearing? At this moment? Are they mummy pants? Mummy’s lovely mummy panties? Will you show them to Daddy tomorrow night?’

Still love Daniel, though obviously not to the point that I would get involved with any of his crap.

THE PERFECT BABYSITTER

Thursday 6 September 2012

133lb (v.g.), alcohol units 4, sexual encounters in last 5 years 0, sexual encounters in last 5 hours 2, embarrassing sexual encounters in last 5 hours 2.

The day of the Stronghold outing was upon us. Billy was wildly excited that Daniel was coming. ‘Will Amanda be here?’

‘Who’s Amanda?’

‘The lady with the big boobies who was there last time.’

‘No!’ I said. ‘Mabel, what are you looking for?’

‘My hairbrush,’ she said darkly.

Managed somehow in the excitement to get them bathed and asleep, and scrambled to get ready before Daniel arrived.

I had opted for jeans (a brand chillingly called Not Your Daughter’s Jeans ) and a cowboy shirt, thinking it would fit in with the Americana theme.

Daniel arrived late, in his usual suit, hair shorter now, still gorgeous with that irresistible smile, bearing armfuls of unsuitable gifts – toy guns, semi‑naked Barbies, giant bags of sweets, Krispy Kreme doughnuts – and a suspicious‑looking half‑hidden DVD, which I decided to ignore as I was cataclysmically late now.

‘Ding‑dong! Jones,’ he said. ‘Have you been on a diet? I thought I’d never see you looking like this again.’

It’s horrifying how differently some people treat you when you’re fat, to when you’re not. And when you’re all done up and when you’re just normal. No wonder women are so insecure. I know men are too. But when one is a woman, with all the tools at a modern woman’s disposal, one can literally look like a completely different person from one half‑hour to the next.

Even then, you think you don’t look like you should. Sometimes look at billboards of beautiful models, and the real people underneath, and think it’s a bit like if we were on a planet where all the space creatures were short, green and fat. Except a very few of them were tall, thin and yellow. And all the advertising was of the tall, yellow ones, airbrushed to make them even taller and yellower. So all the little green space creatures spent their whole time feeling sad because they weren’t tall, thin and yellow.

‘Jones? Are you still inhabiting your head? I said, I suppose a fuck would be out of the question?’

‘Yes!’ I said, jerking back to the present. ‘Yes, it would. Though this is in no way a sign of my lack of gratitude for the babysit.’ Rattled through a gabble of instructions and thanks and shot out of the door, feeling outraged as a feminist by Daniel’s complex fattist pass, but uplifted as a female.

When I arrived at Talitha’s, however, Tom burst out laughing. ‘Seriously? Dolly Parton?’

‘You can’t rely on your arse in jeans at our age,’ said Talitha briskly, sweeping in with a tray of mojitos. ‘You’ve got to have something else going on.’

‘I don’t want to look like mutton,’ I said. ‘Or a prostitute.’

‘Well, quite, but you need something to start the idea of sexuality. Legs or boobs. Not both.’

‘What about one leg and one boob?’ said Tom.

Eventually I ended up in a very expensive short black silk tunic of Talitha’s and insanely high Yves Saint Laurent thigh boots.

‘But I can’t walk in them.’

‘Honey,’ said Talitha, ‘you’re not going to need to walk.’

In the cab started to think about how much Mark would have loved the thigh boots.

‘Stoppit,’ said Tom, seeing my face. ‘He would want you to have a life.’

Next I started to panic about the children. Talitha, who has known Daniel since Sit Up Britain days, took out her phone and texted:

<Daniel. Please reassure Bridget that the children are fine and asleep and you will text the moment they’re not.>

No reply. We all stared nervously at the phone.

‘Daniel doesn’t text,’ I said, suddenly remembering. Then added, giggling, ‘He’s too old.’

Talitha put her mobile on speakerphone and called him.

‘Daniel, you bloody old bastard?’

‘Talitha! My dear girl! The very thought of you finds me suddenly, unaccountably, over‑aroused. What are you up to at this moment and what colour are your panties?’

Grrr. He was supposed to be BABYSITTING.

‘I’m with Bridget,’ she said, drily. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Yup, all perfectly splendid. Children fast asleep. Am patrolling the doors, windows and corridors like a sentry. I shall be impeccable.’

‘Good.’

She clicked off the phone. ‘You see? It will all be fine. Now stop worrying.’

THE STRONGHOLD

The Stronghold was in a brick warehouse with an unmarked metal door and a buzzer with a code. Tom punched in the code, and we teetered in our insane heels up a concrete staircase which smelt as if somebody had weed in it.

But once we got in, as Tom gave our names for the guest list, I felt a reckless surge of excitement. The walls were brick, there were bales of straw round the edges which made me slightly wish I’d remained as Dolly Parton, and battered sofas. There was a band playing and a bar in the corner, manned by youths who were adding to the atmosphere by looking around nervously, as if a sheriff was going to tie up his horse, burst in in a cowboy hat and break it all up. It was hard to make the people out in the artistic lighting, but it was instantly clear that they weren’t all teenagers, and that there were some . . .

‘. . . very hot men in the room,’ murmured Talitha.

‘Come on, girl,’ said Tom. ‘Get back on that horse.’

‘I’m too old!’ I said.

‘So? It’s practically pitch black.’

‘What am I going to talk about?’ I gabbled. ‘I’m not au fait with popular music.’

‘Bridget,’ said Talitha, ‘we are gathered here to rediscover your inner sensual woman. This has nothing whatsoever to do with talking.’

It felt like going back to being a teenager with the same leaping sense of doubt and possibility. It reminded me of the parties I used to go to when I was sixteen, when as soon as the parents had dropped us off, the lights would go out and everyone would get on the floor and start snogging anyone with whom they had made the most perfunctory eye contact.

‘Look at him,’ said Tom. ‘He’s looking at you! He’s looking at you!’

‘Tom, shut urrp,’ I said out of the side of my mouth, folding my arms across my chest and trying to tug the tunic down to reach the thigh boots.

‘Pull yourself together, Bridget. DO SOMETHING.’

I forced myself to look across, with an attempt at smoulderingness. The cute guy was, however, now making out with a stunning iBabe in short‑shorts and an off‑the‑shoulder sweater.

‘OhMyGod, that’s disgusting – she’s an embryo,’ said Jude.

‘Call me old‑fashioned, but I did read in Glamour that one’s shorts should always be longer than one’s vagina,’ murmured Talitha.

We all became crestfallen, our confidence collapsing like a house of cards. ‘Oh God. Do we just look like an ensemble of elderly transvestites?’ said Tom.

‘It’s happened, just as I always feared,’ I said. ‘We’ve ended up as tragic old fools convincing ourselves the vicar is in love with us because he’s mentioned his organ.’

‘Darlings!’ said Talitha. ‘I forbid you to continue in this vein.’

Talitha, Tom and Jude went off to dance, while I sulked on a hay bale, thinking, ‘I want to go home and snuggle my babies, and hear their quiet breathing and know who I am and what I stand for’, shamelessly using the children to gloss over me being old and past it.

Then a pair of legs in jeans sat down beside me on the hay bale. I caught a scent of a MAN, darling, as Talitha would put it, as he leaned in to my hair. ‘Do you want to dance?’

It was as simple as that. I didn’t need to formulate a plan, work out what to say, or indeed do anything but look up into his attractive brown eyes and nod. He took my hand, and hoisted me up with a strong arm. He kept hold of my waist as we walked towards the floor, which was fortunate, given the thigh boots. Thankfully, it was a slow dance or I would have broken an ankle. He had a crinkly smile, and looked in the darkness like the sort of man who appears in adverts for SUVs. He was wearing a leather jacket. He put his hand on my waist and pulled me in to him.

As I laid my arm on his shoulder I suddenly realized what Tom and Talitha were on about. Sex is just sex.

Flashes and pulses of long‑forgotten lust started running through me, like Frankenstein’s monster when he was plugged into the electricity, only more romantic and sensual, and I found myself instinctively slipping my fingers to feel the hair on the stranger’s collar, the skin on the back of his neck. He pulled me even closer to him, making it unmistakable that he was into sex at least with someone. As we turned slowly to the music, I saw Tom and Talitha staring at me with a mixture of awe and astonishment. I felt like a fourteen‑year‑old who’d pulled her first boy. I made a face to stop them doing anything stupid as I felt him, slowly, irresistibly, in manner of Mills & Boon hero, moving his lips to find mine.

And then we were kissing. Suddenly everything started going crazy. It was like driving a very fast car in a pair of stilettos. Nothing had stopped functioning despite years in the garage. One minute I was blocked at every turn and in a flash there were zero restraints and what was I doing? What about the children and what about Mark and who was this impertinent man anyway?

‘Let’s go somewhere quieter,’ he murmured. It was all a plot. Why else would he have asked me to dance? He was planning to murder me and then eat me!

‘I’ve got to go! Now!’

‘What?’

I looked up at him, terrified. It was midnight. I was Cinderella and I had to get back to the cots and the nannies, and the sleeplessness and sense of being totally asexual and staring down the barrel of single life till the end of my days . . . but wasn’t that better than being murdered?

‘Awfully sorry! Must be going. Jolly good! Thanks!’

‘Go?’ he said. ‘Oh God. That face.’

Even as I was stumbling down the wee‑smelling stairs I was becoming puffed up by his last phrase. ‘That face’! I was Kate Moss! I was Cheryl Cole! Once in the minicab, however, explaining the whole incident, a glance at my wild expression and drink‑bloated features, mascara smeared under the eyes, somewhat ruined the concept.

‘He means tormented by the face of a geriatric mother who’s decided he’s planning to murder her because he’s kissed her!’ shrieked Tom.

‘And then eat her,’ added Talitha, as everyone fell about laughing.

‘What were you thinking?’ said Jude, giggling hysterically. ‘He was hot!’

‘It’s all right,’ said Talitha, recovering her composure and trying to settle elegantly back into the minicab seat, which smelt of curry. ‘I got his number.’

12.10 a.m. Just got back and crept into house. Everything was quiet and dark. Where was Daniel?

12.20 a.m. Tiptoed downstairs and turned on the light. The basement looked like a bomb had hit it. The Xbox was still going, there were Sylvanian bunnies arranged in a line from one end to the other, Barbies, toy dinosaurs and machine guns, cushions, pizza cartons, Krispy Kreme doughnut bags and chocolate wrappers all over the floor, and a tub of melted chocolate fudge Häagen‑Dazs upside down on the sofa. They would probably throw up in the night but at least they’d had a good time. But where was Daniel?

Crept up to their room. They were fast asleep, chocolate all over their faces but breathing peacefully. No Daniel. Started to panic.

Rushed down to the sofa bed in the sitting room – nothing. Rushed back up to my bedroom, opened the door and let out a noise. Daniel was in the bed. He raised his head and squinted through the darkness.

‘Good God, Jones,’ he said. ‘Could those possibly be . . . thigh boots? Could I take a closer look?’

He pulled back the sheet. He was half‑naked.

‘Come on in, Jones,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t lay a finger on you.’

The whole combination of being slightly drunk, aroused by a recent kiss and Daniel half‑naked and devilish in the half‑light made me flash back to being a thirty‑something singleton. A split second later I was giggling and lurching into bed in the thigh boots.

‘Now, Jones,’ began Daniel, ‘these are very, very naughty boots, and this is a very, very silly little tunic’ – and then another split second later I fast‑forwarded back to the present moment and remembered . . . well, everything, really.

‘Gaah! Can’t do this! Terribly sorry. Jolly good!’ I gabbled, leaping out of the bed.

Daniel stared, then started laughing. ‘Jones, Jones, Jones, you’re completely bonkers as usual.’

I waited outside the door while he got up and dressed, and then, in the midst of my apologies and thanks for the babysitting, there was another moment when I felt so confused and turned on I almost jumped on him again and started devouring him like an animal. Then his mobile rang.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said into the phone. ‘No, my plumptious, just got terribly stuck at work, look, I know, FUCK!’ Cross Daniel now. ‘Look! Jesus! I said I had a presentation. It’s a huge big deal for the project and . . . OK, OK, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, yes . . . yes . . . mmm . . . I long for your orb‑like radiance . . .’

Orb‑like radiance??

‘. . . I long to plunge myself into . . .’

Sighing with relief that I hadn’t succumbed to the old routine, I managed to get him out of the door, then wrestle Talitha’s thigh boots off. I cleared up the sitting room enough to not make Chloe hand in her notice in despair tomorrow, and sank into the empty bed.

12.55 a.m. But now feeling all restless and aroused. Feel like it has gone from total Man‑Desert to, in the space of one evening, literally raining men.

AFTERMATH

Friday 7 September 2012

7 a.m. Am stark naked with clouting headache and have got to do school run.

7.01 a.m. No! Do not have to do school run. Was special treat this morning to lie in but have woken up anyway.

7.02 a.m. Gaah! Just remembered what happened last night with Leatherjacketman. And Daniel.

7.30 a.m. Traumatized by sounds of Chloe downstairs doing all the things that I am supposed to do: the one Weetabix that Mabel is allowed to put one teaspoonful of sugar on herself, the two slices of bacon for Billy with ketchup but no bread.

7.45 a.m. Feel terribly guilty: like hung‑over Joan Crawford figure, about to drift down in a housecoat, with lipstick smeared all over my face, saying, ‘Hello, darlings, I’m your mummy. Remember? What are your names again?’

8 a.m. Door bangs, noises stop.

8.01 a.m. Door opens, noises restart: a search for Mabel’s book bag.

8.05 a.m. Door slams again.

8.15 a.m. Silence. Bed is all cool and white and is delicious just lying here naked doing nothing. Feel like a spell has been broken, like Sleeping – well, not Beauty exactly – Sleeping Quite Old Person with Two Children, awoken by a kiss. Spring has touched the withered, wintry branches. Leaves and blossoms are bursting out and unfurling left, right and centre.

8.30 a.m. Texting ping! Maybe Talitha! Texting Leatherjacketman’s number! Maybe even Leatherjacketman himself, making joke to diffuse whole situation and asking me out! Am sexually viable!

It was the Infants Branch.

<Please remember to bring the Zoo Trip Permission Slip in this afternoon.>

WOMEN CHANGE THEIR MINDS

Saturday 8 September 2012

Annoying electronic devices in house 74, electronic devices which beep 7, electronic devices I know how to operate 0, electronic devices requiring passwords 12, passwords 18, passwords that can remember 0, minutes spent thinking about sex 342.

7.30 a.m. Just woke up from delicious, sensual dream all mixed up with Daniel and Leatherjacketman. Suddenly feel different – sensual, womanly – and yet that makes me feel so guilty, as if I’m being unfaithful to Mark and yet . . . is so sensual feeling like a sensual woman, with a sensual side which is sensually . . . oh. Children are awake.

11.30 a.m. Entire morning has been totally sensual and peaceful. Started day with all three of us in my bed, cuddling and watching telly. Then had breakfast. Then played hide‑and‑seek. Then coloured in Moshi Monsters, then did obstacle course, all in pyjamas, while roast chicken emitted delicious fragrance from the Aga.

11.32 a.m. Am perfect mother and sensual woman with sensual possibilities. I mean, maybe someone like Leatherjacketman could join in with this scenario and . . .

11.33 a.m. Billy: ‘Can we do computer, now it’s Saturday?’

11.34 a.m. Mabel: ‘Want to watch SpongeBob .’

11.35 a.m. Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and desire to read papers in echoing silence. Just for ten minutes.

‘Mummeee! De TV is broken.’

Realized, horrified, Mabel had got hold of the remotes. I started jabbing at buttons, at which white flecks appeared, accompanied by loud crackling.

‘Snow!’ said Mabel excitedly, just as the dishwasher started beeping.

‘Mummy!’ said Billy. ‘The computer’s run out of charge.’

‘Well, plug it in again!’ I said, shoving my head into the cupboard full of wires under the telly.

‘Night!’ said Mabel as the TV screen went black, and the tumble dryer joined in the beeping.

‘This charger doesn’t work.’

‘Well, go on the Xbox!’

‘It’s not working.’

‘Maybe it’s the Internet connection.’

‘Mummy! I’ve unplugged the Airport, I can’t get it in again.’

Realizing my thermostat was veering dangerously towards red, I scampered off up the stairs saying, ‘Time to get dressed, special treat! I’ll get your clothes.’ Then ran into their bedroom and burst out, ‘I hate fucking technology. Why can’t everyone just FUCKING SHUT UP AND LET ME READ THE PAPERS?’

Suddenly, horrified, saw that the baby monitor was on! Oh God, oh God. Should have got rid of it ages ago but paranoid as single parent, fear of death, etc., etc. Ran downstairs to find Billy racked by sobs.

‘Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. Was it the baby monitor?’

‘Nooooooooo!’ he yelled. ‘The Xbox is frozen.’

‘Mabel, did you hear Mummy in the baby monitor?’

‘No,’ she said, staring delightedly at the television. ‘De TV is mended.’

It was showing a page asking for the Virgin TV password.

‘Billy, what’s the Virgin password?’ I said.

‘Isn’t it the same as your bank card, 1066?’

‘OK, I’ll do the Xbox, you put in the password,’ I said just as the doorbell rang.

‘That password won’t work.’

‘Mummeee!’ said Mabel.

‘Shh, both of you!’ I rasped. ‘There’s SOMEONE AT THE DOOR!’

Ran up the stairs, head a mass of guilty thoughts – ‘I’m a terrible mother, there is a hole inside them left by the loss of their father which they are trying to fill with technology’ – and opened the door.

It was Jude looking glamorous, but hung‑over and tearful.

‘Oh, Bridge,’ she said, falling into my arms. ‘I just can’t stand another Saturday morning on my own.’

‘What happened . . . tell Mummy . . .’ I said, then remembered Jude was a grown‑up financial giant.

‘The guy I met on Match and went out with the day before the Stronghold? The one I made out with?’

‘Yes?’ I said, trying to vaguely remember which one.

‘He didn’t call. And then last night, he copied me in on a global text saying his wife has just had a baby girl, six pounds twelve ounces.’

‘OhMyGod. That’s disgusting. That’s inhuman.’

‘All these years I didn’t want children and people kept saying I’d change my mind. They were right. I’m going to get my eggs unfrozen.’

‘Jude,’ I said. ‘You made a choice. Just because some guy is a fuckwit it doesn’t mean it was the wrong choice. It’s a good choice for you. Children are . . . are . . .’ I glanced murderously back down the stairs.

She held out her phone, showing an Instagram picture of the fuckwit holding his baby. ‘. . . Cuddly and sweet and pink and six pounds twelve ounces and all I do is work and hook up and I’m all on my own on a Saturday morning. And–’

‘Come downstairs,’ I said lugubriously. ‘I’ll show you cuddly and sweet.’

We clomped back down. Billy and Mabel were now standing cherub‑like, holding out a drawing saying, ‘We Love You, Mummy.’

‘We’re going to empty the dishwasher, Mummy,’ said Billy. ‘To help you.’

Shit! What was wrong with them?

‘Thank you, children,’ I purred, bustling Jude back upstairs and outside the front door, before they did something worse, like emptying the recycling bin.

‘I’m going to defrost my eggs,’ sobbed Jude as we sat down on the steps. ‘The technology was primitive then. Crude even. But it might work if . . . I mean, I could get a sperm donor and–’

Suddenly the upstairs window in the house opposite shot open and a pair of Xbox remotes hurtled out, landing with a smash next to the dustbins.

Seconds later, the front door was flung open and the bohemian neighbour appeared, dressed in fluffy pink mules, a Victorian nightdress and a small bowler hat, carrying an armful of laptops, iPads and iPods. She teetered down the front steps and shoved the electronics in the dustbin, with her son and two of his friends following her, wailing, ‘Noooooo! I haven’t finished my leveeeeeeel!’

‘Good!’ she yelled. ‘When I signed up for having children, I did NOT sign up to be ruled by a collection of inanimate thin black objects and a gaggle of TECHNO‑CRACKHEADS refusing to do anything but stare with jabbing thumbs, while demanding that I SERVICE them like a computer tech crossed with a five‑star hotel concierge. When I didn’t have you, everyone spent their whole time saying I’d change my mind. And guess what? I’ve had you. I’ve brought you up. And I’ve CHANGED MY MIND!’

I stared at her, thinking, ‘I have to be friends with that woman.’

‘Children of your age in India live entirely successfully as street urchins,’ she continued. ‘So you can just sit on this doorstep and instead of putting your ENTIRE BRAINS into getting to the next level on MINECRAFT, you can apply them to CHANGING MY MIND about letting you back in. And don’t you dare touch that dustbin or I shall enter you in the HUNGER GAMES.’

Then, with a toss of her bowler‑hatted head, she flounced back into the house and slammed the door.

‘Mummeee!’ Shouting and crying erupted from my own basement. ‘Mummeee!’

‘Want to come back in?’ I said to Jude.

‘No, no it’s fine,’ Jude said, happy now, getting to her feet. ‘You’re completely right. I have made the right choice. Just a bit hung‑over. I need to have breakfast and a Bloody Mary at Soho House and read the papers and I’ll be fine. Thanks, Bridge. Love you. Byee!’

Then she teetered off in her Versace knee‑high gladiator sandals looking hung‑overly fabulous.

I looked back across the street. The three boys were sitting in a line on the doorstep.

‘Everything all right?’ I said.

The dark‑haired son grinned. ‘Yeah, it’s fine. She just gets like this. She’ll be all right in a minute.’

He glanced behind him to check the door was still closed, and pulled an iPod out of his pocket. Then the boys started giggling and bent over the iPod.

Huge wave of relief washed over me. I bounded cheerfully back, suddenly remembering that the password for everything was 1890, the year in which Chekhov wrote Hedda Gabbler .

‘Mummeeeee!’

I grabbed the Xbox remote, grabbed the Virgin remote, and typed ‘1890’ into both of them at which the screens burst miraculously into life.

‘There!’ I said. ‘There’s your screens. You don’t need me. You just need screens. I am going. To make myself. A cup. Of coffee.’

I flung the remotes onto the armchair, and flounced, bohemian‑neighbour‑like, towards the kettle, at which Billy and Mabel started giggling.

‘Mummy!’ laughed Billy. ‘You’ve turned everything off again.’

8.30 p.m. Ended up all cosy and good and Billy had his Xbox time and Mabel watched SpongeBob and cuddled me on the sofa, then we all went up on Hampstead Heath and I kept thinking about Leatherjacketman, and how gorgeous it was having the kiss, and feeling sexy again and thinking maybe Tom is right that I do need to be a woman and have someone in my life, and maybe it wouldn’t be wrong, and maybe I will call Talitha and get his number.

CRASHING WAVE

Sunday 9 September 2012

135lb, calories 3250, number of times checked for texts from Leatherjacketman 27, texts from Leatherjacketman 0, guilty thoughts 47.

2 a.m. Everything is terrible. Texted Talitha. Turns out she not only took Leatherjacketman’s number, but GAVE HIM MY NUMBER. Feel stab of insecurity in my stomach. If she gave him my number – then why hasn’t he called?

5 a.m. Should never, ever have got involved with men again. Had completely forgotten the nightmare of ‘Why hasn’t he called?’

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep and all ready for Monday morning. But I am in total meltdown. Why hasn’t Leatherjacketman texted? Why? Clearly Leatherjacketman thinks I am crazy and old. Is all my own fault. I should be simply a mother – the children should come home every day to find a casserole bubbling on the Aga and steamed jam roly‑poly for pudding. I’d read them Swallows and Amazons , put them to bed and then . . . What, though? Watch Downton Abbey , fantasize about sex with Matthew, and start again in the morning with the Weetabix?

9.16 p.m. Just called Talitha and explained the whole thing. She is coming round.

9.45 p.m. ‘Get me a drink, please.’

I fixed her her usual vodka and soda.

‘This has all been set off because one guy you’ve met for five seconds hasn’t texted you. You’ve opened yourself to the possibility of life, and now it seems to have been snatched away from under your nose. Why don’t you text him?’

‘Never pursue a man, it will only make you unhappy,’ I said, reciting our mantra from being single in our thirties. ‘Anjelica Huston never, ever called Jack Nicholson.’

‘Darling, you have to understand that you have no idea what you’re talking about. Everything has changed since you were single. There was no texting. There were no emails. People spoke on telephones. Plus, young women are more sexually aggressive now, and men are naturally more lazy. You have to, at the very least, encourage.’

‘Don’t send anything!’ I said, lunging at the phone.

‘I won’t. But it’s all fine. When I swapped your numbers, I had a discreet word with him and told him you’d been widowed . . .’

‘You WHAT?’

‘It’s better than being divorced. It’s so romantic and original.’

‘So, basically, you’re using Mark’s death to procure me a man?’

There was the thud of feet on the stairs. Billy appeared, in his striped pyjamas.

‘Mummy, I haven’t done my maths.’

Talitha looked up vaguely, then returned to the phone.

‘Say, “Hello, nice to see you again,” to Talitha and look at her eyes,’ I said reflexively. Why do parents do this? ‘Say Please.’ ‘Say Hello!’ ‘Say Thank you for having me.’ If you haven’t trained them to do these things before they get into a live situation then there’s really no point in–’

‘Hello, Talitha.’

‘Hello, darling,’ said Talitha without looking up. ‘He’s adorable.’

‘You did do your maths, Billy. Remember – the problems? We did them when you came home from school on Friday.’

‘OK, how about this?’ Talitha looked up, then looked back at the phone again.

‘But there was another sheet,’ said Billy. ‘Look – here. It’s Craft and Design.’

Not Craft and Design. Billy has spent the last six weeks constructing a small mouse out of bits of felt, then he gets ‘sheets’, which ask mysterious conceptual questions. I looked at the latest sheet: ‘What do you want to achieve by making the mouse?’

Billy and I looked at each other desperately. How global do they expect you to go with a question like that, I mean in a philosophical sense? I handed Billy a pencil. He sat down at the kitchen table and wrote, then handed me the sheet.

To make a mouse.

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Very good. Now shall I take you back up to bed?’

He nodded and put his hand in mine. ‘Goodnight, Talitha.’

‘Say goodnight to Talitha.’

‘Mummy. I just did.’

Mabel was asleep on the bottom bunk, head on back to front, clutching Saliva.

‘Will you cuddle me?’ said Billy, climbing into the top bunk. I thought about Talitha getting increasingly impatient downstairs then climbed in with him, Puffle One, Mario and Horsio.

‘Mummy?’

‘Yes,’ I said, heart wavering, fearing he was going to ask about Daddy or death.

‘What is the population of China?’ Oh God, he looks so like Mark when he is worrying about these questions. What was I doing messing about texting some unshaven leather‑jacketed stranger who probably–

‘Mummy?’

‘Four hundred million,’ I lied smoothly.

‘Oh. Why is the earth shrinking by one centimetre a year?’

‘Um . . .’ I thought about this. Is the world shrinking by one centimetre a year? Like, the whole planet or just the land bits? Is it to do with global warming? Or the awesome power of waves and . . . Then I felt the slight relaxing sigh of Billy falling asleep.

Rushed back downstairs, panting. Talitha looked up with a self‑satisfied expression: ‘OK. I hope you appreciate this. This was a really tough one.’

She handed me the phone.

<I’ve finally recovered from my embarrassment at fleeing from Prince Charming and his Stronghold. It was all so outrageously sensual, I feared I would spontaneously combust or turn into a pumpkin. What are you up to?>

‘You haven’t sent it?’

‘Not yet. But it’s good. You have to take care of their ego. What do you think the poor guy felt like, with you running off like that and not explaining yourself?’

‘Doesn’t that sound–’

‘It’s a question, and carrying on the thread. Don’t overthink it, just–’

She took hold of my finger, and pressed ‘Send’.

‘Nooo! You said you wouldn’t–’

‘I didn’t. You sent it. Could I possibly have another teensy teensy little vodka?’

Mind reeling I headed for the fridge, but just as I opened the door there was a text ping. Talitha grabbed it. A self‑satisfied smirk spread across her immaculately made‑up features.

<Hi. Is that Cinderella?>

‘Now, Bridget,’ she said sternly, watching the confusion of feelings on my face, ‘you have to be brave and get back in the saddle, for everyone’s sake, including . . .’ She nodded in the direction of upstairs.

Ultimately, Talitha was right. But it couldn’t have gone more disastrously wrong with Leatherjacketman. As she herself said, as we sat on my sofa in the bloody aftermath:

‘It’s all my fault. I forgot to warn you. When you come out of a long relationship, the first one is always the worst. There’s too much hanging on it. You think you’re going to be rescued. Which you’re not. And you think they’re the barometers of whether you’re still viable. Which you are, but they’re not going to prove that to you.’

I broke every single one of the Key Dating Rules with Leatherjacketman. But, in my defence, at that point, I didn’t know that the Dating Rules even existed.

HOW NOT TO DO DATING

Wednesday 12 September 2012

133lb (lost 2lb through texting thumb‑action), minutes spent fantasizing about Leatherjacketman 347, number of times checked for texts from Leatherjacketman 37, texts from Leatherjacketman 0, number of times checked Unexploded Email Inbox from Leatherjacketman even though Leatherjacketman does not have email address 12 (insane), total cumulative minutes late for school runs 27.

2.30 p.m. Mmm. Just back from lunch with Leatherjacketman in Primrose Hill. He was looking even more like a car‑advert man, in a brown leather jacket this time, and aviator shades. It was an unseasonably warm, bright autumn day, the sky blue, the sun shining, so we could sit outside at a pavement cafe.

FINE

I love him. I love him.

NOT FINE

He’s about my age and divorced with two kids. And he’s called Andy – such a cool name.

ANDY??

As I sat down at the table, he took off his shades. His eyes were like pools. Pools of pale, pale water like a tropical sea . . .

DO NOT GET CARRIED AWAY

. . . only brown. I love him. The Dating Gods have smiled down on me.

TRY TO RETAIN SOME VESTIGE OF OBJECTIVITY

He REALLY understands the problems of single parenting. He said things like ‘How old are your kids?’

All through lunch felt like some dangerously aroused puppy who was going to start shagging his leg.

DO NOT JUMP TO CONCLUSIONS OR FANTASIZE

It’ll be so great having sex together on Sunday mornings, I was thinking, then breakfast together with all the kids – laughing, moving in together, selling both our places and getting a house they can all walk to school from. Just as I was thinking, ‘. . . then we could just have one car and not have an issue with the parking permits,’ he interrupted: ‘Do you want a coffee?’

I blinked at him, disorientated, teetering on the brink of saying, ‘Do you think we could manage with just the one car?’

ON THE FIRST DATE: LET HIM PAY

When the bill came, I made a terrible fuss about getting my credit card out and saying, ‘No, let me,’ and ‘Shall we split it?’

‘I’ll get it,’ he said, looking at me in a funny way – maybe he already knew he loved me too?

RESPOND TO WHAT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING, NOT WHAT YOU WISH WAS HAPPENING

After lunch, I couldn’t bear it to end, and suggested we go for a walk on the Hill. It was so lovely. When we got to his car, I was hoping against hope that he was going to kiss me again but he just gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, ‘Take care.’

I panicked. ‘Do you think we should see each other again?’ I blurted out.

Maybe it was a bit forward but THINK it was completely fine.

IT WASN’T

‘Sure,’ he smirked. ‘I was just waiting for you to run off screaming.’ Then he smiled his crinkly car‑advert smile and got into the car.

He’s so funny!

DO NOT ALLOW HIM TO DISRUPT YOUR LIFE OR EQUILIBRIUM

Oh, look, this is hopeless. Cannot just lie in bed MASTURBATING all day when have a screenplay to write and children to care for.

Thursday 13 September 2012

DO NOT OBSESS OR FANTASIZE WHEN DRIVING

8.30 a.m. Hmmm. The thing is, when I said, ‘Do you think we should see each other again?’ he didn’t say, ‘No,’ he said, ‘Sure.’

So that means ‘Yes’, doesn’t it? But then why didn’t he say something about the next time when we said goodbye? Or why hasn’t he texted? GAAAH!

9.30 a.m. Rounded a bend to find a taxi had just stopped in front of me, completely selfishly, with no rhyme or reason whatsoever. Was huge line of cars behind me.

Pulled round the taxi, looking crossly at taxi driver. Then realized, as looked ahead, was yet another car steaming towards me, driven by man who was pointing and mouthing at me, ‘You go back. You. Go. Back!’ as if was idiot or similar.

‘Honestly, men drivers!’ I thought, doing a V‑sign at the man. (Apart from Leatherjacketman who am certain is very respectful.) ‘Oh, oh, look at us! We’re alpha males! We’re just going to bear down on defenceless women, bullying them into reversing.’

‘Mummy,’ said Billy. ‘The taxi has stopped so that that other car can get round us.’

Suddenly realized what Billy meant. The oncoming car was ALREADY THERE and the taxi driver, who is after all an experienced roadsman, was not stopping to let the already‑oncoming car come past. And now I was like the alpha female SUV driver (except not in SUV) who had swerved round the experienced roadsman taxi driver and tried to drive the oncoming car backwards like an angry snow‑plough brandishing an Oxbridge First in PPE (except Third in English from Bangor).

Tried to mouth ‘Sorreee!’ while reversing backwards, but the man glared at me with exactly the same disbelieving ‘what‑is‑the‑world‑coming‑to?’ expression that I myself am so accustomed to adopting during the morning school run.

‘Well!’ I said brightly once we’d rounded the corner. ‘What lessons have we got today, Billy? PE?’

‘Mummy.’

I looked round at him. The same eyes. The same tone when I’m being not altogether at my best.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Are you just saying that because you feel silly?’

Friday 14 September 2012

DO NOT ALLOW HIM TO MAKE YOU GENERALLY DISTRACTED AND CRAZY

Just made contact with Aspirational Bohemian Neighbour and was so distracted that completely fucked it up. Was just walking back from car when saw her going into the house wearing a woollen hat with several points with bobbles on the end, platform Doc Martens and a garment which looked like cross between a German officer’s coat from the Second World War and a crinoline with a frill at the bottom.

‘Hello,’ she suddenly said, ‘I’m Rebecca. Don’t you live across the road?’

‘Yes,’ I said delightedly, then launched into a nervous monologue: ‘Your children look like they might be the same age as mine? How old are they? What a nice hat! . . .’

It all went very well and ended with Rebecca saying, ‘Well, maybe knock on the door and come for a play date – doesn’t‑the‑very‑word‑make‑you‑want‑to‑shoot‑yourself? – sometime.’

‘Hahaaha! It does. Yes,’ I said, miming embarrassingly, shooting my own head. ‘That would be cool. Byeee!’ Then crossed the road and went into the house thinking, ‘Yayy! We can be friends and maybe I could introduce her to Leatherjacketman and . . .’

‘Wait!’ Rebecca suddenly called.

I turned.

‘Isn’t that your daughter?’

Shit! Had completely forgotten I had Mabel with me. She was standing, bemused, outside Rebecca’s house, abandoned on the pavement.

NOTICE HOW HE MAKES YOU FEEL. SOMEWHERE AMIDST LIST – ‘HORNY’, ‘TAKING STOMACH MEDICINE DUE TO ANXIETY’ – THERE SHOULD BE THE WORD ‘HAPPY’

9.15 p.m. Still no text. Whole Leatherjacketman scenario is making me horribly anxious with a sick feeling in my stomach.

THE NUMBER ONE KEY DATING RULE

Saturday 15 September 2012

DO NOT TEXT WHEN DRUNK

8.15 p.m. YAYY! Telephone!

9 p.m. ‘Oh, hello, darling!’ – my mother – shit! Tailspinned, wondering if Leatherjacketman could still send a text while Mum was on the phone.

‘Bridget? Bridget? Are you still there? Have you decided about the cruise?’

‘Um, well, I think it might be a bit–’

‘I mean, most people from St Oswald’s will be with their grandchildren. It is a special time of year, when people do spend it with the grandchildren. Julie Enderbury and Michael are taking the whole family to Cape Verde.’

‘Well, what about Una’s grandchildren?’ I counterpointed.

‘It’s the in‑laws’ turn.’

‘Right, right.’

In‑laws. Admiral Darcy and Elaine are actually incredibly sweet with Billy and Mabel and manage to play it right by inviting them one at a time, to rather well‑thought‑out and short treat‑like occasions. But I don’t think they could handle having us for Christmas. Even when Mark was alive he used to invite them to our big house in Holland Park, but he always got a cook to do the Christmas dinner, which he said was nothing to do with my cooking, but so that everyone could relax and enjoy being together. Oh, though. Why would they not ‘relax’, if I was cooking? Maybe it was to do with my cooking.

‘Bridget? Are you still there? I just don’t want you to be on your own,’ Mum said. ‘I mean, there’s still time to decide.’

‘Great! Then we can sort it out,’ I said. ‘Christmas is ages away.’

Now she’s gone off to her Aqua‑Zumba. Wish Dad was here, to mitigate Mum and giggle with me about everything and hug me. Wish could get blind drunk on entire bottle of wine.

9.15 p.m. Ooh, just heard Chloe come in from her night out in Camden. She’s staying on the sofa bed so she can get to t’ai chi early tomorrow.

9.30 p.m. Think will have small glass of wine, now she is here, just to get spirits up.

ALERT! ALERT! DO NOT EVEN OPEN WINE WITHOUT WRAPPING PHONE UP IN NOTE SAYING ‘NO TEXTING’ AND PUTTING ON HIGH SHELF

9.45 p.m. Much better now. Will put music on. Maybe Queen’s ‘Play the Game’. Gay perspective is always good, esp. in musical form. Mmmm. Leatherjacketman. Wish he would text me then we could see each other and have sensual . . .

10 p.m. Maybe tiny nother glass of wine.

ALERT! ALERT!

10.05 p.m. Love Queen.

10.20 p.m. Mmm. Dancing . . .

‘This is your life!. . . Don’t play hard to get . . .’

10.20 p.m. You see, s true. ‘Love runs . . . pumping through my veeeeiiiiins!’ Love Letherjackiema. You an’t go ound getting bogged in defensiveness. Love is loike a stream.

DO NOT USE WORDS OF POP SONGS TO GUIDE BEHAVIOUR, ESPECIALLY WHEN DRUNK

10.21 p.m. Youse? Dfon’t polay hard to get. So why shunni text him . . .?

GAAAH! You see, this is the trouble with the modern world. If it was the days of letter‑writing, I would never have even started to find a pen, a piece of paper, an envelope, a stamp, and Leatherjacketman’s home address and gone outside at 11.30 p.m. with two children asleep in the house to find a postbox. A text is gone at the brush of a fingertip, like a nuclear bomb or Exocet missile.

10.35 p.m. Just pressssd d SEND. Issfineisn’ tit.

DO NOT TEXT WHEN DRUNK

CONTINUING DATING INCOMPETENCE

Sunday 16 September 2012

133lb (stuffing feelings).

‘No!’ said Talitha, sitting in my living room with Tom, me and Jude. ‘It is not “fine”.’

‘Why?’ I said, staring eerily at my text.

<So great to see you Wednesdyy. Let’s get togethr again soon! > Tom read it out then snorted.

‘Well, number one, you’re clearly drunk,’ said Jude, looking up briefly from OkCupid.

‘Number two, it’s eleven thirty at night,’ said Tom. ‘Number three, you’ve already told him you’d like to see him again, so you’re sounding desperate.’

‘Number four, you used an exclamation mark,’ said Jude crisply.

‘And it’s emotionally inauthentic,’ said Tom. ‘It has the gushing, fraudulently breezy tone of a schoolgirl who’s persuaded the netball captain to sit next to her at lunch, and is trying to force her to be friends, whilst attempting to sound casual about it.’

‘And he didn’t reply,’ added Jude.

‘Have I ruined everything?’

‘Just leave it as the naivety of a newborn bunny amidst a pack of ravenous coyotes,’ said Tom.

Almost immediately the text pinged.

<How’s your babysitting schedule? More organized than your spelling? What about next Saturday night?>

I looked at them with the expression of an anti‑Iraq War demonstrator hearing that there were no weapons of mass destruction. Then I floated up onto a cloud – non‑biochemical – of excitement.

‘“How’s your babysitting schedule?”’ I said, dancing around. ‘He’s so CONSIDERATE.’

‘He’s trying to get into your knickers,’ said Jude.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ said Tom excitedly. ‘Answer the text!’

I thought a bit, then texted:

<Saturday night perfect, just need to obtain a sturdy rope to tether the children.>

<I prefer duct tape.> came straight back.

‘He’s funny,’ said Tom. ‘And there’s just a hint of S&M. Which is nice.’

We all looked at each other happily. A triumph for one was a triumph for all.

‘Let’s open another bottle,’ said Jude, padding over to the fridge in her baggy onesie and big fluffy socks. She stopped to kiss me on the head on the way. ‘Well done, everyone, well done.’

ESCALATING DATING INCOMPETENCE

ON THE FIRST DATE – JUST GO ALONG WITH WHAT HE SUGGESTS

Wednesday 19 September 2012

134lb, pounds gained 1, dating rules broken 2.

9.15 p.m. Chloe can’t do Saturday night, and instead of putting my energy into finding someone else, have obsessed and fantasized so much about the dinner, and what am going to wear, and the way he will look up at me when I appear in the navy silk dress, that have not organized anything else. Gaah! Text from Leatherjacketman! <Fancy a movie on Saturday? Argo?>

9.17 p.m. Argo ? Argo ? A movie is not a PROPER DATE! Argo is a guy movie! The navy silk dress would be overdressed at a movie. And anyway Chloe can’t do Saturday and . . .

9.20 p.m. Just sent: <How about dinner? Would like to get to know you better.>

DON’T MAKE IT ALL ABOUT THE BABYSITTER

9.21 p.m. Me: <Also – babysitter problems Saturday night. Any chance we could do Friday??>

10 p.m. Oh God, oh God. Leatherjacketman has not replied. Maybe he is out? With another woman?

11 p.m. Leatherjacketman: <Can’t do Friday. How about the week after? Friday? Or Saturday?>

11.05 p.m. Texted back <Yes! Saturday!> then slumped. He wants to wait a whole week? How can he bear it?

Sunday 23 September 2012

9.15 p.m. Agonizing. Leatherjacketman has ignored me all weekend. Has clearly gone off me. If was ever on me in first place.

10 p.m. Am going to try to get things going again.

DON’T PREARRANGE FIRST‑TIME SEX

<So sorry about moving things around. Will wear high heels on Saturday to make up for it! And babysitter is staying over.>

Monday 24 September 2012

136lb, pounds gained 2, texts from Leatherjacketman (possibly as result of pounds gained, even though has not seen yet) 0.

9.15 p.m. Leatherjacketman has not replied. Thinks am desperate slut.

Tuesday 25 September 2012

135lb, texts from Leatherjacketman 1 (bad).

11 a.m. Just got reply!

<Great. How about ENO in Notting Hill. 7.45? Looking forward to the heels.>

He hates me.

Saturday 29 September 2012

Number of times changed outfit for date 7, minutes late for date 25, positive thoughts during date 0, texts sent to Leatherjacketman 12, texts received from Leatherjacketman 2, Dating Rules broken 13, positive outcomes of entire experience 0.

BE ON TIME, REMEMBERING THAT THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN CHANGING OUTFITS AND PUTTING ON MAKE‑UP, RATHER LIKE WHEN CATCHING A PLANE

7 p.m. Spent so long putting on outfits and taking them off again, that minicab went away, has not come back and now I cannot find taxi in street. Have sent series of hysterical texts to which only reply has been: <Plenty of taxis here.>

8 p.m. In the Electric Bar. Ended up bringing car but was so late that have had to dump it in residents’ bay where am sure to get a ticket. Leatherjacketman is not here.

MAKE SURE YOU BOTH THINK YOU’RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE AT THE SAME TIME

8.10 p.m. Oh, shit! Shit! He didn’t say the Electric. He said ENO.

8.15 p.m. Deranged now. Just sent him text saying have gone to wrong place and now have to run to ENO.

WHEN YOU ARRIVE, BE RELAXED AND SMILE, LIKE A GODDESS OF LIGHT AND CALM

Turned up at ENO forty minutes late to be confronted by a greeter lady who clearly thought I was a mad person who should be ushered out.

I realized I couldn’t either see Leatherjacketman or remember his real name.

Eventually located him, engrossed, horrifyingly, at a long table of cool advertising‑style people, had to actually go over and touch his shoulder to get his attention, at which he tried to introduce me but obviously couldn’t remember my name either.

He tried to get me to join them. But the restaurant couldn’t fit in another chair, so we had to go to a table for two, with Leatherjacketman repeatedly glancing over at his sophisticated friends, clearly thinking how much more fun they were than me.

When leaving, the sophisticated friends invited us both on to a party, at which, thinking, ‘Nooooo!’ I said, ‘Yes! That would be great!’

I lost him immediately at the scary party, hid in the toilet.

DO NOT GET DRUNK OR OTHERWISE INTOXICATED

When I found him, he was smoking pot. I have not smoked pot for fifteen years and then it was two puffs, which made me so paranoid that I thought people were ignoring me when they were actually talking to me. Nevertheless gave in to Leatherjacketman’s friends’ peer pressure and had two drags on the joint. Immediately became completely stoned and paranoid.

Perhaps noticing this, he whispered, ‘Shall we go in here?’ gesturing at a closed door. Nodded mutely.

We were in a spare bedroom, covered in coats. He closed the door, pushed me against it, kissing my neck, sliding his hand up my skirt, murmuring, ‘Did you say your babysitter was staying over?’

Nodded mutely.

DO NOT TRY TO HAVE SEX BEFORE YOU’RE READY

Not only was I stoned, not only was I paranoid, but I hadn’t had sex for four and a half years and I was absolutely terrified. What if he thought I was revolting without my clothes on? What if I slept with him and he didn’t ring me again? What if I couldn’t remember how to do it?

‘Are you OK?’

DO NOT KEEP DISAPPEARING INTO THE TOILET FOR AGES OR HE WILL THINK YOU HAVE A DRUG OR DIGESTIVE PROBLEM

Nodded mutely, then managed, ‘I’ll just go to the loo.’

He looked at me strangely and sat back down on the bed.

When I reappeared he was still sitting on the bed. He got up and shut the door again and started kissing my neck again while sliding his hand back up my dress.

‘Shall we go to my place?’ he said.

I nodded mutely, just managing to get out, ‘But . . .’

DO NOT CONFUSE HIM

‘Look, if you don’t want to do this . . .’

‘No, no, I do, I do. But . . .’

YOU DECIDE WHEN YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE SEX, NOT HIM. DECIDE AND BE CLEAR ABOUT IT

‘You did say you had a babysitter overnight.’

DON’T CREATE PRESSURE

‘It’s just I haven’t slept with anyone for four and a half years.’

‘FOUR AND A HALF YEARS?? Jesus. No pressure.’

‘I know. It’s just, I’ve finally met someone I like.’

‘What??’

DON’T EXPRESS YOUR VULNERABILITIES. WAIT TILL THEY KNOW YOU WELL ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND

‘I mean, I’ve met you but I hardly know you, and what if you don’t like it when I’ve got no clothes on? And maybe I won’t be able to remember what to do, and I’m a widow, and I might think I’m being unfaithful and start crying and then have to wait for the phone to ring and you might not call!’

‘What about me? I’ve met someone I like too.’

ALWAYS BE CLASSY, NEVER BE CRAZY

‘Who?’ I said indignantly. ‘You’ve met someone else in the last two weeks? Who is she? How could you?’

‘I meant you. Look. Think of it from the guy’s point of view. Does she want me to call? Does she want to sleep with me?’

‘I know, I know, I do . . .’

‘Good, so . . .’ He started kissing me again. He was trying to pull me back on the bed now, with me sitting rather awkwardly on his thigh.

DON’T MAKE HIM FEEL CAGED

‘But,’ I burst out again, ‘if we have sex will you promise you’ll call me and see me again, or maybe we could actually arrange the next date now?! So we don’t have to worry about it!’

‘Look.’ For a second, I swear he couldn’t remember my name again. ‘You’re a great girl. I just don’t think you’re ready for this. I don’t want to feel responsible for upsetting anyone. Let me put you in a cab for tonight and, yes. I’ll call you.’

‘OK,’ I said miserably, then followed him, nodding mutely as he said his goodbyes. He put me in a taxi. I turned to wave and saw him going back off towards the party.

CREATE BEAUTIFUL MEMORIES

Caught a glimpse of myself in the taxi mirror. My hair was all messed up, I had the same Alice Cooper eyes with smudged mascara and deranged expression I had left him with in the Stronghold.

11.20 p.m. Have just ended up creeping back into the house, so Chloe wouldn’t find out the date was a disaster.

Sunday 30 September 2012

133lb, minutes slept 0, pounds lost through stress and misery 2, pounds lost in parking/towaway fines 245.

5 a.m. Have been awake all night. Am horrible failure, revolting, old and crap with men.

8 a.m. Just attempted to creep out to get the car before it was towed away, only to be caught by Mabel, Billy and Chloe coming up from the kitchen to go to the park.

‘Mummy,’ said Billy, ‘I thought you’d gone away for the night.’

‘Didn’t go so well, then?’ said Chloe sympathetically, looking fresh‑faced and perfect.

The car had been towed away and had to go to a hideous trough between the A40 and the main train line to Cornwall to pay more than Chloe’s wages for a week to get it back. Am so sad, the one time I found someone I liked, I completely messed it up. I’ll never find anyone again. I’m not only man‑repellent, I’m incompetent. But maybe he’ll text. Or call.

Friday 5 October 2012

134lb, calls from Leatherjacketman 0, texts from Leatherjacketman 0.

9.15 a.m. He hasn’t.

Monday 8 October 2012

130lb (wasting away, look old), calls from Leatherjacketman 0, texts from Leatherjacketman 0.

7 a.m. He still hasn’t. Must throw self into work and get on with screenplay.

Tuesday 9 October 2012

Texts to Leatherjacketman 1, texts from Leatherjacketman 0, number of words of screenplay written 0, Dating Rules broken 2.

He still hasn’t.

IF HE PULLS AWAY, DON’T FIGHT IT. STEER INTO THE SKID

11 p.m. Maybe I will text Leatherjacketman.

BE AUTHENTIC

2.30 a.m. Me: <Hey. Thanks for the great party last Saturday. I had such a good time!>

Wednesday 10 October 2012

Texts from Leatherjacketman 0.

No reply.

Friday 19 October 2012

Texts from Leatherjacketman 1, encouraging‑in‑any‑way texts from Leatherjacketman 0, words of screenplay written 0.

10 a.m. Leatherjacketman: <Hey, no worries. We’ve all been there.>

Saturday 27 October 2012

No communication from Leatherjacketman.

Sunday 28 October 2012

DO NOT TEXT AT ODD TIMES OF DAY OR NIGHT IN MANNER OF STALKER

5.30 a.m. Maybe will text Leatherjacketman!

<How are you?>

One soul reaching out to another, I thought, amid the smouldering remains of the silly old mess we’d accidentally created, like silly billies in the midst of a deep unbreakable connection: Leonardo da Vinci’s Adam reaching out, in that painting, for God’s fingertips.

Friday 2 November 2012

Possibilities of anything ever happening with male of species again 0.

11.30 a.m. Text from Leatherjacketman.

<Great but very overloaded – heading off to Zurich tomorrow, might be there for a while. Have a good Christmas.>

And that was the end of that.

‘ You have to laugh about it,’ said Talitha. ‘Don’t let him have possession of your self‑esteem. Or your sexual viability. Or anything.’

Clearly, however, something had to be done.

INTENSIVE DATING STUDY

Night after night, when the children were in bed, I studied, as if for an Open University course on how to get off with people. The children seemed to sense that a great project was in the works, and treated it with appropriate respect. Mabel, when she burst into my bedroom at midnight, clutching Saliva and saying she’d had a nasty dream, would whisper, ‘Exthcuthe me, Mummy, but a giant ant ith eatin’ my ear,’ whilst peeping respectfully from the tangle of hair, at the piles of epic tomes all over the bed. I did of course tweet as I went along, increasing my Twitter followers to a staggering 437.

Bibliography:

I started with my historical archive – the obvious classics from my thirties:

* Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus

* Finding the Love You Want

* Letting Love Find You

* What Men Want

* What Men Secretly Want

* What Men Really Want

* What Men Actually Want

* How Men Think

* What Men Think About When Not Thinking About Sex

But somehow it just wasn’t enough . I went on Amazon and there were seventy‑five pages of dating self‑help books to choose from.

* The Single Trap: The Two‑step Guide to Escaping It and Finding Lasting Love

* The Three Most Successful Online Dating Profiles Ever

* Quadruple Your Dating

* It Takes All 5: A Single Mom’s Guide to Finding the Real One

* Make Him Beg to Be Your Boyfriend in 6 Simple Steps

* 100% Love: 7 Steps to Scientifically Find the True Love of Your Life

* Fearless Love: 8 Simple Rules That Will Change the Way You Date, Mate and Relate

* The Love Laws: 9 Essential Rules for Lasting, Loving Partnership

* 10 Dating Lessons from

Sex and the City

* Attraction Magnets: 12 Best Conversation Topics for Dating and Pickup

* 20 Rules of Internet Dating

* The Red Flag Rules: 50 Rules to Know Whether to Keep Him or Kiss Him Goodbye

* The 99 Rules of Online Dating

* The New Rules: The Dating Dos and Don’ts for the Digital Generation

(same authors as the original

Rules

)

* The Old Dating Rules

(different authors from the original

Rules

)

* The Unwritten Rules

* The Unspoken Rules

* The Spiritual Rules for Dating, Relating and Mating

* Changing the Rules

* Love Has No Rules

* Breaking the Rules

* Dating, Fornication and Romance: Who Knew There Were Rules?

* The Anti‑Rules – Now That You’ve Got Him, How Do You Get Rid of Him?

* The 30‑Day Dating Detox

* Zen and the Art of Falling in Love

* Geisha Secrets

* Why Men Love Bitches

* You’re Irresistible

* He’s Just Not That Into You

* The Strategy

* The Automatic 2nd Date: Everything to Say and Do on the 1st Date to Guarantee a 2nd Date

* Getting to Third Date

* Date Dream Girl: Third Date and Beyond

* Getting to Fifth Date after Fourth Date and Sex

* Now What? Getting Beyond the Fifth‑Date Hurdle

* When Mars and Venus Collide

* The Art of War for Dating

* The Worst‑Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Dating

* Dating Dead Men

* Romantic Suicide

* Dating: It’s Not Complicated

It might sound confusing, but actually it wasn’t! There was more consensus than disagreement amongst the dating masters. I studied diligently, marking up the books and making notes, searching for commonalities as if between the world’s great religions and philosophical tenets, distilling them down to a molten core of key principles:

THE DATING RULES

*Do not text when drunk.

*Always be classy, never be crazy.

*Be on time.

*Use Authentic Communication.

*Do not go to the wrong place.

*Do not confuse him. Be rational, congruent and consistent.

*Do not obsess or fantasize.

*Do not obsess or fantasize when driving.

*Respond to what is actually going on, not what you wish was going

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 591