So, I’m in London, David is in London. This is a rare event these days. I was in town for my work Christmas party. I had booked a hotel in Covent Garden, as there was no way I was ever going to set foot in David’s flat again. I texted him while I got ready.
‘Did you get the boiler going again? Hate to think of you with no heating.’
‘Yes. There is a switch below the boiler. I forgot to tell you about that one.’
‘I have my party tonight.’
‘Sounds nice, enjoy.’
I hate people telling me to enjoy myself. It’s patronising and aggressive.
‘I’m just ironing my hair.’
‘Another pressing engagement.’ (You see, he tries to be funny, but it is all one liners. He is like a very etiolated version of Bernard Manning.)
‘I’m wearing the Dries van Noten slip dress you gave me for my birthday.’
‘Oh, thanks for telling me that.’
‘I was only saying as I wanted to let you know I am grateful to have something no one has seen a million times before.’
‘The dress was for me, not you. At least send me a photo.’
‘No, I hate pictures of myself.’
‘Then leave the head off. Just send the body.’
Later. Him: ‘Who are you going in the photo booth with to send me a picture of you in your dress?’
‘I’m not doing a photo.’
Him: ‘It’s the law.’
I ignored his barely concealed lust and jealousy, and emailed back: ‘Gah! It’s too big, even though it’s a size eight! Am going to have to wear my black Myla bra underneath.’
‘Oh, twist the knife, why don’t you?’
I left it at that. I had extended an olive branch, but not once did he say, ‘Well, shall I meet you for a drink after your party?’ Or, ‘Shall we go together to your party next week?’ I think the desire is there, but he is feeling insecure or angry or both.
Back home the next night, I texted him. What can I say, I was bored and lonely. I haven’t told him I already have three guests for Christmas. My friend Isobel and her black lab; she has rented her house out on Airbnb for the holidays. My artist friend Helen. And Isobel’s friend Caroline and her german shepherd. David gets jealous even when other women are around, or animals. So I just said, ‘Are you coming to mine for Christmas?’
He replied sullenly, ‘I didn’t think you even liked me, let alone loved me.’
I sent back, exasperated, ‘How old are you?’
He replied, ‘Old enough to know better.’
I haven’t heard anything since.
Anyway, on a stormy, almost snowy night, just before Christmas, Isobel persuaded me to go to a mini party at a friend’s house, where lots of bath products and candles would be on sale. I found the house: it was enormous, with a stunning view of the castle and a huge tree in the window. I opened the gate and walked up the path. It was just like a London villa. Inside, there were wide, oiled oak floorboards, velvet chesterfields, original tiles and four floors. Every inch of dark grey wall contained a painting. The bathroom was amazing: a roll-top bath that took six men to carry up the staircase in the centre of the room, a walk-in shower – it was just like a room at Babington House, or Lime Wood Hotel. ‘You should live in a house like this,’ Isobel whisper-ed. ‘I used to,’ I told her. ‘Only it was early Georgian, with flat windows. A courtyard garden. And it was in London. Not in the town where people come to die. And how do people who are, what, someone who makes bath salts in her kitchen and a poet, able to afford it, when I can’t?’
I left with three little bags of products for my Christmas guests, and extreme house and lifestyle envy. I will place the products on my guests’ pillows and go to bed nursing my jealousy, wondering how on earth everyone else manages to have such lovely, twinkly lives.