Every time she wants more, she texts him: ‘Opé’, meaning ‘Operational’ but in French.
How do you know when a relationship is well and truly over? No, not just that you no longer read his horoscope. It’s when you are watching England play in the World Cup and you can’t identify one single, solitary player on the pitch. The footballers you do remember from all those years spent on the sofa with your husband are now grey-haired commentators. That’s the nail in the coffin. New footballers have been born and come of age.
So my marriage is dead and buried, but David? I texted him, ‘Happy birthday, hope you are somewhere lovely.’ He sent back a photo of some water with boats on. No details. Typical. Then, on Sunday afternoon, I got this:
‘Opé?’
I knew exactly what this meant. I had made him watch Rust and Bone with me years ago. It stars Marion Cotillard, one of my favourite actresses. She loses a limb (or is it two?) to a killer whale. She is befriended by a rough-and-ready but very sweet man and they have sex. Every time she wants more, she texts him: ‘Opé’, meaning ‘Operational’ but in French.
I replied, though, with a ‘Quoi?’ He shot back: ‘Dinner.’
I said OK, but that if he wanted to stay on his way from Scotland to London, it would have to be in the spare room. ‘I don’t want to stay, just dinner. It would be nice to see you.’
Being a woman – strange, mercurial creatures that we are – I felt a bit offended. Anyway, I booked a table at Middleton Lodge, a lovely country house hotel and the only place for miles that does vegan food. ‘I will find it,’ he said. ‘Am leaving the Travelodge now.’
I turned up, late and filthy (I’d made no effort, although with no-make-up make-up: I still have standards), and there he was at a table outside, with a glass of champagne waiting for me. The beard had hightailed it, thank God, though he was wearing the awful nylon, monochrome ‘sweater’ I told him I hated. He looked handsome, though: suntanned, while the death-row haircut had grown out.
When Mini realised it was David she started crying, and climbed into his lap for the duration of the meal. I asked him where he had been on his birthday, and it turns out he was at an anniversary party in the Highlands in a beautiful lodge for some friends of his; there were about 30 of them. I was slightly miffed I hadn’t been invited, but then why would he invite me? His friends hate me anyway for writing once that you can’t be left wing if you eat lamb and snort cocaine. He said he was off to Florence soon. I told him the art is all a bit early for me: no perspective. ‘I’m not going for the art,’ he said. No, of course not. We chatted, but not about anything meaningful; he seemed in a hurry. I hadn’t even finished my drink when he stood up to go. ‘I’m cold,’ he said. We were in the middle of a heatwave!
I told him that if he wanted to stay, it would have to be in the spare room
We walked to the car park. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I have some presents for you.’ He went over to his car then came back with a small wrapped gift and an embroidery of roses by his mum that I had long admired. He gave me a hug and that was it. ‘Oh, and here’s a letter,’ he added, handing me an envelope with so much gravity I felt like Sandra Bullock.
When I got home, I put the embroidery in my bedroom and unwrapped my gift. It was a small box. Oooh, jewellery. Perhaps the ‘token’ is now a real ring, with diamonds. I opened the box. It was a piece of painted glass in the shape of an ashtray.
Hmmm. I had half expected a poem, but the letter was from someone in France about the sheep David had rescued.
I went to bed and unfolded my iPad. And there was another small, unopened parcel. An email from HIM, in answer to my text last week, suggesting we meet up one day at Rudding Park hotel. He didn’t mention that text, or the hotel, just said some nice things and ended with a kiss and the news he’s in Sydney but ‘back soon’.
I immediately, at the speed of light, sent the email to Nic. Men do understand we keep nothing sacred, don’t they? ‘What do you think?’ I asked her. ‘Does he fancy me?’
‘Yeah, definitely,’ she said. ‘He obviously respects you.’
‘I don’t want respect. I want a mansion!’