And so, the blind date with T. The man I met four years ago at a book signing, and who emailed to say that, now I’m shot of David, he wants to make me happy.
It’s not in my nature to not make an effort, so I did. Gucci handkerchief skirt, Bottega heels – both so old they have now tipped into vintage – and a white T-shirt from Peacocks. Sisley primer. An email: ‘The eagle has landed in London.’ Then another: ‘The eagle is in the nest!’ Oh God, he’s here.
I arrived at Locanda Locatelli, with Mini in tow, ten minutes late. I wasn’t nervous, which is not like me at all. As I stood at the desk, I saw him in the bar, scrambling to his feet. He’s tall with silver hair, and was wearing chinos, a shirt and blazer. It would turn out he is two years younger than me, but he seemed very adult, very grown-up. A man, not a boy at all.
He followed me to our table. I hate people following me: minus one Brownie point! I took off my jacket and he asked for a bowl of water for Mini: plus one Brownie point!
He removed a gift from a carrier bag: a small pot of roses for the table. No one has brought flowers to a restaurant for dinner since my future husband turned up for one of our first dates in Shoreditch with a bunch of red calla lilies. It’s embarrassing, flowers at dinner. What on earth do you do with them?
We chatted, looked at the menu, and the maître d’ came over. ‘Hi Liz, not seen you for a while,’ he said. T said he hoped we would be back many times. I could tell he fancied me: men get a glimmer in their eyes. He told me about his late wife, his two children. He was perfectly nice, but sadly not for me.
‘You like a bad boy,’ he said later, clearly sensing my disinterest. ‘You’re still in love with David.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. Though as the evening wore on, I realised I probably am. T is perfectly dapper and nice, but he is not David. For all his faults, David and I have a history. He knew me when I was in my 20s. He was able to make my stomach churn with desire. He has an edge to him. He is not ordinary.
After our meal, I said I was walking back to my hotel across the square. Poor T had booked a hotel somewhere. ‘I will walk with you,’ he said. I forgot to pick up the flowers. They are probably still there, wilting.
At the door of the hotel (Home House, a private members’ club so discreet there is no sign to say it’s even there), he suggested a drink. So we went into the bar and ordered. I started picturing my pyjamas. I was desperate to return to Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger. Mini, also tired, clambered on to the old sofa and was told by a waitress to get down. It was now 11.30pm and I was exhausted. I said I had to take Mini for a walk, so would say goodnight and pop to my room to change out of my shoes.
‘I can wait,’ he said.
‘No. Please don’t. I might be ages. She’s a collie, she needs to go for miles!’
I stood up to leave and he gave me a peck on the cheek. And that was that. The date going nowhere wasn’t his fault, of course. I am notoriously hard to please. But here’s the thing, and I’m ashamed to admit it. How could he think I would want to go out with him? I’ve just been telling Nic, who’s been on tenterhooks about the evening. ‘It’s like me emailing Brad Pitt, saying now he’s shot of old droopy drawers, how about it?’
I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. After a lifetime of feeling not good enough, I finally know my worth.
The next day, he sent an email, thanking me for my company. ‘I guess my journey home was easier than yours as I let the train take the strain. What will you tell Nic about last night?’
I haven’t had the heart to reply.
That evening, slumped on the sofa at last, I got a text. It was from David. He must have some sort of sixth sense…