He didn't turn up. But you knew that. Even I knew it really. I haven't heard from him for weeks now so I'm officially relegating him to the man bin. Of all my 'suitors' he's the one that fades quickest from my mind so I can't really say I'm mourning his radio silence (though my more shallow alter- ego quite misses his wallet and stable of insanely expensive cars).
The Beau made his reappearance as predicted, using that trusted opening gambit the 'dream text'. He told me about about one he had about us, which involved us 'getting jiggy' (his words, not
mine) in a school playground surrounded by small children.
'Either you are profoundly disturbed or you're not getting any' I texted back. He replied to say it was definitely the latter. And considering he married his childhood sweetheart (my research tells me) he probably isn't lying.
Later on he texted again. 'You out tonight? Am at some corporate do at the Gherkin. Boring but free booze'.
The irony wasn't lost on me that he was partying in the capital's most prominent phallic symbol. It wasn't an invite, it never is, but a declaration of his intent to turn up at my flat later on, emboldened by free champagne and confident in the assumption that I will answer the door.
And answer it I did. He'd requested that I be naked and was mock-annoyed when I wasn't.
"I can't answer the door naked," I explained, "my neighbours already think I'm a hooker".
"Why is that?" he murmured whilst planting a series of slightly sloppy kisses across my face, "All the men you bring back every night?"
"Something like that" I replied. (As it happens, exactly that).
"You look nice. Very smart" I remarked in the half-light of my bedroom.
"Yeah I know" he smirked, displaying his trademark cockiness that I both love and hate.
It was a fun reunion anyway, something we both needed and enjoyed. Afterwards he lay back and dozed off a little and I admired his handsome face nestling amongst the high thread count.
"Got to be in Paris in four hours" he remarked, more to himself than to me.
"Good luck with that you utter lightweight" I replied, as he woozily put his suit back on and swayed out of the flat and into the night.
Apart from a brief conversation the next day - he missed his Eurostar as predicted - I haven't heard from him since but I have no doubt he'll be back. Mr Low Maintenence. I rather like that.
A couple of weeks later I was feeling restless and in search of a night out. I decided to called on the group of, well 'dirtbaggy' friends, that I see occasionally. This is a friendship that isn't based on shared cultural experiences and trips to world cinema, these are the friends who live to party hard. Hell, I don't even know most of their second names. I couldn't see them all the time, I would be hospitalised. But when you fancy a certain calibre of partying they rarely disappoint. Nights out with them have ended up in police stations, various hospitals, illegal speakeasys in tower blocks and most memorably of all, an east end brothel. The go-to guys when a girl is feeling on a self destructive tip.
An occupational hazard is that they are constantly losing their phones or changing their numbers for various shady reasons and after calling round a few of them only one answered.
Serge is a guy I've met a few times, he's not quite in the heart of the gang but often appears as if summoned by the siren promise of partying. He's eastern european and very good looking, with a buff gym body that he tends to keep under wraps. Sometimes I think he is embarrassed by it. The first time I saw his arms I think I actually gasped. He's always been very friendly to me, and after a few drinks gets quite flirty. No one really knows what he does, though there are dark mutterings about 'nightclub security'.
Anyway we got chatting and he said to come out for a drink. I had to go to an event that evening but arranged to meet him afterwards. The 'do was far better than I thought it would be and I ended up drinking the best part of a bottle of pink prosecco before I set off to meet him, in high spirits.
We met in a nice bar in a part of town I used to live in and he was pleased to see me, waving frantically from about 20 metres away which made me laugh. He ordered a bottle of wine because he wanted us to 'share' something; so far, so sweet.
We had a really good chat about where we grew up, and it dawned on me how little I knew about him. That's the thing with Team Dirtbag, it's all about the common aim of getting on one and staying up late, and there's little room for small talk.
After his third glass of wine he got a little more personal and told me that he loved my 'look' which he described as 'aristocratic' and in sexily accented English told me that it really 'did it for him'. I admit I was charmed. It was getting late and I said I had work the next day. He proceeded to broker a strange drunken deal whereby he would come back to my flat for 'half an hour'. I laughed and agreed, by this point I was intrigued and when he took his expensive leather jacket off to facilitate the gun show, I was convinced. So before I knew it we were speeding to my place in a cab, still laughing and flirting.
However, when we got through the door the mood changed a bit and he became a rather more serious. He lunged in for a kiss in the kitchen as I was getting some glasses out and for a moment I wondered what I had let myself in for. The only thing that went through my head was that he didn't smell of anything at all. The lighthearted mood had gone, apart from when he did a little camp disco dance to the music I had put on.
All evening I hadn't minded him touching my arm whilst we were chatting, I'd spent the whole time wondering how I could have missed what a clever and genuine bloke he was. But now he was marching into my bedroom uninvited and taking his clothes off. When I walked in he was lying on my bed, naked, checking his texts.
Suddenly i hated the fact that he was here in my flat, in my personal space, looking at my pictures and books. Nothing about this felt right. I asked him to leave and he was visibly annoyed, muttering something about not wanting to keep me up. I locked the door hurriedly after him and wondered how on earth I could have got someone so wrong. I lay awake for some time, feeling more and more irritated both at myself and him.
Maybe that's the problem making the very hasty leap from dancing with someone to sleeping with them. Maybe, just maybe, this particular party is over.Suggest a correction