Things are getting deliciously complicated once more.
The beau has resurfaced although I worry he is making the unwelcome and lazy transition to fuck-buddy. We'll see. And then there's Andy.
I declined his 'generous' offer of a night at the hotel. He styled it out with customary finesse but I could tell he wasn't used to being knocked back. I'd love to say that it was the result of my ascent to more moral territory but in truth it was down to some badly-timed mentrual cramps.
He wasn't about to give up.
A text.
'Do you remember when we went for lunch at that nobby Chinese place in Parsons Green?'
The main thing I recall is that I saw him in his 'casual gear' for the first time and was horrified.
'Do you remember the waiter I was flirting with? he continued.
I did, and performed an involuntary cringe, although this is rich coming from the girl who did a handstand against the wall of a City winebar just because the beau dared me.
'Well he's working at the French place near my office now. Shall we go for lunch and play with him?'
I laughed out loud at the ridiculouness of it all - but couldn't resist accepting his offer of lunch. What could possibly be wrong with a couple of hours of Sauvignon Blanc-fuelled flirtation to break up the working day?
I dressed myself up in my slinky Radcliffe flares and a crisp faux-nel jacket and trotted off to meet him. I sPotted him from miles away - a lone figure standing outside the restaurant in trademark rakish pinstripes, looking up at sun for no real reason in between fiddling with his ridiculous red braces. He didn't notice me until I got up really close and screamed 'BOO!' in his ear.
His face broke into an annoyingly attractive grin and he hugged me just a little too tightly.
We enjoyed a two hour lunch; I forgotten how much he eats and how he finishes up ever single morsel on the plate. My priority was a large glass of wine to start - due to a combination of emotional distress and complex dental work I've been barely able to eat for the last fortnight which is good for the slinky flares but not so good for the emotions.
Whilst we waited for the main course I looked deep into his eyes, bolstered by a huge glass of wine on an empty stomach and... I felt absoutely nothing. I could have jumped for joy. I always used to think he was odd but also sexy; now I just thought he was odd.
'This is rather naughty!' he exclaimed as he matched me glass for glass.
'I can think of naughtier things' I retorted, with only a small amount of bitterness.
He didn't mention his wife, children or 'girlfriend' once, but nor did he make any kind of ouevre toward what he charmingly calls 'our histoire'.
The alcohol loosened our tongues and he whinged about a property deal going wrong and how he hated the City. I babbled about what a never-ending funfest my life was - I should have got an Oscar nomination.
Three glasses down it sunk in that something was missing - namely any kind of sexual spark. I felt a weight lifting from my lightly padded shoulders. It dawned on me: he really just wants to be FRIENDS. Despite the fact one of the last things he spat my way during our messy and acrimonious break up was 'Well, we were NEVER friends'.
I got up to leave after getting bored of him ordering endless desserts and coffees. I made sure I walked ahead, and sashayed out, taking a moment to leer coquettishly at the attractive Maitre D'. As we emerged back into the sun my companion spluttered 'You do look... fantastic!'
I offered up my cheek with robotic ennui. 'Yes I know' I chirruped brightly, 'and thanks for lunch!'
I walked back to my desk, utterly overjoyed by the realisation that I will never sleep with him again.
He emailed me as soon as he got back to the office. It was a really long one, that reiterated some of the things he had been talking about - I'm not sure why he wrote it.
'Have a good weekend!' I tapped back economically, then deleted his number.