This week I've learned two things. One that keeping bagels in the freezer means you get ice cubes with sesame seeds in. The second is that men have an uncanny knack of sensing when another male is sniffing round their territory.
I've been insanely busy - thankfully far too occupied to dwell upon the beau's continued absence. On Tuesday I went to the launch of a swanky new menswear shop opposite Claridges. Some tailor I've never heard of that makes flashy suits for the likes of Daniel Craig, and, erm, Ant and Dec. In fact all three of them had been touted as 'confirmed guests', but seemingly sent Patrick Kielty and the bloke from Coupling, who gets his arse out a lot, in their place. I wasted ten minutes of my valuable time trying to talk to a hot young British actor who was standing outside. Sadly he was so out of it he couldn't actually enunciate and just kept opening and shutting his mouth while his eyes rolled back in his head. Not that impressive.
On Thursday it was off to a lipstick party at Battersea Power station where Kate Moss flew in by helicopter and we all lined up to ogle her as she entered the venue, like at a bad wedding. She walked by so fast it was like she on castors, then was whisked to the VIP section surrounded by her slightly ghastly entourage. It was a bit of an anticlimax and I left soon after, ripping my feet to shreds in 7 inch glitter platforms, unable to find an actual road, let alone a cab.
I got home and was feeling rather low when my phone buzzed with a text. Unknown number.
Slight feeling of dread.
'Darling, how are you?'
'Darling WHO are you?' was my reply.
My jaw dropped when I realised it was Andy, a man I had a bit of a 'thing' with a couple of years ago, after meeting him at a terrible bar in the City. (It sounds like I spend all my time in the square mile preying on rich suits but I assure you it's a twice-yearly occurence at most.)
He was terribly charming and handsome - which led him to aquiring not only a wife and children but also a mistress whom he coyly referred to as his 'girlfriend'. Now it appeared he wanted to add me to the jolly hareem. I applauded his honestly (but not his decision to sport garish red braces). I wasn't convinced at first. My friend was in hysterics as she watched him trying to nuzzle my neck seductively.
'He was doing his best sexy moves' she recalls, 'and you just looked bored out of your head whilst flipping over his tie to see where it was from.'
He won me over in the end and we had a lukewarm affair for several months; he'd ring me furtively from the bottom of the garden at his weekend home in the Cotswolds and turn up at my flat at ridiculous hours of the night whenever he had a window in his schedule or a watertight excuse. It only really continued because I was on the rebound following a messy split from hateful man, and because he always brought me lovely baubles, mainly from Louis Vuitton where I'm sure he got a discount for buying three of everything.
It had petered out to nothing and I'd deleted him from my past, but now this. He was clearly drunk.
'I'm so fond of you' he texted. God I HATE the F-word.
'You were always the one who made me laugh. And all those extraordinary shoes...'
I wasn't in the mood for rose-tinted reminiscing so asked him to cut to the chase.
Turns out he sold the London pied a terre; wifey probably sussed that it was his Zone 1 shag pad. So he now stays at hotels when he's in town.
'I have the penthouse at the Sanderson on Tuesday night' he taunted, 'Be lovely to see you again.'
I'm very familiar with said room - and I really don't like it. Due to building regulations they aren't allowed to divide it up with actual walls so there are green curtains all up and down it, lending it the cold air of a gynaecological ward. And who wants to pee - or worse - wth only a curtain for modesty? Least sexy hotel ever in my opinion, but he loves it for some reason.
I'm non committal, as every fibre of my rational being screams DON'T GO THERE. But I'd be lying if I said the idea of a no-strings five star hotel tryst didn't pique my interest just a little.
I slipped off to sleep and had an unsettling dream about smear tests.
The next morning I debated it all the way to work and when I got there I opened up my email. Of course there was one from the beau after a week's abscence.
'Ive been as busy as a one-legged arse kicker' it read, and I took this to be as near as an apology as I would ever get. He's been taken out every night recently by various people who want to employ him after he quit his current job. How terribly arduous for him. No mention of taking ME out however. And he's away all weekend again. The hotel offers keeps buzzing round my head. Should I? COULD I? I still haven't made up my mind.