My new female friend, the one with the penthouse enjoying a panoramic view of London’s landmarks and who moves in very glamorous circles, is trying to fix me up with a rich man. She sends me photos of the men she encounters on her globetrotting engagements, with captions.
‘He is solvent, kind but naughty, great fun, super fit. Sails.’
And this from last weekend: ‘You MUST meet this man! Very wealthy. Best friends with Xxxx Xxxxx. Wants to meet you.’
I tell her to say my name is Sharon and that I work in Boots. If a man googles me – ugly divorce, facelift before and afters, a photo shoot where I am posed in a bikini alongside an actual supermodel, Marie Helvin, the fact I set private detectives on a man who dared to ghost me – he will run a mile or, in the case of the first chap, up anchor and hoist the mainsail.
‘Too late!’ she trills, telling me the men will be staying at the same hotel as me for her 60th birthday bash.
Oh dear god. Now I’m really nervous. And I don’t know if I am up to moving in glamorous circles again.
A moth has eaten my only remaining pair of Manolos. The heel has fallen off my wedding day Bottega Venetas. At my local petrol station* there is a notice on each pump that says, ‘Please do not enter the store unless you are wearing a T-shirt or vest out of respect for our staff.’ Good grief. I used to live next door to Dido and now I’m in a place where men walk around topless.
Anyway, I send her by return a photo of me looking half decent, which she duly sends on to wealthy man with famous friends. I’ve captioned it: ‘This was me last week’. It was taken in 2014; my only excuse is that surely rich men only date fetuses.
If I were to ever countenance a date with another man (and I already feel exhausted at the prospect of all that honing and harvesting), I would have a whole new set of rules, as I have learnt my lesson. I would not pay for everything: I would offer to pay half, as I am not a common prostitute. I would not erect a Christmas tree in a hotel room. In fact, I would not book or arrange anything. If he doesn’t check in with me once a day, in fact leaves it four weeks before sending, ‘Hi, how are you?’ then he is history.
If he doesn’t think The Ballad Of Wallis Island is touching and funny, then just go away. If his daughters are estranged that’s a massive red flag. If he keeps insisting we did actually land on the Moon, giving reasons why, along with videos, then bin the bore.
If he leaves your hotel room at 1am, having showered after sex, my new policy is to ring down to reception and ask them to rugby tackle him and take payment as he leaves. I will not buy him an N Peal cashmere sweater for his birthday when he bought nothing for mine. This isn’t about being materialistic, something I am oft accused of below this column in the online comments, it is about respect, generosity. I will not allow another gold-digger to enter my orbit.
Because if a man doesn’t bring something to the table, doesn’t behave as a friend would, won’t go up ladders without an argument, or learn not to say the first thing that comes into his head with no thought it might offend (this was David 1.0, while sitting on my gorgeous terrace: ‘It’s a shame the heat pump makes a noise’) then what on earth is the point of him?
*I am currently borrowing Nic’s mum’s Ford Ka; the final estimate came in from Mercedes to repair my estate car: over £5,000 plus VAT; they say the car is only worth £800! Getting Teddy on to the back seat of a two-door Ka – he’s not small – reminds me of lying prone on my bed as a teenager, using a coat hanger to do up my 26-inch-waist Levi’s 501s.
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Cookery shows that keep telling you, ‘It has to be crispy on the outside and soft in the centre.’ I know! (Again, said in a Monica voice).
- I bought a bottle of wine. I have since had 17 emails from something called Feefo asking me to review my experience. Kind of takes the edge off the soothing calm of French bubbles.
