LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which I come to a sad conclusion
I met David for my delayed birthday dinner on Tuesday night.
I had promised him he could come up to my hotel room (the Rosewood in Covent Garden; lovely and, no, it wasn't a freebie) after, to which he'd replied, 'Great. I'll have a bath.'
He had booked Locanda Locatelli, the Michelin-starred restaurant where we had our first proper date in 2014.
I was so nervous for that first lunch, not having clapped eyes on him since 1983. I was wearing Victoria Beckham body-con. This time?
I'm in a brown Gucci hanky skirt, bought in the sale at Selfridges in, ooh, 2001. A Dries tee and an oversize Zara jacket, Gucci slides. I don't think he noticed. He probably thought, 'Ooh, Next maybe?'
He had booked Locanda Locatelli, the Michelin-starred restaurant where we had our first proper date in 2014
He was late, as his Uber app had frozen. He was flustered, had entered through the kitchen, which I don't think is allowed, and was in a white shirt that wouldn't quite do up.
I hadn't ordered champagne (it's £22 a glass), but an Umbrian white wine instead for £8.50 as he was paying. He asked for absinthe: the only liqueur they don't have.
I said, 'Isn't that a bit strong?'
As the last time he drank it I ended up missing my main course and locking him out of our hotel room at Lime Wood.
'I'll add water,' he said.
He gave me my birthday gift: two books on gardening. I could tell he was really trying to be good, though sniffing the gluten-free bread they brought him specially is never a good look.
We got back to my hotel and sat in the bar. Four drinks came to over £70. I don't think I can afford to live in London ever again, and I felt bereft.
Finally, we went up to my lovely room. He had a cloth bag with him.
'What's in that?' (More gifts?)
He tapped his nose.
I took my make-up off, put on a T-shirt and got into bed. He was wearing tartan pyjamas, when he is normally as naked as a newborn. Hmm.
'Close your eyes,' he said, delving (into the bag, not me). I was hoping for a Diptyque candle.
He brought out an eye mask, which he proceeded to put on me. I couldn't help but think: 'This feels like cardboard.' I exclaimed, 'So, what, I'm now deaf and blind?'
Then I felt something tickling my skin: tassels.
Oh my god! He had brought a bag of sex toys! It was like a superannuated version of Love Island – the bit where a chosen couple go into the Hideaway.
He has never done this before! When we stayed at the (dear departed) Hospital Club, I'd shown him the menu of sex toys and he'd said, 'Oh no, that's way too expensive.'
Anyway, next, even I heard buzzing. Oh no. I don't want cystitis! All I can report here is that it reminded me of the Japanese loos in the spa at Harrods. You know, the ones where there is a spurt of hot water, entirely in the wrong place?
Poor David. He knew I wanted sex, but he was too nervous or didn't feel up to it, so had decided to go for Option Two. Which did absolutely nothing for me. I was hankering after Marcus Wareing's Tales from a Kitchen Garden.
We had breakfast the next morning. I had to be up early to review the Chanel show at the V&A: you know, the ground-breaking designer who liberated women from corsets, made it OK for us to wear trousers in the evening and actually (I never knew this) invented a tanning liquid in 1932 – for which I have to thank her for many, many brown sheets and a Rock Star's stained loo seat.
Having looked at the breakfast menu, David pulled a face and said he wasn't hungry.
My last glimpse was of him hunched in the street, lighting a fag, doubtless thrilled to be free of me to be himself as I whizzed past in a taxi to my old life of mannequins and street stylers and museum gift shops (there was a strict notice saying, 'We are limiting sales of the Chanel tote bag to three per customer, inclusive of both designs').
I have never, ever felt so worlds apart from someone who clearly loves me, but can never, ever be enough for me. It's the great tragedy of my life.
