Liz Jones's Diary: In which I wish I hadn’t blocked my ex
I keep wanting to tell him things. Did he see 3, 2, 1, where Paul McCartney talks about songwriting? Or did he see my piece about faking orgasms, saying the sex I had with him was the best, the only time I didn’t fake it?*
Or that I’m staying in Soho for work over Valentine’s Day weekend? I’m not looking forward to it: a hotel on the most important dating weekend of the year, alone. The person who brings me a vegan burger will look at me with the same expression my friend Lucy had when she came to see me at my farm in Somerset: ie, ‘Why do you need such a big garden when it’s just you?’ The waiter will place the tray on my bed, wondering why on earth I’m wasting a swanky room with pristine pillows, a huge rainfall shower.
'I want to ask if he saw my piece that said the sex with him was the best ever'
You see, these are moments when being single is awkward, and you feel you need an excuse for being a pariah. Like the time I landed in Florida for work to interview a then 13-year-old Justin Bieber backstage. I was travelling to the US on a tourist visa. The uniformed man at passport control took my fingerprints. It revealed I have none, due to so many years spent at a computer. He became suspicious. ‘Why are you in Florida for a few days… on your own?’
I told him sheepishly, ‘I’m here to see Justin Bieber in concert.’
He raised his eyebrows. I must have seemed like the saddest, oldest fan of a teen sensation he’d ever encountered. He waved me through, shaking his head.
But I can’t email Blocked Man, aim messages willy-nilly. Ask if he managed to be exempted from the ULEZ clean air zone so he can drive to get food, as he can’t walk far. I can’t say, ‘Fancy dinner at the new Indian in Mayfair?’ Because the sheer ungrateful rudeness of him telling me to ‘look to yourself and your actions’ when I’d sent him a new phone plus accessories is something I can’t come back from.
But then I received an email. From him. How is that even possible? Siri??!! Nicola??!!
Admittedly, the email had a small red no-entry sign. But
that isn’t the same as someone being blocked. I still get to see
his name, swimming before my eyes. And now there’s an unopened email, like an unexploded bomb. What does it say? You would think that having been a hardened journalist for so many years I would just open it. I peeked at the subject header. It merely said, ‘Hi.’
Hmmm. Passive-aggressive. No clue as to what lies within. Why not begin, ‘Sorry.’ Or, ‘I’m a chump.’ Why email me anyway if he knows he’s blocked, which he must do. I hate my email inbox. There is never any good news.
I wish I still drank. I realise now how a glass of something expensive (fewer free radicals) got me through so many clicks. I still haven’t read my ex-husband’s riposte to my piece on faking orgasms while I was with him. I’ve had enough hurt. It’s all fiction, my ex-husband’s hurt, because I have another unexploded bomb, an email from him, dated 3 August 2009:
‘I don’t hold a molecule of ill will towards you, Liz. I understand if you still feel aggrieved by me. I deserve it. You’ll always have a friend in me. X’
Well, that didn’t hold firm, did it? Just as when I split up with Trevor, he of the high-waisted trousers, I dropped him off in Knightsbridge when he moved out, having told me he was in love with a stylist called Jenny. I got home to a winking red light and a voicemail: ‘I will always be your friend.’ I never heard from him again. Ah. Once. When I was editor of Marie Claire. My PA patched him through. ‘Can you get me a cheap plane ticket to Jamaica?’
Emboldened, I open the blocked email. It’s a photo of the Beatles. He obviously listens to my podcast. Can I ban someone from listening, reading? Can I?
*Until he retired and started to sleep all day.
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and stalk her @lizjonesgoddess
