It was our first real date. You know, the one where you wear clothes, sit normally, and eat stuff. I arrived at Soho House* three hours early (my friend Sue, who was supposed to meet me at the bar to give her verdict, canceled). I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous. I went to the bar at 6 p.m., looking for the most flattering spot. I took a picture of my champagne glass and texted it to him. “That’s a sexy thigh,” he replied. My leg, dressed in sheer Prada, was in the frame. My top was also sheer, so I looked like a skinny Bianca Censori.
When he arrived, the concierge and waitress both raised their eyebrows and said, “Wow.” There was a pianist playing loudly next to us, so I told him maybe we should talk more via text. We walked into the dining room and sat down on a bench. He put his arm around my shoulders and said, “If anyone came into this place, or any restaurant in Soho, they would see that we are the couple most in love.”
I told him all about my wedding at a branch of Soho House, how I paid for everyone to stay, but of all the guests, I only have contact with one person who was there. ‘We’re so similar,’ he said, as he told me about his second wedding in the Maldives. I was suddenly furious that someone could be mean to him. Like me, he’s damaged, disappointed.
He told me that I was his number one. That it was no longer about having children or buying houses, but about being together. That he remembered every detail of the night we met, when we kissed on the hotel terrace. But he did say two things that sent shivers down my osteoporosis-ridden spine: that he had felt ‘disconnected’ from me for the past week, and that the distance (he’s in London, I’m in the Dales) was a problem. ‘You may say you’re coming for the weekend, but you can’t leave your dog and your horse behind. But maybe we can do both.’
I was already having a hard time accepting that here I was, sitting on a bench with a handsome man, feeling something I’d never felt before: happy. The problem with being happy is that you always know it’s going to go away. “I know beauty when I see it,” he told me.
We went to the nice room. We had sex before I could even take off my Louboutins. He raided the minibar and for the first time I wasn’t worried about the cost or the mess. He told me he’d had a fight with a male friend who’d googled me and read me things. I felt sick. Why do people bother? He told me he’s not interested in my past. That he doesn’t read anything I write about him. But all those things I’ve confessed on paper will haunt me forever. I feel like Julia Roberts in Notting Hilland told Hugh Grant that every time someone writes a story about her, they’ll dig up her nude photos. ‘At least you know I’ve got nothing to hide,’ I told him. ‘That I’ve tried to commit suicide twice.’
He woke me up at 6am to have sex again. It was a revelation.
This time he was naughtier. I told him he was a great lover, but he said it takes ‘two people to make love perfect’; that we had a strange sexual chemistry he had never experienced before. ‘Love you so much. I think you are so beautiful.’
We went for breakfast. We’re meeting in a country house hotel in Suffolk in two weeks for my birthday, and it turns out his birthday is the day after mine. I had no idea. ‘Do you call yourself an investigative journalist?’ I was already shopping for his present on the train home: an N Peal cashmere hoodie. I texted Nic from the train and told her that the evening had been great, but that the distance could ruin everything. The fear of losing him is like a stain, seeping into what should be pristine. ‘I don’t think I’m so special that he keeps telling me I’m beautiful.’
Nic stopped me. ‘You’re exceptional. Talented, beautiful, smart, funny. A catch for any man.’
My favorite thing about him? He learned to sign the word “beautiful” so he can tell me in bed when I take my hearing aids out. No eye-rolling. No yelling. Just nice. He really is too good to be true.
*Kettner’s in London. Remember when they threw me out in the middle of the night when the Queen was lying in state? I swore I would never come back, but I had to. The staff were thrilled to see me.
Jones Groans… What Liz Hates This Week
- My dry cleaners. I discovered, while making the guest bed, that the comforter was not my comforter. I took it back. My comforter was wrapped up on a shelf. It had not been washed. ‘It has nothing to do with me,’ said the manager. Why is that the prevailing attitude, in every corner of life?
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess