I hired private detectives to spy on my lover when he blew out our date. Then they sent a video from his flat with a bombshell revelation: LIZ JONES

He came to my hotel at 9:30 PM. He was impressed by the luxurious suite with enormous Christmas tree, copper bath and walk-in minibar.

I soon noticed him nibbling on the KitKats and Pringles, like a mouse. He opened a bottle of wine. We had sex until 1am and then went to sleep. The next day he had to go to work.

We had morning sex.

He texted me later: ‘Thank you for a wonderful, magical evening. I loved being with you. It was some kind of paradise. In my world that doesn’t happen. It’s so special, I’m so lucky. Nothing makes me feel appreciated. Do you do this? Sorry, no one does this. I don’t feel like I deserve it.’

He said he would text every night at Christmas since his ex-wife and daughter were staying with him. He didn’t. But we had made solid plans for NYE. I iron my bed linen. Here is my shopping list. I swear on Mini’s life I’ll repeat it verbatim: steak, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, bread, champagne, smoked salmon, Dijon mustard, KitKats, Pringles, N Peal sweater.*

Against my instincts I went to Sainsbury’s on December 30 and spent just over £200. The woman at the counter said, “Is he coming then?” I unloaded the groceries, went upstairs and dyed my hair and eyebrows.

I cleaned the wood stove.

At 4:47 PM I get this. ‘Unfortunately my daughter left yesterday. I’m devastated and my body has had it [sic]. I need three days of rest.’

I text Nic: ‘He didn’t have the balls to say he’s not coming. Needs three days’ rest.’

Unfortunately I send it to him.

I’ll call Nik. How can I undo the sending? Staff! She says I need to update my software. It takes six minutes!! No, nooooo! He read it! It looks like an episode of 24. He answers. ‘Uh. I’m not doing well.’

I tell him I bought smoked salmon, he’s clearly not in the mood for it, so let’s call it a day. I send him a picture of the inside of my refrigerator.

He sends this: ‘It stays. I’m sorry, okay.”

I’ve had enough. Think of Meg Ryan Sleepless in Seattle? I am she. I’m hiring a private detective agency. They are going to monitor his apartment tonight, New Year’s Eve (they will send me a photo of the location) and take pictures at the back of the building. I feel like I’m in an episode of… Black pigeons.

It’s New Year’s Eve. He sends a stream of text messages. ‘You know how special you are. You’ve always done so much for me. It’s so meaningful. You have been the only kindness in my life. We will be in each other’s lives. Thank you with all my heart.’

There is surveillance outside his apartment. At 7:27 PM I receive a video.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. A blonde woman rings the doorbell. She waits. He comes downstairs, he greets her, she enters his hallway. I see his body language, the way he takes off his glasses, his sweater, the angles of him. I can still smell him, see his face above mine as we made love. He accepts a box of treats from her and puffs out his cheeks from the effort. She turns and looks at the camera for a moment, but has no idea she is being filmed.

I’m devastated. It’s like an attack. I can’t tell you what I feel. It’s in my stomach, like I’ve been punched.

I was my very best. I was so generous. I had so much hope in my heart. Why am I not good enough? Why do men do this? Why? Look at her coat. Her hair. New Year’s Eve, for God’s sake! My first in my new house. When I thought I was rebuilding my life. He needed three days of rest.

“We will stay in each other’s lives,” he texted me at 6:50 p.m.

Ten minutes later, at 7:01 p.m., he opened that door. To her.

*The only thing I can eat is bread. I’m allergic to mushrooms.

Jones Moans… What Liz Detests This Week

• Why aren’t there more subtitled screenings in cinemas? The Station Cinema in Richmond has no information on its website and when you call they don’t answer the phone. My local Vue doesn’t have subtitled showings of the new Florence Pugh, but it does have clear instructions for wheelchair users.