Liz Jones's Diary: In Which I Plan A Romantic Make Or Mini Break To Paris


I’ve reached the nadir. 

Now it’s freezing, I’ve been wearing one of those sleeveless padded jerkins, the sort Princess Anne might wear. 

I’m staying away from David because I look so awful. 

Most mornings, I can’t even be bothered to unflick my hair from beneath the wretched jerkin. 

I’m off my feed. I made an omelette yesterday, but ended up giving it to Hilda. 

It’s no wonder I’m feeling bad, I suppose. I lost my mum this year, then my Lizzie. 

It doesn’t help that on Sunday, when my column about my horse being put to sleep was published, Nic got hundreds of messages on her Facebook page, and I got precisely two emails of condolence from friends. 

One was from Emily at the Dulverton deli in Somerset, the other from Sue Needleman, who told me she lost her beloved dog, Missy, last week.

David just texted me to say he is feeling very down, too, mainly due to getting up at 3am to go to work each day. 

‘I’m also missing you,’ he wrote. ‘It’s like I don’t have a girlfriend. You are more my text buddy.’

‘Yeah, sorry,’ I replied. ‘I’m not good company at the moment. I am so upset about Lizzie. Trying to write my novel on top of my normal work.’

‘I know, it took me two years to come to terms with my grief. I do understand and I’m not saying it’s your fault. In fact, it’s mine.’

'Despite David's indifference 30 years ago, he is insanely jealous now' 

'Despite David's indifference 30 years ago, he is insanely jealous now' 

We have a trip planned to Paris for two days. 

I’m meeting him at the Eurostar terminal at St Pancras because I refuse to go to his flat until he familiarises himself with lightbulbs (why is it men can’t change bulbs in their bathroom, so you stumble around in darkness, while when they visit a woman’s home they put all the centre lights on, so it’s blazing like Blackpool illuminations?). 

I have booked the same suite at the Plaza Athénée that Carrie Bradshaw stayed in for the last two episodes of Sex and the City, with its flower-covered balcony and view of the Eiffel Tower. 

When I told David this, he texted me, ‘Can I book dinner on the Sunday night?’

Me: ‘Why?’

‘I want to contribute.’

‘But booking the restaurant is just a phone call. You are welcome to pay for dinner.’

‘I just want the weekend to go smoothly and be perfect. As perfect as it can be, considering you are going to Paris with me!’

I am looking at this weekend as a sort of make-or-mini-break.

If David can’t be bothered to propose in the most romantic city in the world, in the most romantic hotel suite in the world, then there really is no hope. 

He has made no effort to be in my life, he has not changed his ways one iota. 

It’s like I’m supposed to just slot in among the giant Slimming World billboards propped in his front ‘room’, left over from his last girlfriend.

I met a friend for tea on Sunday. 

She told me she has found her soulmate, and he keeps turning up outside her house, even though nothing has happened between them yet. 

‘It’s exhausting!’ she said. ‘I’ve been putting make-up on for eight months just in case he shows up.’

‘I know,’ I told her. ‘I used to do the same when David lived next door. I was always ready for him, wearing eyeshadow and foundation, yet he didn’t even notice me.’

Despite David’s indifference 30 years ago, he is insanely jealous now, which is odd, given I have only ever had two and a half boyfriends, and they weren’t that keen.

He sent me a text on Friday evening, saying he has been playing my ex’s new record and ‘I’m convinced it’s about you. Makes it uncomfortable listening.’ 

My answer to that, though I didn’t type it, was, ‘Well, stop listening to it!’ 

Instead, I texted, ‘Am in Sheffield, am backstage can’t talk now.’

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