Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. These things never happen to me. Ever.
I arrived at the lovely hotel David 2.0 had booked for me. I showered, trowelled on the make-up. I put on my hot pink Zara bodycon and went to sit on the terrace. I had expected D-2 to pick me up in the Ferrari, and was disappointed to get a message from him that said, ‘There’s a guy staying at your hotel, so I will be picking you both up.’
David 2.0 arrived in an Audi. I thanked him again for the room. ‘I’m just waiting for X, an old friend.’
His friend joined us. He looks exactly like Marcus Wareing. He was in exactly the clothes I want a man to wear: inky skinny jeans, a tight white T-shirt, box-fresh trainers, expensive wristwatch. His hair was slicked back. My type. Small green eyes. We were introduced and he didn’t look at me. He turned away and talked to David. Ah well.
We walked to the car. They chatted. At the party, I tried to ask X about himself. Born abroad. Lives in London, overlooking the Thames. Twice divorced. Not one question in return about me. Bad sign. I drifted away, sat down. Damn.
I started to take surreptitious photos of him: sunglasses on top of his head, he resembled an F1 driver. I texted them to Nic. ‘Handsome!’ she replied. ‘Deffo your type. Go and talk to him. Flirt! Take your jacket off!’
‘I’m not a common prostitute! Why is he talking to men?’
I sent one of him at the bar. ‘Zoom in on his face!’
Women at the party came over and I confided my crush. After a couple of hours, he came and sat near me. And so, being incredibly brave, I plonked down next to him. We started talking about getting a taxi back to our hotel. He sounded German and, I told him, being deaf, I’m not good with accents. ‘I noticed,’ he said. Just the raffle to go. I never win anything. I was chosen to pick a number out of the bowl and it was mine! My prize? A £400 voucher with Mr and Mrs Smith hotels. ‘Where shall we go?’ I asked him, and he smiled. Lovely teeth. We googled each other.
‘You must be hungry,’ he said. ‘Do you want to get dinner at the hotel?’
We got in the taxi; I glanced back at the party and all the women were giving me a thrilled thumbs-up. I texted Nic: ‘We’re in a taxi!’
‘Just you two?’
‘And the taxi driver.’
We arrived and I said I wanted to change into jeans. When I got to the terrace, his face lit up. He had ordered me a glass of champagne. I took a sip. Emboldened, I said, ‘Why did you ignore me all evening?’
‘I was nervous. I was told you were coming. I felt out of your league. Did you see me looking at you all evening?’
Me: ‘No! I was taking covert photos of you, sending them to my friend.’ He said I must have men after me all the time and I told him no, never.
He leaned over and kissed me. I found myself fondling his denim-clad thighs. We were passionately embracing, actively snogging, in public! We never made dinner. I went to reception while he paid for our drinks, hissing at the young woman to hand me a man’s shaving kit; I hadn’t had time for a wax, had no idea a German would be coming to my room. Just as she handed it to me, he was at my shoulder. Oh dear. I locked myself in the bathroom for ages, renovating; it was like the scene in the movie where Ben Stiller blocks the loo and can’t face Jennifer Aniston.
He took off my clothes. ‘Beautiful face, beautiful body, beautiful soul,’ he said in his gorgeous accent. ‘Pardon?’ I said. He kept waking me up all night for sex. Eventually, it was daylight, and I saw him walking around gathering stuff. Oh no, he’s leaving! Ah well. He placed a glass of fizzy water next to me and climbed back into bed.
‘If you don’t text me,’ I told him, ‘I will hunt you down.’ My thighs felt like I had competed in the Grand National.
The next day, after breakfast, I was driving home and I got this: ‘Thinking about you. Love our time together. So happy and lucky to meet beautiful you.’
I feel as though I’ve been waiting my entire life for him. I don’t want to do anything to ruin things. He knows I’m a writer. ‘I don’t care,’ he said when I texted him, worried. ‘I trust and believe in you. I will never hurt you.’
Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week
I have nothing to moan about. I cannot stop smiling. Oh, there is one thing…
- People who write in an email: ‘Just to update yourself…’ No! That’s not grammatical!
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess
