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LIZ JONES’ DIARY: In which I come to a sad conclusion


I met David for my delayed birthday dinner Tuesday evening.

I had promised him he could come to my hotel room (the Rosewood in Covent Garden; lovely and, no, it wasn’t a freebie), to which he replied: “Great. I will have a bath.

He had reserved Locanda Locatelli, the Michelin-starred restaurant where we had our first real date in 2014.

I was so nervous for that first lunch, I hadn’t seen him since 1983. I was wearing a Victoria Beckham bodycon. This time?

I’m wearing a brown Gucci handkerchief skirt, bought in the Selfridges sale in, ooh, 2001. A Dries t-shirt and an oversized Zara jacket, Gucci slides. I don’t think he noticed. He probably thought, “Ooh, maybe next time?”

He had reserved Locanda Locatelli, the Michelin-starred restaurant where we had our first real date in 2014.

He was late because his Uber app was frozen. He was upset, had come in through the kitchen, which I don’t think is allowed, and was wearing a white shirt that didn’t really zip up.

I hadn’t ordered champagne (it’s £22 a glass), but an Umbrian white wine for £8.50 as he was paying. He asked for absinthe: the only liquor they don’t have.

I said, “Isn’t that a bit strong?”

Like the last time he drank it, I ended up missing my main course and locked him out of our hotel room in Lime Wood.

“I’ll add some water,” he said.

He gave me my birthday present: two books on gardening. I could tell he was really trying to be good, although sniffing the gluten free bread they brought him specially is never a good idea.

I’ve never felt so far from someone who clearly loves me

We got back to my hotel and sat at the bar. Four drinks was over £70. I don’t think I could afford to live in London again and I felt deprived.

Finally, we went up to my pretty room. He had a cloth bag with him.

“What’s in there?” (More gifts?)

He tapped his nose.

I took off my makeup, put on a T-shirt and went to bed. He was wearing tartan pajamas, although he is normally naked like a newborn. Hmm.

“Close your eyes,” he said, rummaging (in the bag, not me). I was hoping for a Diptyque candle.

He took out an eye mask, which he then put on me. I couldn’t help but think, “That looks like cardboard.” » I exclaimed: “So what, am I now deaf and blind?

Then I felt something tickling my skin: pom poms.

Oh my God! He had brought a bag of sex toys! It was like a quaint version of Love Island – the moment when a chosen couple enters the Hideaway.

JONES MOANS…WHAT LIZ HATES THIS WEEK

  • Why is hotel room lighting so complicated? You must be a contortionist, searching for switches, either blinding yourself or in complete darkness. It’s like trying to land on Apollo 11
  • LNER. A journey that should have taken two hours 20 minutes took five, with three train changes and wine service suspended in first class because people were standing in the aisle! Gaaaahhh!!!!!

He’s never done this before! During our stay at the Hospital Club (dear departed), I showed him the sex toy menu and he said to me: “Oh no, it’s much too expensive”.

Anyway, then even I heard a buzzing sound. Oh no. I don’t want cystitis! All I can say here is that it reminded me of the Japanese toilets at the spa in Harrods. You know, the ones where there’s a jet of hot water, completely in the wrong place?

Poor David. He knew I wanted sex, but he was too nervous or didn’t feel up to it, so he decided to go with option two. Which did absolutely nothing for me. I wanted Tales from a Vegetable Garden by Marcus Wareing.

We had breakfast the next morning. I had to get up early to watch the Chanel show at the V&A again: you know, the revolutionary designer who freed women from corsets, allowed us to wear trousers in the evening and actually (I didn’t know) invented tanning fluid in 1932 – for which I have many, many brown sheets and a Rock Star-stained toilet seat to thank.

After looking at the breakfast menu, David grimaced and said he wasn’t hungry.

My last glimpse was of him, leaning in the street, lighting a cigarette, no doubt delighted to be free of me to be himself as I sped past in a taxi to my old life as models, street stylers and museum gift shops (there was a strict notice saying: “We are limiting sales of the Chanel tote bag to three per customer, including both styles”).

I’ve never felt so far from someone who clearly loves me, but who can never be enough for me. This is the great tragedy of my life.

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