You were an intelligent, independent woman: you used to book priority seating online at easyJet; you were known to pick up the FT, peruse it and understand a smidgen of it; you could even take a conference call while simultaneously pacing the room with an air of self-importance.
Since when did you add ‘must become a chattel’ to your ‘life list’? Since he turned from charmer to snake—which was midway through the wedding reception, when he took you to one side, kissed you tenderly on the cheek and told you, ‘You look beautiful. Don’t wear your hair up again.’
Your instinct was screaming, ‘Pick up the hem of your meringue, grab a bottle of cava and get the hell out!’ But the reasoning part of your brain was telling you, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, this man is perfect. He always says and does the right thing.’
Course he does. He graduated from charm school with honours, has an MA in mesmerism, and a PhD in swallowing mice whole. Before the handover, sorry, wedding, he never put a foot wrong: ‘It doesn’t matter that it’s been three hours; I could listen to you for three more’; ‘Tell me again about your ex-boyfriends. All of them’; ‘Would you like me to organise flowers for your mum for Mother’s Day while I’m at the florist’s at lunchtime?’
What’s not to marry?
A balmy day in July. Squirrels are squirrelling, birds are twittering, the late afternoon sun slants through the willows’ frail fronds. You and SC recline on a Cath Kidston picnic rug, while champagne flutes gently fizz and strawberries are exchanged lip to lip. Aaaaaahh.
SC (to mother with baby passing by): They’re so lovely at that age, aren’t they?
You sigh blissfully.
SC (to elderly couple passing by): Glorious weather, isn’t it? Lovely day for a stroll.
You emit a heavenly sigh.
SC leans back on Cath Kidston, turns, and looks at you intently for some moments.
You (smiling expectantly): What?
SC: Your eyes. Never noticed them before.
You (still smiling expectantly): What about them?
SC: No, I’ve just never noticed them before.
You (crestfallen): Oh.
A New Year’s Eve bash in full swing: champagne fizzing, the moonlight slanting through the Georgian windows, a Cath Kidston throw adorns the chaise longue, etc., etc.
SC (to your best friend): Is that Arôme de la Recherche du Temps Perdu? Thought so. Once smelt, never forgotten. And that dress is definitely your blue.
Friend floats away on a cloud of compliments.
You: I’ve got something in that blue. I could wear it to your brother’s party.
SC: Yeah right. You’d look like a pig in it.
You (crestfallen): Oh.
A crowded, festive restaurant: champagne fizzing, candlelight casting slanting shadows across the table. (No Cath Kidston here; it’s oriental minimalism.)
You:…what would make sense would be if the developing countries were allowed to increase their CO2 emissions, while the richer nations cut back drastically on theirs and eventually you’d have a balance…
SC: Hark at thicket! Just kidding.
Embarrassed silence and sidelong glances all round.
Mission accomplished: next time you’re in Robert Dyas, customers will have a hard time distinguishing between you and the doormats. Charming!
What he says
‘What’s your problem?’ (You.)
‘What’s the matter with you?’ (You.)
‘What are you so miserable about?’ (You. You. YOU!)
What you need to do
Keep an eye on the Ali Baba laundry basket—he could pop up at any moment.
Arrange a dinner party with his work colleagues (he hasn’t got any close friends). Get yourself drunk. ‘Accidentally’ blurt out: ‘Do you lot all know he’s got breasts? Real ones, it’s not just fat. Go on, show them.’
Actually, just leave him.
The ‘I’m Not Your Boyfriend’ Boyfriend
What he does
Insists continually that what you have is a casual relationship—even if you were both standing in front of a vicar intoning, ‘Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude; never selfish.’ (Ahem.) In his head, he’s a single man. Well, you never know—something better might come along.
For now, though, there’s you. With a few provisos: he doesn’t do holidays, mini-breaks, dinner parties, birthdays, cinema or the theatre. He may occasionally do the pub, but won’t do restaurants, and he definitely doesn’t do Sunday lunch with your parents.
This man would rather stand in a crowded market in Basra than have a discussion about Where He Sees the Relationship Going. You have now ‘not being going out’ for five years—five years that could better have been spent with someone who doesn’t mind being seen out with you, actually enjoys your company, tells you (whisper it now) he loves you, and would like to be instrumental in fertilising your diminishing egg stock.
Oh, to meet him. Fat chance. The second INYBB sees your eyes wandering, he will dangle the carrot of commitment. ‘Let’s go round Asda together next Saturday.’ ‘Shall We call into Homebase and look at gazebos?’ ‘Oh, hold on a minute, have you seen this? Two beds, a garage, a garden and local amenities.’
Don’t get carried away — none of the above will happen. The ‘we’re not going out’ clause is still firmly in the contract. So, back to solo holidays, solitary walks, separate nights out and soliloquies.
The most you’ll get from your ‘boyfriend’ is an email telling you how much he’s missing you while you’re trekking the Machu Picchu trail on your lonesome. Or he’ll text Do you fancy coming over later? while you’re out with your friends, and then hide with the lights off when you do actually turn up at his door.
INYBB excuses his fear of commitment by mentioning that the last time he got serious, his ex was sectioned when he called it off. (The implication being that he’s so adorable women go mad if they can’t have him.) Track that girl down. She probably went nuts because of his constant on/off, push me/pull me nonsense.
Honestly, you’d think he was a playboy, having far too much fun to ditch it all for a wife and a semi in Welwyn Garden City. But INYBB lives alone, in a bleak flat, with a single divan and his pants and socks stuck to the radiator. What a catch.
You, strolling through T.K. Maxx, fingering the merchandise. Your phone rings.
INYBB: Hi! It’s me.
You: Oh, hello. You don’t usually ring me. What’s wrong?
INYBB (rashly): Look…listen…erm…what it is is someone gave me this voucher…buy one meal, get the second free at Izzzi’s…whatdyathink?
You (incredulously): What, us going?
INYBB (nervously): Well,