Learn to enjoy the sound of silence. There will be a lot—interspersed with heavy sighing.
Change his ringtone from Heaven Knows, I’m Miserable Now to Walking on Sunshine.
Don’t let him bring you down—you keep up with your career as a cheerleader.
The Man from Atlantis
What he does
Disappears. On your birthday, at Christmas, New Year, Easter, during spring, summer and most of autumn, on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Occasionally, he will turn up on a Friday.
He specialises in not being around. He’ll say, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow’; you’ll hear from him seven months later. There’ll be no explanation, no apology, just a cheery, ‘Hi. It’s me’, as if you’d both crawled out of the same bed earlier that morning.
You are understandably flummoxed. Where has he been? Has he just emerged from a coma? Was he taken hostage? Buried under a ton of silage? No. More likely, he’s discovered the fabled city of Atlantis, where he resides with thousands of other men who refuse to acknowledge that there are such things as clock or calendar.
What makes this doubly baffling is that he’s the one who gives specific instructions on where and when you’re meeting, e.g., ‘How about we get together next Tuesday, your birthday, 7.30? I’ll pick you up.’ But he won’t. And he won’t call to tell you why he didn’t, either.
So you’re tortured with self-loathing thoughts along the lines of ‘Did I bore him?’, ‘Do I make him sick?’, ‘Have I got too much to say for myself?’, ‘Am I, as my mother always warned me, too independent for my own good?’, ‘I made him laugh, they don’t like that’, ‘Did I spend enough time making him feel good about himself?’, ‘Is it my saddlebags, my Primark pants, my wonky fringe?’, ‘Do I look like the lead singer of Kiss?’
Once you’ve canvassed the opinions of every member of your family and your entire circle of friends and come to the realisation that you are not so awful someone would rather fake his own death than see you again, you take charge.
You fill up the blank dates in your diary that you were keeping open in hope for him. Finally, ultimately, hallelujahly, you delete every technological trace of him. That’s when your mobile will ring, up will flash the familiar number, ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ and here we bloody well go again.
Still, how can you stay cross at him? You love the fact that he’s bohemian, romantic, a free spirit, unfettered by the demands of time, an international man of mystery. Stuff that. This ‘free spirit’ is free to do what he likes, when he likes, where he likes, with no thought for you.
While the rest of us stick to our commitments and, at the very least, offer an apology if we have to let someone down, MfA just sticks one finger up at your plans and boots your hopes and dreams squarely up the backside.
His constant disappearing acts mess with your mind. You receive a text: I will see you tomorrow at 8. Of course, he doesn’t show. You start to wonder if I will see you tomorrow at 8 bears an encrypted meaning and you haven’t cracked the code. Finally, you will start to think you’ve made him up. He’s a hallucination; he’s your imaginary boyfriend. Sadly, he’s for real, and a complete cock.
You, holding court at Casa Felafel, surrounded by 23 of your closest friends. Your mobile lights up with his number.
MfA: Can I take you to dinner next week?
You: Lovely. When? Where?
MfA (very decisively): La Romantica. 7.30.
You: Great! See you there.
MfA: I’ll ring you on the day.
Three weeks later, after you’ve given yourself a dry-eye condition from scanning the railway tracks for bodies, your mobile again lights up.
MfA: Hi. It’s me. How are you?
You (glancing at your packet of herbal memory booster pills): Erm…fine. You?
MfA: Couldn’t be better. Listen, when can we meet up? Are you free this week?
You (hesitant): Yeah, should be.
MfA: Great, it’d be lovely to see you. Let’s say Thursday. I could come to you.
You: Okay, what time?
MfA: Eight-ish. I’ll ring you on the day.
Ad infinitum. Ad infinitum.
On those rare occasions when you do actually meet, and even enjoy an idyllic date, naturally you’ll assume he feels the same as you, therefore rendering further Vanishing Acts obsolete. Don’t count on it.
You and MfA wander out of a cinema foyer, a crescent moon suddenly revealing itself from behind a cloud, the Thames shimmering glitteringly, a laughing breeze softly lifting your hair. MfA gathers you up in his arms and waltzes you round the passers-by, who look on sentimentally.
MfA (cupping your face in his hands): I’ve had a wonderful time today.
You: Really?
MfA: Mmmm. You’re everything I want in a woman—smart, beautiful. I don’t like spending any time away from you.
You: Really?
MfA: Mmmmm…Don’t leave me, will you?
You: I’m not going anywhere. (He is, though)
MfA: I want to see more and more of you.
You: Really?
MfA: I’ll call you first thing tomorrow.
You: Really?
Weeks and weeks later, when your mobile has sprouted a beard, you see him again, nonchalantly strolling out of Chelsea stadium into your path.
MfA: Oh, hi! My team’s just won. How are you? Are you free next week?
You: Erm…
MfA: Great, say about 8? I’ll ring you on the day.
What he says
‘I’ll call you Wednesday.’ He won’t.
‘I’ll come straight over.’ He won’t.
‘I’ll always be here for you.’ He won’t. He just won’t.
What you need to do
Go on a missing persons website and take your pick from the list. You’ll have a much more fulfilling relationship, and at least you’ll know where you stand with someone who really has disappeared.
Book a holiday to the Bermuda Triangle. It’ll be a lot easier finding that than him.
Tag him.
The Snake Charmer
What he does
Sheds his cashmere jumper and jumbo cord trews to reveal the snakeskin beneath, the minute he’s got you where he wants you. While other men stampede shrieking from commitment, he’s in like Flynn. No sooner have you added his name to ‘My Numbers’, than you’re flashing his engagement