The thing I had forgotten about dating is that you have to eat a lot of meals with men you fancy even less than the food. I hate having to push two lettuce leaves and walnut round the plate when I have had to pass on the fat chips with mayonnaise because I’ve had a restaurant lunch and I’m trying to make a good – ie non-fat - impression. Eating two big meals in a day when I usually barely have one is punitive.
Still it beats the slow weekends in Worcester when the most exciting thing we did was reverse out of Sainsbury’s car park. How nice it is to be asked: ‘Please may I buy you dinner - chose your favourite place and I’ll come and pick you up’ after five months of regular schlepping to the West Midlands, cruising the reduced shelves at Lidl and never once setting foot in a restaurant. Not that I didn’t collude in the kitchen-centric nature of the relationship but after our last night out in London – to the Real Greek followed by the Globe theatre where I dutifully counted out my share of the dinner, as well as the price of my ticket – I did start to feel like the ultimate cheap date. And yes, I do still owe him for the airfare to Bergamo (if you are reading this feel free to send me a bill) but it was only six quid.
‘Aint he treating you?’ asked my Cockney cleaning woman when she brought the ironing round just before I left.
‘No. We’re sharing everything. It’s only a couple of pounds on Ryan Air and the hotel is quite reasonable.’
‘I fought he’d be inviting you - specially if it’s cheap. So where are you going from? Stanstead?’
‘Bristol.’
‘Bristol! All that way? Isn’t it to dear to get there on the train?‘
‘About forty quid. But then it costs me that every time I go to Worcester.’
‘Dun’t he take you out and make a bit of a fuss what with you trailing up there?’
‘No, not really. I usually cook.’
‘But he took you to the feater the other week, that was nice.’
‘No, actually, I took myself. He was originally going with his friends. I got a ticket when one of them dropped out.’
‘You wanna get shot of him sharpish,’ she said, sternly. ‘It’s like you’re paying for his ruddy company, gal.’
And oh God, I realised as the picture that had been developing slowly in front of my eyes as I spoke came sharply into full Kodak colour focus: she was absolutely right. I didn’t have boyfriend, I had a gigolo.
By this point I was flatter than my freshly ironed pillow cases. Who needs a mother when you have a 68 year old cleaner to point out a few home truths? I bet Nigella didn’t swan around in her negligee licking chocolate off a spoon on a six pounds mini break with Charles Saatchi.
Nevertheless, with the demise of Worcester’s answer to Richard Gere, I fear I may have been a little too enthusiastic catching up with opportunities passed over in the past months. Life has been very calorific.
