August 14, 2011 § 17 Comments
The reason I said yesterday that Long Shot was bound by now to be with a blonde in tight white jeans up to her nostrils was because of an experience I had a year ago with another man which has left me in a place where I rather have it in for blondes in tight white jeans up to their nostrils, as they never seem to be planktons. I can never seem to be one of them. My hair is not dark (I am not strictly blond) but I just can’t seem to be able to do the white jeans thing.
I met him at a party in London last July. Very good-looking, dark, smooth, international type. Just divorced. He was the one available man at a party of, I dunno, 500 people. I met him purely by chance when I went up to the host to say hello and he introduced us. The man and I instantly started talking. All those around us melted away and we had a great chat; comparing notes about divorce, mainly. We stood under a pear tree and laughed a lot. The funny thing about divorce is that it is one of those seminal experiences in life. If you haven’t been through it, you cannot begin to imagine what it is like. I thought I did. My family seem to have had as many divorces as most people have takeaways. But to go through it myself was a whole new kettle of fish. Taught me more in a couple of years than I’d learned in a life time. So it is, when you meet someone who is going through it at the same time as you, you have a lot to discuss. The rawness and honesty of strangers in the same circumstances – male and female – has been affecting, and this man under the pear tree was no exception. We talked animatedly and I liked him. He was intense but I enjoyed the fact that I was so easily able to make him laugh. I got the impression he wasn’t used to a woman who says it like it is, or at least if he was, then wasn’t used to one who does so with humour.
It became apparent that though he had only divorced a few months before the party, he had fucked a fair few women since the decree absolute. He held his hand up to me and said that, even so, he was going to keep his wedding ring on for ever because it represented twenty years of his life. He was clearly still kind of in love with his wife but also on the pull, thrashing around for alternatives in the vacuum. I knew he could hardly be considered to be a safe bet: rich family, ex-City-type, now running a big show in exotic countries. I could hardly compete with the youthful Eastern European gypsy trapeze artists he presumably gets to know and the taut contortions they presumably go in for in bed as well as on a parrot swing 100 feet up in a voluminous tent, and I wasn’t going to try. Still, when he asked for my number and said he’d like to see me again, I thought, hey, why not? See what happens.
The very next morning I got a wildly enhtusiastic text from him saying how he had loved meeting me at the party and that he wanted to see me again very soon. I texted back a “Sure, OK, that’d be nice”- type response, neither too enthusiastic nor too chilly. Striking just the right tone, I imagined.
Hey and what do you know? Resounding fucking blank ever since.
Until, that is, a few weeks ago, same party, given by the same generous friends, exactly a year later. Who should I see but this man, only this time no longer available but with a lofty blonde draped all over him signalling for all the world that if anyone came within a mile radius of him, with intentions, she would personally see to their demise. Her jeans wrapped round her linguine-languid legs were so tight I wondered that her eyes were not bulging out, but I only ever did see her back view so cannot report for sure. She was so ridiculously unlike a real person that my normal, human-race friend Sophie stood beside her (though the woman still had her back to us so didn’t see this was happening) and asked another friend of ours to take a photograph. One for the record, so like an Avatar creature did this woman appear, only not on the face of it all that blue. I would have defied anyone not to giggle. We were quite drunk and, OK, a bit juvenile, and I admit we did giggle a bit. I mean, you have to laugh.
There was a moment when I thought I might go up to him and say, Hi, remember me? I am rather more squat than your new uptight friend but I bet your bottom dollar I made you laugh more in the half hour we chatted than she’s made you laugh in a year.
But you know what, she had it over me in the legs department and I didn’t want to sound like an arse. So purely in the spirit of self-preservation, I passed.