I used to get a business-class-only jet as it had separate loos for women
So P read the column about me not wanting to accept a cross-body bag from his family luxury goods website as to do so would make me feel ‘like a common prostitute’.
He typed: ‘LL*. I’ve solved the awkward issue by choosing a couple of small things for you, but what’s your favourite colour? Nearer our lunch, please tell me what your dogs like/are allowed? I am confident you won’t feel like a common prostitute. x’
I gave in.
‘Well, I like a nice soft baby pink. Not living coral or salmon, more a Himalayan sea salt pink or, failing that, black. The dogs like anything.’
Him: ‘Are you bringing all three to lunch, or is there a favourite?’
‘All three. Not allowed a favourite. But, actually, Hilda held a special place in my heart.’
‘I remember reading about you bringing her back from Romania. I first got in touch years ago after reading your piece about the plight of equines in Ethiopia. I’m pleased you replied. By the way, when you have had run-ins with neighbours and upsetting times, where were the men in your life to protect and support you? I never read about that happening…’
I told him that, no, not one stepped up. Not one relative sent a single tin of dog food.
He continued to say he hoped he hadn’t upset me by bringing up the topic of my downfall. That two of his ex-girlfriends are still his best friends. That he can’t understand it being any other way.
I’ve never had an ex stay friends (wonder why? I hear you muttering darkly). When Trevor dumped me, he left a voicemail saying he would ‘always be there for you, for ever’.
I never heard hide nor hair, except once, years later, when I was made editor of Marie Claire and my PA put him through. ‘It’s trouser man!’ she hissed, referring to the fact I’d written about his high waist, and the fact he always ironed his trousers.
‘Hi!’ I said, expecting him to sob his regret at losing me.
‘Can you arrange me a flight to Jamaica? One way. Oh, and don’t let being an editor go to your head.’
Nice! And helpful! I didn’t get him the ticket and, just to spite him, it did go to my head: I spent three years with my heels not touching the pavement as I was ferried around town by car. I bought £350 Gucci shirts while trilling, ‘How reasonable!’ I got annoyed at flowers left in my hotel room in case they smudged me.
At a retreat in Kerala, I got two young boys to come and relocate a spider: ‘Set it free in the jungle!’ I used to get a business-class-only jet to New York for the runway shows expressly because it had separate loos for women. On tour with All Saints, the pop stars would happily queue for the breakfast buffet while I would sit, resolute at the table, saying, ‘I don’t do self-service’. I refused to pluck my own nostrils.
I was made, by this paper, to work in Poundland for the day. I manned the till, but I just didn’t get it. I kept saying to my supervisor, ‘How much is this? A pound? Really?’
The most diva-ish thing I’ve ever done? I once employed the services of a make-up artist before I went shopping in Chelmsford. In an Indian restaurant, the waiter brought me lamb instead of vegetable samosas. Having broken one open, and smelled death, I fixed him with my Devil Wears Prada Miranda Priestly glare and said, ‘Would you like me to come to your home and eat your children?’
It’s only now I’m back in the real world of bus stops and prosecco that I realise how easily turned I was. But I secretly admire divas – such as Meghan Markle, who would email minions at 4am – because they are usually hard-working and have high standards. They don’t settle. Neither will I.
P, gird your loins.
* Lovely Liz
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and stalk her @LizJonesGoddess
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