LIZ JONES'S DIARY: In which there’s a birthday bust-up Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Sign in Welcome!Log into your account Forgot your password? Password recovery Recover your password Search Sign in Welcome! Log into your account Forgot your password? Get help Password recovery Recover your password A password will be e-mailed to you. YOU Magazine Fashion Beauty Celebrity Health Life Relationships Horoscopes Food Interiors Travel Home Life Liz Jones LIZ JONES’ S DIARY In which there s a birthday bust-up By You Magazine - October 4, 2020 Oh dear. P had sounded OK at first with the half-finished column I mistakenly sent him. The one that described him as needy, clingy and ‘worse than David’. That he is arrogant and shows off. That he flipped out when I didn’t itemise his gifts, mentioning only a wallet. That he talked about sex even before I’d ordered bread over lunch! Abbey Lossing But as the evening wore on, I got message after message. Each one angrier than the last. ‘You wrote that last column after I made a frivolous joke about age. You were deliberately mean… I’ve been liked by women all my life. I know my worth.’ Who says that about themselves? I replied: ‘This is hard for you, being written about, albeit anonymously. Totally understand. But I’ve been through the same arguments a hundred times, and I can’t face it again. Let’s leave it.’ ‘Your indifference is insulting. You don’t seem to care.’ ‘After two meals, of course I don’t care! You’re acting as though we’re married! How many times did David tell me his score on Mensa! And don’t tell a woman you hardly know that “things could get messy” if you were to carry on thinking about meeting up at a hotel. It’s inappropriate.’ ‘The alarm bells have been gently chiming in the breeze from the beginning, now they’re going off like St Paul’s (use that if you like, it’s good*). But I don’t want to leave it like this… I don’t care who has the last word and I’ll leave you in peace but I want to say I probably did come across as clingy. I’ve never been described as needy. I can disappear in a woman’s life as quickly as I appear. I wasn’t showing off, Mensa was just more information about me. What I said was inappropriate. I did overreact about the wallet.’ I texted Nic. ‘My God,’ she replied. ‘It’s coming to something when David is starting to look good. They all think they can hack being in your column, but it’s just as long as they love what you say. The first few dates should be fun chat. Not demanding.’ ‘Or overtly sexual.’ Anyway, he says he’s already sent my birthday gift. Nic hopes it’s not something from his own brand. Two days before my Big Day, I pop to the cottage and pick up my post. There is a card. I recognise David’s handwriting. My stomach lurches. ‘Dearest Liz. I’m not so foolish to ask if you are happy, but I do hope you are happier now. Happy Birthday. From the ex-fiancé formally [sic] known as David. Xxx’ I’m reminded of the postcard he sent from Portugal in 1983, saying he would be back in time for my party. Same handwriting. Same David. Same me. The ‘now’ must mean now that I’ve got Mr Needy after me. Or did have. ‘I’m in a love triangle,’ I tell Nic. I text David to say thanks for the card, and he tells me a package from Net-A-Porter is on its way. This is unexpected. Especially as he knows I’m being pursued elsewhere. Turns out it’s a Diptyque candle, in Ambre: the scent of our suite at the Plaza Athénée in Paris. When I text to thank him, he says he has been depressed, dreading what he will read in my column, and ‘You know I love you.’ I tell David I miss him. ‘I miss you, too, darling.’ Ding dong! Nothing from P so far. I keep humming, ‘Torn between two lovers…’ Still no gift. Ah. Got a text! ‘Happy birthday! I cancelled your present from my brand, partly out of anger, and also as you said it would show no imagination**… I got you something else which won’t arrive in time. I thought it pointless to spend hundreds on something to be seen as another negative.’ So. P: 0. David: 1. *It’s not that good. **I said nothing of the sort. That was Nic, on my podcast. 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