By Liz Jones For You Magazine
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27 View commentsDavid 2.0, the man with the white Ferrari, has invited me to a do. It’s a sort of corporate event, I think, a garden party with a marquee and entertainment. He sent me links to hotels, then suggested I stay at his house. ‘It is nowhere near finished, you’ll have to take it as it is. Your bedroom is done bar wardrobes. Hopefully the weather will be good and we can sit in the garden. Would love you to stay. You can lock the bedroom door! Breakfast will be a nightmare as you are such a fussy eater!’
He had sent a photo of him and his insanely beautiful new girlfriend, so I expect she will be there, although he hasn’t said. Is it odd to stay with someone, having only met them once, for dinner? He was very helpful when I was buying the vicarage, suggesting a mortgage broker who turned out to be a saint. I do want an opportunity to dress up, put on heels and make-up: I’m so out of practice, I will be doing my finest Dick Emery impression.
The best thing about moving to the vicarage, with all its space and light, is that I’m looking after myself more, no longer going to bed in what I’ve worn all day. I have a proper walk-in shower for the first time in five years. I comb my eyebrows using Victoria Beckham’s FeatherFix, as though I’m a contestant on Love Island. Oh, and I now own a loo that washes your nether regions; it’s so much better than a boyfriend, honestly. Beautiful surroundings encourage you to look your best.
I have started to plan my outfit for the party: a hot-pink Zara bodycon with black Louboutin shoe boots and black Prada clutch (both are now over 20 years old). I am slightly worried about going to a party and not being able to drink (I’ve given up). Will anyone talk to me? What will I do with my hands?
I look at my house, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to be back on my feet. I’m writing this in my office. Its huge window overlooks the walled garden and River Tees beyond. It’s Sunday morning and the church bells are ringing. Oh god, now the organ is playing.
I’ve been exploring the local area, too. Three miles away is Raby Castle, with its walled gardens, park full of red deer and wonderful restaurant. A farm shop with Riverford produce is nearby, and I can see the village pub from my sitting room window. I could crawl to it.
I’m starting to feel more confident in everyday dealings now I have a property. I rang the council for a new wheelie bin. ‘Are you renting or the owner?’ ‘I’m the owner. I’ve just bought the house.’ My neighbours have invited me round for a drink: I’m not a pariah! I sat last night, having lit Diptyque candles (you know I never light candles, saving them for a special occasion that never comes to pass), watching children play football for hours on the green.
It’s too good to be true, too idyllic. In the past I’ve always been punished for having a nice time. Aged 18, I had the prospect of a date with a handsome fellow student at Southend College of Technology, where I was doing A-levels. He was Persian, with an afro and impossibly cool in skinny loons. I rang my mum to tell her I’d be home late. ‘Your grandfather’s been knocked off his bike and killed. Come home now.’ In Somerset, after looking at a beautiful house to buy, I took Sam, my collie, for a walk along the river. When I got back to my farm, my last two chickens were dead in a hedge; I couldn’t bear to move them. The vixen duly fetched them for her cubs.
So I don’t expect good things to happen to me. I’m always in a rush to get home… in case disaster has struck. I’ve never sailed through life. I always admire young people who treat the world as their oyster, who go on gap years and teach indigenous people to dig wells; the arrogance! I always believe I’m going to be murdered. I won’t be murdered, will I, going to stay in a strange man’s house?
Jones Moans... What Liz loathes this week
- The Kennington Tandoori. It keeps emailing me. I’ve only ordered a takeaway once!
- David 1.0. He needs to say sorry for being bad tempered. I’d booked a week at Jasper Conran’s hotel in Tangiers as a thank you for helping with the house. He has ghosted me for standing up for myself. Why do boyfriends treat us worse than they would a friend? Would he tell a friend to ‘shut up’?
- Pistachios. My nails!
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess
