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Liz Jones: In which I have to 'regroup'

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Meeting the RS for 'a chat'

A week later, I decided I didn’t want to waste the Botox, the IPL, the filler.

What the RS, with his impromptu appearances and desire to live together, has failed to realise about women is that we have to disappear for a while to ‘regroup’.

A burka would be handy at these times. So, having waited for the Botox effect to ‘kick in’ (its smoothing qualities take a week or so), I suggested meeting for a drink at 6.30pm.

I told him I was having dinner at 8.30pm that night, but could meet for ‘a chat’. I don’t know why I invented a fictitious supper appointment.

Actually, I do know. The thought of him either taking me home with him or disappearing at the end of the night was too terrifying to contemplate.

After about two nanoseconds, he texted back to say, ‘That will be so good, Liz. How about…’ and he suggested a really weird hotel in West London.

I looked at its website, hated the cream corporate décor on sight, and wondered about the lighting.

That day, I went to Browns on South Molton Street, a place I haven’t dared venture into in 25 years, and browsed the rails.

I wanted something new that didn’t look too obviously desperate. Eventually, I decided on a pair of Louboutin shoe boots – which make my feet look as though they are encased in feathers – a cream cashmere jacket by Kenzo, and a black T-shirt with an embellished collar by Stella McCartney.

I teamed this lot with my skinny jeans, which threaten to fall off as I walk; I don’t own a belt, as a belt with jeans is too 80s: I might as well tuck in a sweater and simply become Tiffany.

I hailed a cab, using my new GetTaxi app, as I couldn’t possibly do pavements in these shoes. I walked into the lobby, and chose a table in a dark corner.

I didn’t order a drink, as I think it’s rude to do this before the person who is paying has arrived. And there he was. My stomach contracted.

He couldn’t help but beam when he saw me. ‘I saw you when I was parking, from behind.’

I hate this, people seeing me when I’m not prepared, especially as I’d been trapped in the revolving door – I can’t push in heels, and the concierge had had to rescue me.

He reached to touch my face, and I’m afraid I recoiled. It’s a reflex. I can’t stand people touching me, even masseurs.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, is it still painful?’

‘What?’

‘Your face. After the face-lift?’

  More... Liz Jones's diary: In which I take a snow check Liz Jones's diary: In which I get a proposition Liz Jones's diary: In which there's another setback

I’d been hoping he’d forgotten I’d had surgery. I hate that everyone knows everything about me. ‘No, it doesn’t hurt, but I don’t want you to smudge me before I go for dinner.’

He ordered me a glass of champagne, while he drank water. ‘Well, this is fun,’ I said sarcastically.

‘I’m driving. And I don’t drink, remember.’

I looked at my phones: I have one for him, another for everyone else: I’m like Batman. ‘You are not going to email while we’re together, are you?’ he asked.

‘No! I was looking at the time. I don’t own a watch.’

‘I will buy you a watch. Let me give you a lift to the restaurant.’

‘I’ve ordered a cab on my new app.’

‘OK, I’m going to go,’ he said, throwing down some notes. We stood up. I was six feet tall.

As we walked to the lobby he said, ‘You must have men hitting on you all the time.’

Having waited for the Botox effect to ‘kick in’, I suggested meeting for a drink

‘Just once,’ I said. ‘Aged 19, a 50-year-old Nigerian student at the London College of Printing asked me out in the subway under the Elephant & Castle roundabout. Since then, nothing.’

He kissed me on the side of my head, getting a mouthful of my over-dyed hair.

I sat on a bench, waiting for my cab.

At last I walked out into the cold, and a low, black Mercedes with a ‘12’ on the numberplate purred past. I ignored it. A window hummed down. ‘I wanted to make sure you’d got your cab safely,’ said a man. It was him.

What was he doing in a new car? Was he really looking out for me, or just showing off?

I realised we are more alike, more desperate, more in need of love and affirmation than I thought.

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