Bullies, Bitches and Bastards

You (glancing at your packet of herbal memory booster pills): Erm…fine. You?

MfA: Couldn’t be better. Listen, when can we meet up? Are you free this week?

You (hesitant): Yeah, should be.

MfA: Great, it’d be lovely to see you. Let’s say Thursday. I could come to you.

You: Okay, what time?

MfA: Eight-ish. I’ll ring you on the day.

Ad infinitum. Ad infinitum.

On those rare occasions when you do actually meet, and even enjoy an idyllic date, naturally you’ll assume he feels the same as you, therefore rendering further Vanishing Acts obsolete. Don’t count on it.

You and MfA wander out of a cinema foyer, a crescent moon suddenly revealing itself from behind a cloud, the Thames shimmering glitteringly, a laughing breeze softly lifting your hair. MfA gathers you up in his arms and waltzes you round the passers-by, who look on sentimentally.

MfA (cupping your face in his hands): I’ve had a wonderful time today.

You: Really?

MfA: Mmmm. You’re everything I want in a woman—smart, beautiful. I don’t like spending any time away from you.

You: Really?

MfA: Mmmmm…Don’t leave me, will you?

You: I’m not going anywhere. (He is, though)

MfA: I want to see more and more of you.

You: Really?

MfA: I’ll call you first thing tomorrow.

You: Really?

Weeks and weeks later, when your mobile has sprouted a beard, you see him again, nonchalantly strolling out of Chelsea stadium into your path.

MfA: Oh, hi! My team’s just won. How are you? Are you free next week?

You: Erm…

MfA: Great, say about 8? I’ll ring you on the day.

What he says

‘I’ll call you Wednesday.’ He won’t.

‘I’ll come straight over.’ He won’t.

‘I’ll always be here for you.’ He won’t. He just won’t.

What you need to do

Go on a missing persons website and take your pick from the list. You’ll have a much more fulfilling relationship, and at least you’ll know where you stand with someone who really has disappeared.

Book a holiday to the Bermuda Triangle. It’ll be a lot easier finding that than him.

Tag him.

The Snake Charmer

What he does

Sheds his cashmere jumper and jumbo cord trews to reveal the snakeskin beneath, the minute he’s got you where he wants you. While other men stampede shrieking from commitment, he’s in like Flynn. No sooner have you added his name to ‘My Numbers’, than you’re flashing his engagement ring.

He must really love you. Oh yeah, like a farmer loves his branded cow. The only time he’s ever serenaded you it was with The Python’s Song from The Jungle Book.

You were an intelligent, independent woman: you used to book priority seating online at easyJet; you were known to pick up the FT, peruse it and understand a smidgen of it; you could even take a conference call while simultaneously pacing the room with an air of self-importance.

Since when did you add ‘must become a chattel’ to your ‘life list’? Since he turned from charmer to snake—which was midway through the wedding reception, when he took you to one side, kissed you tenderly on the cheek and told you, ‘You look beautiful. Don’t wear your hair up again.’

Your instinct was screaming, ‘Pick up the hem of your meringue, grab a bottle of cava and get the hell out!’ But the reasoning part of your brain was telling you, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, this man is perfect. He always says and does the right thing.’

Course he does. He graduated from charm school with honours, has an MA in mesmerism, and a PhD in swallowing mice whole. Before the handover, sorry, wedding, he never put a foot wrong: ‘It doesn’t matter that it’s been three hours; I could listen to you for three more’; ‘Tell me again about your ex-boyfriends. All of them’; ‘Would you like me to organise flowers for your mum for Mother’s Day while I’m at the florist’s at lunchtime?’

What’s not to marry?

A balmy day in July. Squirrels are squirrelling, birds are twittering, the late afternoon sun slants through the willows’ frail fronds. You and SC recline on a Cath Kidston picnic rug, while champagne flutes gently fizz and strawberries are exchanged lip to lip. Aaaaaahh.

SC (to mother with baby passing by): They’re so lovely at that age, aren’t they?

You sigh blissfully.

SC (to elderly couple passing by): Glorious weather, isn’t it? Lovely day for a stroll.

You emit a heavenly sigh.

SC leans back on Cath Kidston, turns, and looks at you intently for some moments.

You (smiling expectantly): What?

SC: Your eyes. Never noticed them before.

You (still smiling expectantly): What about them?

SC: No, I’ve just never noticed them before.