Bullies, Bitches and Bastards

You (crestfallen): Oh.

A New Year’s Eve bash in full swing: champagne fizzing, the moonlight slanting through the Georgian windows, a Cath Kidston throw adorns the chaise longue, etc., etc.

SC (to your best friend): Is that Arôme de la Recherche du Temps Perdu? Thought so. Once smelt, never forgotten. And that dress is definitely your blue.

Friend floats away on a cloud of compliments.

You: I’ve got something in that blue. I could wear it to your brother’s party.

SC: Yeah right. You’d look like a pig in it.

You (crestfallen): Oh.

A crowded, festive restaurant: champagne fizzing, candlelight casting slanting shadows across the table. (No Cath Kidston here; it’s oriental minimalism.)

You:…what would make sense would be if the developing countries were allowed to increase their CO

emissions, while the richer nations cut back drastically on theirs and eventually you’d have a balance…

SC: Hark at thicket! Just kidding.

Embarrassed silence and sidelong glances all round.

Mission accomplished: next time you’re in Robert Dyas, customers will have a hard time distinguishing between you and the doormats. Charming!

What he says

‘What’s your problem?’ (You.)

‘What’s the matter with you?’ (You.)

‘What are you so miserable about?’ (You. You. YOU!)

What you need to do

Keep an eye on the Ali Baba laundry basket—he could pop up at any moment.

Arrange a dinner party with his work colleagues (he hasn’t got any close friends). Get yourself drunk. ‘Accidentally’ blurt out: ‘Do you lot all know he’s got breasts? Real ones, it’s not just fat. Go on, show them.’

Actually, just leave him.

The ‘I’m Not Your Boyfriend’ Boyfriend

What he does

Insists continually that what you have is a casual relationship—even if you were both standing in front of a vicar intoning, ‘Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude; never selfish.’ (Ahem.) In his head, he’s a single man. Well, you never know—something better might come along.

For now, though, there’s you. With a few provisos: he doesn’t do holidays, mini-breaks, dinner parties, birthdays, cinema or the theatre. He may occasionally do the pub, but won’t do restaurants, and he definitely doesn’t do Sunday lunch with your parents.

This man would rather stand in a crowded market in Basra than have a discussion about Where He Sees the Relationship Going. You have now ‘not being going out’ for five years—five years that could better have been spent with someone who doesn’t mind being seen out with you, actually enjoys your company, tells you (whisper it now) he loves you, and would like to be instrumental in fertilising your diminishing egg stock.

Oh, to meet him. Fat chance. The second INYBB sees your eyes wandering, he will dangle the carrot of commitment. ‘Let’s go round Asda together next Saturday.’ ‘Shall We call into Homebase and look at gazebos?’ ‘Oh, hold on a minute, have you seen this? Two beds, a garage, a garden and local amenities.’

Don’t get carried away — none of the above will happen. The ‘we’re not going out’ clause is still firmly in the contract. So, back to solo holidays, solitary walks, separate nights out and soliloquies.

The most you’ll get from your ‘boyfriend’ is an email telling you how much he’s missing you while you’re trekking the Machu Picchu trail on your lonesome. Or he’ll text Do you fancy coming over later? while you’re out with your friends, and then hide with the lights off when you do actually turn up at his door.

INYBB excuses his fear of commitment by mentioning that the last time he got serious, his ex was sectioned when he called it off. (The implication being that he’s so adorable women go mad if they can’t have him.) Track that girl down. She probably went nuts because of his constant on/off, push me/pull me nonsense.

Honestly, you’d think he was a playboy, having far too much fun to ditch it all for a wife and a semi in Welwyn Garden City. But INYBB lives alone, in a bleak flat, with a single divan and his pants and socks stuck to the radiator. What a catch.

You, strolling through T.K. Maxx, fingering the merchandise. Your phone rings.

INYBB: Hi! It’s me.

You: Oh, hello. You don’t usually ring me. What’s wrong?

INYBB (rashly): Look…listen…erm…what it is is someone gave me this voucher…buy one meal, get the second free at Izzzi’s…whatdyathink?

You (incredulously): What, us going?

INYBB (nervously): Well, yeah. Us. (Oh God. Us!)

You: Great. Yeah. Fantastic!

INYBB (starting to shake): Yeah…great…fantastic…yeah…er…

You: Tonight! Is it for tonight?

INYBB: Erm…(looking at voucher) just checking…actually…wait a minute, what’s the date here?

You (quickly): Doesn’t matter, let’s just go anyway. What time? Silence.

You: Hi? Are you still there?

INYBB: I think…what’s the date today? What does it say here? Something about…

You (disappointed): Oh, is there a cut-off date?

INYBB (like a flash): Yesss! Found it…here it is…it was yesterday…oh dear.

Say he does have a more severe lapse of concentration and—mercy me!—finds himself walking through a park with you. In front of other people.

You, strolling along with INYBB, slipping your arm happily through his and sighing.

You: So, do you fancy doing something tonight? Seems a shame to go home after such a lovely afternoon.

INYBB: Erm, well, I’ve got to get up early.