Not the crispy, black carapace it is now. I was shocked, not just at what I was wearing – a cheesecloth shirt dress – but at my hair. Neil Pearson, who played Bridget Jones’s sleazy boss, is in a corner in a denim waistcoat. The movie star,** the first man I ever slept with.*** My spell – putting two pins in a red candle and focusing on his name – must have worked! He sent a photo of me with my flatmates at a party in 1978. Meant to be only together tiger.’ Him: ‘OK.’ What is it with these monosyllabic men?īut then, just as I was despairing, I received an email from Russell. Her: ‘You are the breeze in the desert for me. But also the missives between a couple in the news for a tempestuous affair and a scandal. It brought to mind not just my birthday, viz: nothing, nothing, nothing bar an email from the Kennington Tandoori. Nothing about how lovely it was to touch my smooth, hairless skin. I’m sure you still are’Īfter all the sex with the ex*, and the sugary cappuccinos, and the avocado on sourdough, and the mini bar gin and tonic, and the crisp, square hotel pillows, all I got once back home was a text about the new emissions charge in London.
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