“In the crowd, I felt that his groupies, now in their fifties, might lynch me”
This is called the JLo effect. You were dating someone. You took a break. And then you go out again.
Ben Affleck married, had children, divorced. Mine? He dated a 26-year-old girl. Then he discovered that she had never listened to ‘And I Love Her’ by the Beatles. Or ate a Vesta Chow Mein. Or watched Live Aid, live, because she wasn’t alive. Or heard of Bodymap, or been to the Katharine Hamnett store on Sloane Street to feed the fish. These things are important.
Anyway, Ben* (aka the Rock Star) called me. “I’m doing a festival.”
My heart sank. The last time he did a festival was in Suffolk. I was made to share a house with Noel Fielding, who was adorable, but quite greedy at the breakfast buffet. Ben didn’t meet me in the parking lot (field) but sent a young woman with an iPad and a walkie-talkie. In the crowd, I sensed that his groupies, now all in their 50s, might lynch me.
Me: ‘I hate festivals. I don’t do nylon. I have zero body fat so I can’t sleep on grass. I went to Glastonbury once, the year Amy Winehouse played, and I kept poking my head out of the tent and asking them, “Turn it down!”
Ben: “It’s a festival with a hotel. A nice hotel with a hothouse dedicated to chillies, which means I get a suite instead of an extra.
“So not Glastonbury. Slim. I was hoping you’d introduce me to Paul McCartney.
And I love her.
Saying the words “Paul” and “McCartney” to Ben is like saying, “You have a very small penis and you’re a mess in bed.” Neither is true, btw. His penis doesn’t just deserve a column, it needs an entire novel. A very thick one. A misfit boy.
Me: ‘Why are you telling me this? Does the fetus have a summer school?
Ben: “You know I stopped seeing the fetus. Just like I know you stopped seeing “Didn’t they have white pepper?” dude. See, that’s why I love you. You are so funny. Like Fleabag but without the runny mascara and dead guinea pig.
He said the L-word. I choose to ignore that. I don’t care how he feels. I care about how I feel.
I started thinking about it. A weekend outdoors, but with a hotel suite.
Me: ‘Does the hotel take four dogs? Are the pillows vegan? Plus, I’ll need those earmuffs they wear at airports to land the 747s, the ones Apple Martin wore at Live 8. Not for me, but for collies.
I can hear his eyeballs rolling.
I’m also on a roll.
Me: ‘Am I a placeholder?’
I learned that term watching the new Selling Sunset series (god, now I’m a house hunter in North Yorkshire, I realize the estate agents here don’t even wash, let alone wear Louboutins).
Him: ‘What does that mean?’
Me : ? Are you ashamed, as a former star, of not having more than one? To get to the country hotel near the coast and be forced to admit you only need ONE room key. Dinner for ONE.’
Him, obviously drunk, or stoned, or cheated: “I can have any woman I want.
Me: ‘Really? God, even Liam Gallagher admits he can’t walk anymore. To grow.’
Him: ‘You’re right. Please come. You will make it fun. I can’t stand it if I look over all those heads – OK, 50 heads, and all the money and HRT ingestion – if you’re not there.
Reader, I said I would be there. I’m currently emailing the concierge to make sure the hotel knows four collies are coming, two of which are doubly incontinent, and I just emailed the Urban Retreat MediSpa in Sloane Street, with subject heading: Urgent.
All I can say is: they better not put us in an annex.
*This is not his real name. not even close
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and hunt her down @lizjonesgoddess
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