As if by magic…
‘Hello. You, me. Coffee? Yes? Good. Great! When? Next week? After Tuesday? Perfect.’
And as an afterthought…
‘Also how are you?’
Yes, those are the messages I received on Thursday night (in France – that means it cost you money you git) from The Ex. The Ex whose name I burned on New Years along with all the rest of the crap I had hanging around from 2011, and promised Blondie and Irish I would stay away from.
You may recall, his last magnificent outing had him cancelling on me for dinner before Christmas. I retaliated, in a very fabulous way, by flirting with a hot Downton Abbey guy at his show’s Christmas Party.
Since then, nothing. Until Thursday.
Is that not the most arrogant text message ever composed? Or am I just pre-disposed to think so?
Flora (she of so many morals and unwavering metal knickers) declared I should not reply at all. I explained that I HAVE to say something, on account of the army of mutual friends between us and the fact that he is still a West End Leading Man and in my line of work we’re going to encounter each other. I cannot just ignore him and hope he will go away.
Blondie and Irish (I think – the memory of last night is a tad hazy what with the amount of red wine I smuggled back from France and whatnot) agree that I am allowed to text back, but it should be along the lines of, ‘yes I’m fine, sorry but I am busy for all eternity, will let you know when that’s done’.
I can see right through it, don’t fret. I know he’s just texting the first girl in his phonebook that he thinks will text back and massage his ego – and I would previously have been that girl. But no more!
I’m choosing to ignore the little thrill I still get 3 days later when I look at that message.