LIZ JONES DIARY: I am not an ordinary prostitute, no man has ever paid for my hotel

Well. Here’s a turn-up for the books. I was all set to stay with my host, although I was feeling a little nervous about getting murdered, since I’ve only met him once. And then, a few days before I was due to leave, I get the WhatsApp message from David 2.0.

‘Hi Liz. My house isn’t quite ready yet. There are no curtains yet. Here’s a better idea: I’ve booked you into Kilworth House. You can come whenever you want, have a rest after a long journey. Then I’ll pick you up at 4.15pm. [in the white Ferrari. Ha!] and take you to the garden party. I thought you could ring my doorbell on your way home on Saturday. I paid for the hotel and breakfast. The weather looks good anyway.’

I tell him I understand, after a quick Google search of the hotel, since I don’t even have a kitchen, but that I don’t want him to pay for my accommodation. He replies that it’s a done deal. “We can compare war stories about traders who don’t show up.”

I really can’t wait to see his house. I show Nic his messages. ‘Wow. He’s rich and generous. He seems like a really good option.’

I tell her that I am no ordinary prostitute. I have never, never, never in a million bleeding years had a man pay for me to stay in a hotel. My then husband once promised to pay for our hotel in New York (the very hotel where Sex and the citySamantha cheated on Smith, with his vertical garden in the lobby; we went up in the same elevator, a fact my husband completely missed). It was his penance for yet another affair. But his card, a Santander Electron, wouldn’t work, so I ended up footing the bill.

David 1.0 took me to Ramsgate for my birthday but at reception at Albion House he said he wasn’t sure he could pay plus he had a cold. My present was a novelty Biro had bought at the Turner Gallery.

Every holiday – Jamaica, at Ian Fleming’s villa, Goldeneye; Puglia, at the Aveda spa; a honeymoon in Seville; Paris, at the Plaza Athenée in the Carrie Bradshaw suite overlooking the Eiffel Tower and the Dior spa; Marrakech, at the hotel where they filmed The Night Manager (we had the suite where Sophie Alekan was murdered, so glad it had been cleaned!); Claridge’s; The Connaught; The Rosewood with views of the Shard; Babington House with its rooftop hot tub which we never got into because he deemed it ‘too windy’; a villa in St Tropez; Lime Wood in the New Forest; a pub on Dartmoor; a Georgian Airbnb in Edinburgh with its crusty fridge; Soho House; Kettner’s; The (dear, late) Hospital Club in Covent Garden with its sex toy menu that David 1.0 thought was ‘too expensive’ (I spent £800 on burgers from Rebel Wilson and her entourage in the hope that she would buy my novel, but she didn’t); the Mercer in New York’s SoHo, where I rode up in a lift with Meg Ryan; Bono’s hotel in Dublin (noisy; honestly, I should be a travel writer); the Mandarin Oriental with its infinity pool overlooking Central Park; various Pigs, and so on, all paid for by me.

And the men always, always go straight to the minibar. While they leave a pile of receipts and dirty coins on a surface.

Of course, relationships aren’t all about money. But how touching is it when a man takes the time to do something for you without nagging and cursing, or needing written instructions and a pie chart?

What a comfort, to be cared for. In my case, that is as rare as a snow leopard. Let me think. Hmm, nothing. So far. Wow.

I feel a little disloyal to David 1.0. Even though I invited him here, he didn’t respond. Just have the balls to communicate. You’re not 12. I wonder if I should tell him I have a date, if it is a date. In a Ferrari. And a suite in a country house hotel. He will spit nails! Shouldn’t he?

JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ IS ABORTING THIS WEEK

• Why do workmen a) use your toilet and b) leave the seat up? I’m not your wife, bitch.
• Sky Glass. You have to turn on subtitles every time you turn it on or change channels. I am not Lazarus.
• Royals wearing medals: My father fought against real Nazis in Italy and North Africa. He kept his medals in a drawer.
• Poop bags. If you only want one, but the roll unravels.

Contact Liz via lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess