I am in Istanbul, Turkey. Although he said: 'Let me come to Istanbul. Happy to pay for anything.
So at least you could see that I mean it, “I didn't hear from him for two weeks. His last text said, “I feel so low, stressed and depressed that I just try to have my head sorted.”
I replied: 'You and I both. Ben destroyed. '
I have not received an answer. What about me? No thought of how I feel. And I didn't do anything wrong!
I am in a beautiful five -star hotel with a heated swimming pool (but of course you know that I am too nervous to go into it).
My friend Andrea texts me: “Do you have cheap plastic surgery?” The mood in which I sit, all the self -confidence lost, that could very well be the truth.
But no, I am here to get the teeth of Margot Robbie. I have already asked the reception if I can have my hair painted, is waxed and a pedicure can get between the toothwork, in case he pops up.
I have nice teeth, but they were ruined by anorexia (a diet that consists exclusively of Cox's apples and cola light). I had cemented veneer in Harley Street, but that was 20 years ago. My gums are coming back. I am here to grow them again. I need young teeth. Perfect teeth.
Anyway, hidden in my beautiful room, I can't help it, but scroll through the surveillance photos.
I know I shouldn't do this to myself, but I try to understand what happened. Him with a blonde on New Year's Eve when he told me he was too sick to see me.
Another woman on his flat all day the next Saturday (in surveillance it is called 'the plot') when he was showered fresh before he jumped in a Uber to visit a bar, on the way to A crummy Odeon to see a cartoon when he could have been with me for a roaring wood fire, surrounded by dogs and running horses.
I pause with a video, one of the hundreds that were sent to me by the two female ex-messs. And there is the brunette dwarf, which takes an hour to put on her leather gloves, as if she was in the North Pole area, not bleeding London. And there, thereI see it. A sparkle. A flash. Or at least I think I see it.
I send the clip to Nic. She isolates two screengrabs. She is very good at all technical things; Her other name is Siri. She sends the screengrabs to me.
And there it is. A huge diamond engagement ring.
He is engaged to the fetus.
Oh. Mine. God.
As if it can get worse.
I imagine he met the blonde online. He says she is 'gone'. She is not really a competition, given the hair, the jacket, the Palazzo pants, the stunning back to his flat. But the brunette is young, when it is short. Many men love small women. They can easily move them in bed, making them feel powerful. She has a Louis Vuitton handbag.
The kind of extensive lips that you see on Love Island or Grand Designs. He says she is blackmailing him, “dangerous,” so he has to keep her happy; And indeed, in the images of their date they look miserable.
But there is no mistake of the ring the size of a hippo on her left hand, who glints threatening over her fake nails. I can see that she is a lot of maintenance, entitled, problems.
I had asked him, in the gigantic bed in my £ 1500 suite in Soho House, if he would ever get married again. (He is married twice.) “I think I, yes.” But he looked sheepishly.
Why don't we trust our intestines anymore? Why didn't I interrogate him deeper? And if he is engaged, why do they have sex with me several times just before Christmas? Why does the horror blonde have to stay on its apartment on New Year's Eve?
I notice something else. They go back to his attic flat in an uber after looking at Mufasa, FFS. He first goes inside and then waves the door against her. Pop! Which man does a woman not let go first, keep the door open? She pauses and then follows him inside.
I wonder if he told her that he was being filmed with another woman on NYE. That they were also filmed, just now. That he told me he wanted us to live together. Shortly after we met, he sent me a nice video, him on the balcony of his old flat, overlooking the Thames. 'So beautiful here, beautiful. You are the only thing that is missing! But we will find our own place. I know. “
Jones moans … what Liz hates this week
- Hotels. There is a blinking green light in the middle of the ceiling in my room. Around 3 o'clock I am at the end of my mind and try to sleep in a disco. A bellboy comes to my door: 'There is nothing I can do. It is policy. '
