In which David resumes our text life

On Friday night, at 8.17pm, my phone pinged. It was a text from a number I didn’t recognise. I opened it. Ah. It was from David. I must have blocked his old number. Either that, or he was using a different phone.

‘Hi. Just checking before I go out. We are on a break, right?’

I couldn’t believe my eyes, at first. I must have looked shocked, as my friend said, ‘Are you OK? What’s happened?’

I told her it was nothing. But, of course, I understood what David meant: he was going out, on a date. He must watch far too many American sitcoms on daytime TV. But, knowing his track record, he wouldn’t normally alert the woman he was in a relationship with that he was going off to have sex, even if that relationship had broken down. He’s not that honest, or brave, or honourable.

I showed my friend the text on my phone. ‘Hahaha!’ she said. ‘What a complete idiot. He’s delusional. Yeah, if he can find someone who wants him. He’s playing mind games. Ignore him.’

I tried to put it at the back of my mind. I didn’t want yet another evening ruined, but at 10.53pm I couldn’t help but finally text him back. ‘I’m at the John Mayer concert at the O2, it’s the interval so I can’t really text. Have a great night!’

He replied straight away. ‘Ah, so not a break. It’s terminal. You too.’

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by this one. He texts me to say he’s about to s*** someone, I reply I’m at a concert. Admittedly, we had planned to go together, but so what? We were no longer speaking. What is he, 12? He’s the villain of this piece.

I heard nothing more, until Sunday afternoon. A missive of texts that made no sense: ‘In which you fall out with me.’ ‘Sup.’ And ‘Sorry, not you but not not you.’

I replied, ‘Are you on glue?’

‘Thanks for the Peter Kay feed line. No. But I must have been tripping to believe you ever had any real love for me. If this is to be the end then allow me to end my chapter with something original. “If you are looking for perfection, it’s a long way from your door.” I don’t know what my word count is but you can send me a cheque (and you tell me I don’t have a sense of humour). DScracefully Yours.’

Isn’t it interesting that all anyone wants from me is money. I typed: ‘I did care for you. But you just couldn’t be bothered. A £21.99 engagement ring. A flat like a slum. It doesn’t take money to make somewhere nice, it takes effort. You were all words, no action. Words are cheap.’

‘For the record. I did phone your vet, when you went out. The number was en-gaged for the weekend. I was going to pay it, but by the time I left you had lost your temper, so I was less inclined.’

‘Oh, really. That is simply not true. You have serious issues with money. You were supposed to be my partner but you never helped me. I’ll send the cheque to your daughter.’

‘It’s a matter of phone record.’

‘The very last time you left, on April 12th, the Wednesday before Easter, after smoking in the bathroom, I was upset as you showed your word is worth nothing. When you left the time before, on February 27th, after I failed to sell my Vogues on the Saturday, and showed you the vet bill, left it on my desk, there had been no argument at all. I even took you to Marrakech after you left, so you had plenty of time to pay the bill in the interim before Smokinggate. Matter of record? You’re a tightwad t***. I hope you had a nice date. I trust you did it at her place, as I hope you realise your flat repels women. I can’t believe you texted me to check we were on a break so you could s*** someone! Why did you do that? To deliberately upset me? To make me jealous?’