I think it took me about a month to recover from the François experience. Wow! I never thought I’d be able to throw a suitcase out of a window in Knightsbridge. I was hoping that none of my neighbours had seen me or heard our fight. I was very discreet for a while afterwards and would ensure that nobody was in the building when I was leaving or entering my flat.
This lasted until I forgot about François when I met James during one of my nights out with the ladies. James was at a Jimmy Choo private tea party in Chelsea. He came along with his sister Charlotte who approached me first, complimenting my jacket. After chatting about shoes, beauty and makeup, James abruptly interrupted our rather girly conversation. We switched very easily to the latest hot plays to see in town. After a few hours of sharing life experiences, Bianca interrupted what seemed to be an impromptu date à trois to remind me that it was time to shop.
James and I exchanged numbers and I disappeared into a crowd full of shoe-fanatics begging for additional discounts. I was soooo in!
Saturday morning, upon the completion of my monthly beauty treat at the Bulgari hotel, I received a text from James: < Hey beauty, I wonder if you are free this weekend. I'm in London and would love to see you.> I then understood that he wasn’t living here. Obviously, I didn't like this, but I still recalled the lovely night we spent together. I also postponed my response; I had still a facial to enjoy.
A couple of hours later, laying on my sofa at home, I had a speed text session with James. I declined his invite for the night but was happy to have a drink Sunday afternoon. He accepted.
So, meet James, 40, 5’10, stocky, brown eyes, short hair and a smile to die for. He lived in Southampton and was staying at his sister's in London for the weekend. We decided to meet at Putney Bridge in a pub called Duke’s Head.
James was waiting for me at the bar and welcomed me with a warm hug. It was nice to see that smile again though I wasn’t quite sure about the funny smell coming off of him. Where was it coming from?
After ordering our drinks and making a few silly jokes about shoes, we started talking about each other. Unfortunately, I had to take my Journey by Amouage-perfumed scarf to cover my nose from the unbearable smell, which, in fact, seemed to be coming out of his mouth. I tried very hard to concentrate on what James was saying. I understood that he was an environmental consultant. He lived on a boat in Southampton, loved sailing, had a younger sister (that I had met) and was passionate about reality TV (Hick!) pretending it was a full demonstration of how human nature is. Debatable…
I also realised that even though we had a great night at Jimmy Choo, we didn’t have much in common. Plus, the more James was talking, the more his breath was getting close to a dog poo smell. I really wanted to puke and even my scarf couldn't help any more at this stage. It was the ultimate deal breaker! Why now? I didn’t remember this at the Choo’s event. What could he have possibly eaten to get that smell?
Well, the date got even worse when he asked: “How much did you buy your scarf?" Well, that was a funny question. I only responded, “What sort of question is this?”
"I am just asking. I am sure that you paid more than £200 for it.
I can’t understand why people put so much money on a simple scarf. Not only scarves, but also bags, shoes, shirts, suits and anything! They are all the same at the end of the day. Nobody notices if it’s from Prada or from Tesco.
Plus, it’s quite warm in this pub, so I don’t understand your need to show off your Hermes scarf.”
I simply frowned, “Huh? What is this all about?”
He barked back at me, “What? You don’t think I’m right?”
“Well, I think you're wrong. But it's your point of view. Plus, I am not showing off my scarf, I think I am getting a cold,” I lied.
"Seriously? You think I am wrong? A scarf like this costs £3 at Primark. Same texture and it keeps you as warm." He added, "Your Burberry coat; nonsense! I bought my mum the same style, again at Primark! And it's better looking than yours.”
“I think I am going home as I am getting very sick,” I pleaded, trying not to collapse at the smell, which seemed to be getting stronger.
“I am sure, my darling, sick of the truth.” He added, “Where do you think I bought this? Touch the fabric and tell me.”
I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with someone I met at a Jimmy Choo's event; it just didn’t make sense. Well, his knit cardigan was stiff to the touch and the threads were loose. I could tell it was new, but it was full of micro-bobbles and the buttonholes were all flimsy. I just said, "Well, it's not Prada."
“Come on! You’re such a liar! How can you tell? What about my shirt?”
The feel was different. Very soft; I could easily wash my face with it without risking a breakout. It had neat and sleek facing; the stitching of buttons was impeccable. This was a branded shirt! I just declared, “Branded?” hoping it wasn’t a trap.
“No way! You’re a good guesser, miss,” James replied, with a voice full of hate.
“I am afraid I can just feel it. Sorry, I have to go. I am really getting a cold,” I protested.
“You can’t feel anything, my darling. You are just a good guesser,” James stated.
“I don't feel well; I think I sh…” was the only response I could give because, now, I was really getting sick; my stomach was intoxicated by his smell and was begging for the toilet.
But he interrupted, confiding, “This was a present from my mum from Dior. This is the only branded piece I have and I don’t aim to have any more. This very stylish jacket: Primark, shoes: Primark, Gloves: charity, my hat: Primark. I am worth £100 in clothes but I am worth a billion pounds of love.” I think I lost my tongue when he said that.
“And look at you; your coat: £1000 from Burberry, if not more, your bag: £500, a designer dress… maybe £300, your Jimmy Choos: £300. And then what? What do you have in your heart? What do you do for the people? How does it make you feel to know that I am worth 1/3 of you in clothes? Prouder? Superior?" he complained.
Wow… what the hell was going on with these people? Two in a row! François and now him, was it Numbskull-Only Month? I got up to put my coat on.
But he didn’t seem to care much and added, “The thing is, now you make me feel very uncomfortable, and I am pressured to look the part every time because of women like you.”
“James, you are putting pressure on yourself. I’ve never asked anyone to dress like me or buy the same brands as me. Everybody’s different and I appreciate this difference. I think you’re just insecure. I am leav…” but he broke in, “Why do you feel the need to dress like this? Why do people like you feel the need to travel business or first class? If the flight crashed, you'd die anyway! At the end of the day, you’re just a lonely woman sleeping alone at night. It doesn’t change anything about you! I am sick of people like you! You evil fashion-victims!” he squeaked.
I had my coat on, ready to leave. “James, I have heard enough for tonight. I am not feeling well and you're not helping. Have a good night," I affirmed.
He grabbed my arm gently and said, his voice full of assurance, “Well, at least you're not wearing clothes with a big and obnoxious logo on, so I can date you.”
I smiled and jested, “I am afraid, I am not going to date you, James. This was our first and last date. In fact, I am going to leave now and on my way home I will buy a £300 logo t-shirt from Gucci and sleep with it. Thanks for the lecture, very much appreciated.” That was how I left that date, leaving a £20 note on the bar and cackling on my way out.
Of course, I never bought that t-shirt (yuck!), but I was so happy to tell him that I would. Next!