Truce?

Freddie’s date on Thursday evidently went well, as he didn’t come home again until very early on Sunday morning, when I was woken by the sound of the door slamming behind him, and then drifted off again to the dulcet tones of his probably inebriated whistling in the bathroom. Ahh, Freddie. So good to have you home. Strangely, it was. Having spent all of that Thursday night and much of Friday morning concocting clever ways to tell him exactly what I thought of his patronising tone and gropey hands, I had found myself perversely unable to enjoy the weekend without him. Throughout Friday evening I could feel the scathing remarks slipping away into irrelevance and by Saturday afternoon his unexpected absence had left me deflated and grumpy.

Jamie and Laura had proved depressingly unsympathetic, both to my ire and to my frustrated need to express it. Jamie had come home halfway through my washing-up trial and remarked that it was nice of me to do it since most of it wasn’t mine. ‘It’s nothing to do with nice’, I’d told him, crossly,’ Freddie MADE me do it.’ Jamie raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘What a legend!’ he exclaimed happily, and wandered off upstairs. Laura had only looked away uncomfortably when I raised the issue of the lecture with her and made infuriatingly diplomatic noises about all the housework he’d done. Worse still were their infatuated references to things he’d said and done over Easter, while I’d been at home. ‘Alice, Alice,’ they’d giggle, their Freddie-crushes nauseatingly apparent, ‘listen to this, it’s really funny, Freddie said…’ (Insert puerile Freddie anecdote). Ugh. Support, clearly, was going to be hard to come by.

I took solace in phoning friends to ask for advice. ‘Wait for the right moment’, Nick told me. ‘You need to think like a man – if you’re going to take him down, do it when you have a solid rational reason for it. If you go in there and shout about something girly he’ll just think you’re an idiot. You’ve gotta do it, though, he sounds like a dick.’ Becky’s suggestions were equally strategic, though different in tone. ‘Listen, honey, you need to bare some flesh,’ she insisted, in spite of my complaints that it was tacky. ‘He’s intimidating you with his pecs all the time, so you need to get some leg out and show off a little ass and before you know it he’ll be wrapped round your little finger. You’ve got a very hot body, Miss Keates, make use of it.’

With this in mind, I dressed in something appropriately leggy on Sunday morning, applied mascara and Yinners moisturiser for extra glow, and sat on the sofa to await his emergence. He finally padded downstairs at midday, looking tired and happy with touselled hair, but fully dressed and carrying a bag. ‘Morning, Alice’ he said, smiling, ‘you look very lovely today.’ ‘Morning, Freddie’, I replied, irritated to have been denied even the opportunity to tell him that I hated being called Ally, ‘where are you off to?’ ‘Work’, he said cheerfully, and patted me absentmindedly on the head. ‘See you soon.’ And off he went, leaving me feeling silly, underdressed, and embarrassed that I had no idea what job he does, on the sofa. I’ve only seen him once since, and that was on Tuesday morning when I had to knock on the bathroom door to beg for my toothbrush so I wasn’t late for work. Rumour has it that he will be home tonight, and I have decided to make dinner and bury the hatchet.

After all, if you can’t beat ‘em…

Freddie 1 - 0 Alice

Five blissful Freddie-free days came to a soggy, depressing end when I arrived home in London from an extended Easter weekend yesterday afternoon. The rot set in when I was still several yards from my front door. Standing outside was an ominous stack of black bin bags, and I remembered with dread Freddie’s parting remark on Good Friday that he ‘might have a bit of a clean up’.

I unlocked the door awash with anticipatory anger, head filled with images of him sweeping credit card statements and old copies of all my favourite books into trashy ignominy with his horrible used tea bags and copies of London Lite. ‘Watch out, Ally’, he bawled, as I stepped into the porch, ‘the floor’s still very wet’. My teeth on edge (good God, couldn’t he at least have been at work?), I pressed on into the living room. He was scrubbing the coffee table, using something that looked suspiciously like my Cath Kidston flannel (what next - polishing it with my Yin Yang moisturizer?) and wearing nothing except pyjama bottoms.

‘Hello Alice!’ he grinned at me, squeezing grayish water out of poor Cath. ‘Hi Freddie.’ I replied, grumpily. ‘This must be that clean up you mentioned.’ He nodded, obviously pleased with himself. ‘Day off. Bloody hell it was dirty in here.’ If he expected me to be grateful instead of insulted, he had misjudged the situation badly. ‘Right.’ I began, conscious of pouting, ‘Well, couldn’t you have used some kitchen towels?’ He walked slowly round the table towards me. ‘Used them all on the bathroom. And this was just lying around, so…’

I backed away, sensing that a molestation of my hips was brewing. ‘Well, it wasn’t lying around’, I snapped, ‘it was just in the bathroom, which is where flannels live.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry. Looks much nicer up there now, though. Go and have a look.’ I obeyed, speechless, and found it glittering and empty. Most of my things were easily discovered either in the cabinet or turfed onto my bed (thanks, Freddie) but my toothbrush was missing. Suspicion bloomed.

‘Quick question for you, Freddie,’ I began, coming slowly back down the stairs, ‘do you know anything about the whereabouts of my toothbrush?’ He looked blank for a moment and then started to laugh. ‘Bloody hell, was that yours?’ he asked, smirking and showing off his weird double dimples. ‘I’m sorry, it looked fucked so I binned it.’ I gaped at him. ‘Could you not just have got rid of the HEAD? It was detachable. And it wasn’t - fucked. You can’t just throw things away because you don’t like the look of them!’ (squeaking). He laughed harder. ‘Well, maybe YOU should’ve thrown it away. It was disgusting.’ I could feel myself blushing, which happens rarely, and on this occasion made me hate my face quite passionately. ‘It was a WEEK OLD,’ I gasped, humiliated. ‘I CHEW them, ok? It’s just one of those habits. I CHEW them. God.’ He patted me on the arm. ‘Ahhh, well, you want to grow out of that, Ally’.

‘Look’, he went on, tone changing, ‘while you’re here. Can I have a word about housekeeping?’ Still blushing I nodded, automatically. He leaned against the sofa, arms folded across his still uncovered chest. ‘Now look, I’ve already spoken to Jamie and Laura about this, so don’t take it personally, but this place has been a bit messy. We’re paying a lot of money for it, so let’s not live like students, eh? I came down on Saturday morning and the living room smelled and there were dishes sitting on top of the dishwasher instead of in it. All you need to do is give the surfaces a little wipe and…’ The lecture continued for some time while I tried to muster words of protest, but only managed to blink at him and look anxious ‘Now, there’s some washing up in the kitchen that needs to be done, and I’m pretty sure some of it’s yours,’ he finished, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind doing that once I’ve hopped out of the shower, that’d be great’.

I phoned Cora as soon as I could hear the water running. ‘Err, well, IS the washing up yours?’ she asked, when I’d told her the story. ‘Because, when I lived with you, you did sometimes forget to do your washing up, so…’ ‘CORA!’ I wailed, hurt, ‘that is not fair, and nor is it the POINT. And NO, it’s NOT mine. Well…maybe one plate is or something, but –‘ ‘Then don’t do it.’ ‘I’m not GOING to, I only sort of said yes because I was still so embarrassed about the toothbrush,’ I hissed as I heard the water stop.

I hung up, because I could hear the sound of an aerosol being deployed and, sure enough, Freddie’s Lynxy odour wafted evilly down the stairs, followed by Freddie himself, miraculously dressed. ‘Freddie –‘ I started, intercepting him at the bottom of the steps, but he grabbed me with more than usual force by the hips and walked me several steps backward before moving me aside. ‘Sorry Ally, I’m off out. Date. Let’s chat later, ok? Thanks for taking care of those dishes, you’re sweet.’

Twenty minutes later, I called Cora back. ‘Alice, what’s that splashing sound?’ she asked, suspiciously. I sighed. ‘I’m washing the dishes’.

My hips don't lie...

Pity me, for there are many evils in my life and the greatest amongst them is a man called Freddie, and he lives in my house. He moved in on Sunday, having met Laura and Jamie on Tuesday, and somehow got rave reviews from both of them. So I arrived back from the gym on Sunday afternoon to find both of them out, and the living room hip-deep with Freddie’s boxes. Freddie himself (5’11ish, muddy-blond hair, creased face, shirt tucked in to jeans) was standing in the middle of it all, hands on hips, surveying the chaos he’d created and listening to music that I hated instantly.

‘Hi!’ I began, brightly, shouting to be heard over the ‘electro’ (or whatever), ‘I’m Alice!’ He looked round and shook my hand unnecessarily hard ‘Hi; Freddie. Uh, you have something in your teeth’. I recoiled, affronted. ‘Oh God, really?’ ‘Yup’, he replied, turning away to fiddle with his enormous surf-board bag. I ran upstairs to look at my teeth in the bathroom mirror, only to find there was nothing in them at all, but I re-brushed vigorously all the same, wondering if it was appropriate to resent him for pointing out the phantom tooth-menace so bluntly – and so early.

I was inspecting myself in the mirror ahead of further interaction, when he loomed aggressively in the doorway. Without a word, he pushed past me and dumped a ridiculously big box, apparently full of Lynx, onto my sink, knocking over my electric toothbrush and Yin Yang cleanser.

‘Um, Freddie, there are already two of us using this bathroom, so maybe you’d find it easier to share Laura’s on the second floor’, I suggested politely. He leaned against the sink and ran his hand through his blandish blondish hair impatiently. ‘No, ‘I’ll use this one. Nearer my room.’ Speechless at his failure to take my gentle hint, I leant over to pick my Braun and my Yinners out of the sink. He, irritatingly, did exactly the same, resulting in a collision of our hands over the cleanser, causing me to step back too quickly and bump into the door-frame.

‘Alright, careful’ he remarked, apparently amused, putting my things into a bathroom cabinet. ‘They don’t GO in there’ I whined, annoying even myself, and prompting a disgustingly patronizing smile from him. ‘Well…now that there’s three of us using this bathroom, we’d better be tidier’, he explained, smugly. And then he stepped into the doorway too, putting his hands on my hips to move me out of the way, and bounded off down the stairs, leaving me gaping and flushed on the landing.

An hour later, battered by more of Freddie’s tearing around the house like a Lynxy whirlwind, rearranging cupboards and hoisting his hateful boxes with obvious malice, with me fluttering ineffectually in his wake, twittering pathetically and being routinely ignored and repeatedly handled, I had fled. I was sitting in Planet Organic opposite a hastily summoned Jamie, drinking peppermint tea and nibbling distractedly on Montezuma’s Creamy White Chocolate, an excellent alternative in times of emotional need to Green and Black’s Creamy Milk.

‘Look, Alice,’ he was saying, ‘I think you’re overreacting. He seemed like a really great guy - we thought you’d get on well with him. Wait till you get to know him.’ I stared at him. ‘JAMIE!’ (through a mouthful of vanilla goodness) ‘He’s a nightmare. He HIP-SWIVELLED me. FOUR TIMES! He has overtaken our BATHROOM.’ Jamie shrugged. ‘So use the other one and tell him the touching thing isn’t cool. Either way, he lives with us so you’d better make friends with him.’ I went home in high dudgeon, steeling myself for a prolonged turf war and slightly relishing the idea, but Frightful Freddie and his horrible boxes had vanished for the night. Thus far, our meetings have since been limited to awkward encounters in and around MY bathroom. He grins, shirtless. I roll my eyes, unimpressed. Oh yes. It’s war alright. Watch this space.

Breakfast Date

Yes, I know what you're thinking. 'Breakfast date? BREAKFAST date? Surely not...' Because, really, never have two words been so ill-suited for such close snuggling. And yet, at 9 a.m. on Sunday morning, a time useless for anything other than sleeping, in my opinion, I was sitting outside a cafe in Belgravia waiting for my blind date, Mystery Barrister, to arrive. I was miraculously on time, the novelty of rising so early on a Sunday having driven me into a neurotic 7 am alarm setting followed by an equally neurotic over-application of yummy Yin Yang moisturiser to my under-eye area in a probably futile bid to prevent my bags from developing into industrial sacks.

Mystery Barrister, by contrast, was 25 minutes late, which was annoying, and he appeared to be valiantly resisting the modern trend of the metrosexual, his chapped cheeks suggesting that he has never used a moisturiser in his life, let alone a nice-smelling one. He was also 5’7 (an inch shorter than me), bald, yellow of tooth and oddly clad. How my heart sank as he approached my table, wearing tweed and a nervous grin. How it plunged when he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously upon it (because, ewww). And how it very nearly died within me when he mentioned that he’d been on a lot of blind dates recently through Match.com. I seethed inwardly and resolved to inflict a hideous revenge upon Becky, who had masterminded this vile mis-match.

Things were not set to improve quickly, either, for anyone involved. The waiter brought my hot chocolate without any cream on it, which I didn’t mind at all, and said so, but Philip insisted on rectifying the situation, to my embarrassment - which he noticed, causing him to attempt to recall the banished beverage by waving his arms about, which only resulted in his knocking his Americano into his danish and my dress. He gasped a series of appalled apologies and out came the awful handkerchief to dab my thighs. I protested (again, EWWW), but he mistook my hankie-fear for affront at his touching my legs, causing a fresh flood of increasingly despairing sorrying that was only stemmed by the distraction of another defective hot chocolate's arrival. Conversation, after this, barely got beyond 'I'm so, so terribly sorry, stupid of me - ' 'No, no, don't be silly, I'm sure it was my fault it got spilled anyway, don't worry at all...' 'Your fault? No no, not at all, uh, god, I'm so sorry, will your dress be alright..?' And so on.

Next, he took me for what ought to have been a lovely walk in Hyde Park to Speaker’s Corner, which he (interestingly, endearingly) likes. It was a good idea, but he tripped twice on the way there (prompting further redness and a coughing attack) and then both speakers were peddling the theory that education makes women bad at sex; a topic that made Philip stutter and me giggle hysterically. And then he was just so odd. Clearly a very intelligent man, with many fascinating life experiences to share, I nevertheless found myself painfully incapable of taking him entirely seriously. Because, at 37, he is taking ice-skating lessons. He saw Troy 6 times in the cinema, and can’t remember how often he’s watched it on DVD. He bemoaned for some yards of Hyde Park walkway the difficulty of finding tap-dancing shoes in his size in London. I almost yearned for Wanker Banker’s irritating obsession with convention, for a moment or two.

The final straw, though, I think for both of us, was when we were chatting amongst the daffodils and, in the process of talking, he spat, emphatically and unignorably, on my face. A terrible moment. I felt the saliva strike, and realised instantly that it had landed on a concealed beast-spot scar, which would complicate safe removal no end. It then occurred to me that there is more bacteria in the mouth of an adult human than in that of a dog, and that my skin was therefore in grave danger of further infection, the only silver lining being that the concealer might offer the pores a shield from the spit. Through these considerations, I became aware of a further threat: the handkerchief. There it was, out of his, presumably very snotty pocket, and moving threateningly towards my face. My involuntary look of disgust, high-pitched squeak and slight step backwards were like an awful, black full-stop on the date as a whole. I fear we both went home depressed, he presumably to blow his nose, and I to Yin Yang my spitty skin into near oblivion. Death.


But I'm giving you the most awful impression of poor Philip, who was actually very, very nice, and told me all sorts of things about Baudelaire and showed me the statue of Byron at Hyde Park corner (who knew!). And then he sent me the sweetest text message, saying he’d like to see me again, but 'would understand if I’d rather not'. Ahhhh! So obviously I said I would – just not for another date. I’m sure he’ll be better at friendly lunches. And as for my Wanker Banker yearnings – I hear through a mutual friend that he went to work defiantly suited all this week and may be in some trouble for bludgeoning several protestors with his briefcase, presumably whilst humming Flight of the Valkyries and imagining himself in Vietnam. Cringe.