Anonymous - Belle do jour:Diary of an unlikely call girl

She did drop by. She smiled and breezed in, looking calmer and pulled together, but I knew it was only a matter of time until she broke down. Which she did, magnificently. Someone had just dumped her. A relationship-I had to confess ignorance that she was seeing anyone at all-had ended. By e-mail.

I was shocked. “No way to treat you, no matter what happened,” I cooed. I poured boiling water into a cafetiere, let it steep probably too long, pushed the plunger, and poured her a beaker of steaming brew. “So who was it?” I asked, out of mild curiosity.

“Didn’t you know?” she asked, looking up, tearstained face. “You’ll laugh.” It was First Date.

Bloody hell.

“And the worst part of it all, he is still carrying a torch for you.”

Bloodier hell. How do you comfort someone who has just been chucked for, among other reasons undoubtedly, a memory, and a pretty insubstantial one at that? “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

“You’re good at things, you’re talented,” she moaned. “I just don’t know, I disappoint people.”

“You can’t take that personally. Someone else being disappointed in you is their problem.” Cruddy way to soothe someone, I know, but I didn’t know what to say. This woman was more acquaintance than friend, and a stressful one at that. But I felt for her. I’ve been on both sides of that equation. jeudi, le 3 juin

An invitation came through the post a few weeks ago. I haven’t replied yet for not knowing what to do.

It’s a weekend in the country to celebrate a friend’s engagement, and promises to be a good time, with garden parties and drunken sing-alongs round a bonfire. And I would ordinarily be there like a shot, but for one thing. The Boy.

The odds that he was not invited are slender. With most exes, I would not mind, but I haven’t heard so much as a word from him since the near-miss at that birthday party some time back, there’s been no sign of the mystery car at all, and I therefore have no idea whether he still pines, or hates me, or has forgotten about me altogether. And I can’t decide which outcome would be the worst.

It would take only a minute to ring the bride-to-be and ask, but that would flag my concern, and if I know this couple at all, I know that other people’s discomfort is their sport. So best not say anything at all.

I could certainly use a weekend out of town, though, and it’s the best option going so far. samedi, le 5 juin

N and A3 and I dissected the interview. N has no real idea what I studied, but was unfailingly supportive and convinced the job will be mine. A3, on the other hand, works in a similar field and is, it must be noted, grumpy at best.

I’ve my own personal angel and devil figures, just as in cartoons. Though the idea of carrying their combined thirty-odd stone on my shoulders is laughable. mardi, le 8 juin

“They must at least be considering you,” N said. “I went for an interview in Newcastle once, and they rang up to reject me before I even got to the train to come home.”

“What were you going to Newcastle for?” I asked.

N gave me an odd look. “Never you mind,” he said. “Point is, you have to be more patient. They’ll let you know in due time.”

He’s probably right, but it doesn’t stop me fretting. Could I have given a better presentation, I wonder, or answered their questions more professionally? Did something about my clothes or manner put them off? How did I stand up against the others? If I get the job, will I fit in, will I disappoint them? Do any fit men work there? mercredi, le 9 juin

As near as I can figure, possible reasons I have not been contacted yet about the interview include:

• They have decided to hire someone else, and neglected to tell me.

• They have decided to hire me, and neglected to tell me.

• They are making an offer to someone else first and waiting for a response before rejecting the other applicants.

• They are rejecting the other applicants before contacting the successful candidate (i.e., me).

• The letter has been lost in the post.

• The letter has not been lost in the post, but was delivered to the wrong house.

• The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant died suddenly on the way to the door, and no one has found him or the letter yet.

• The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant has a dog, who ate the letter.

• The letter was delivered to me, but as a test of my mental acumen, cunningly disguised as one of the thousands of circulars that come through my door daily, and I mistakenly threw it away.

• The letter was delivered to me, and rapidly disintegrated.

• The letter was delivered to me, and soon thereafter I suffered acute head trauma, erasing my memory of either the letter or the trauma.

• And my memory has filled in the erased portions, so not only do I not remember any of this, I do not have any mysterious gaps in my recollection.

• I dreamt the interview.

• The letter has not been sent yet.

• They haven’t made a decision yet. jeudi, le 10 juin

I couldn’t take waiting any longer. I rang the personnel department. The woman on the other end of the call was kind-voiced, slightly dappy-I had to give her the job reference number three times. She apologized-apparently there had been problems with the internal mail and the letters hadn’t been posted yet, though a decision had been made. I gnawed the fingers of my left hand while she looked for the information.

“Ah, here you are,” she said. “It looks like you’ve gotten it.”

My heart leapt. I grinned. “Really?”

“You are Louise, right?”

And just as quickly, it fell back to the pit of my stomach. “Er, no.” The pudding-faced girl. How had they chosen her over me?

“Oh, sorry!” she tittered. “I’m afraid you haven’t been successful, then.” I thanked her and rang off.

Phone call from Dr. C, who is visiting his parents and wants to drive up and visit next week. I suppose the current situation gives me some free time at least. Silver linings and all that. And I am definitely going to that engagement party. Nothing hath charms to soothe the wounded ego quite like alcohol and flirtation.

So I should be away all weekend. Sod’s Law: if in the city with no escape, the days will be blazing hot and sunny; the minute I step foot outside this urban sphere, it will chuck it down endlessly. And I will be wearing open-toed shoes with white trousers. If you experience unpleasant weather this weekend, be assured that it is my fault entirely. dimanche, le 13 juin

The benefits of sex with an ex:

• No chance of being shocked by what he looks like naked the first time. That horrible mole is right where you left it.

• Not having to awkwardly ask for contact details after. If you don’t have them, it’s not by accident.

• He knows where your buttons are, how many there are, how long they need to be pressed, and whether they should go side-to-side, up and down, or in little circles.

And the drawbacks:

• There’s probably a good reason you’re not together anymore. A very good reason.

• One of you will think this means the relationship is back on.

• There is absolutely no way you can tell any of your friends without coming off as the world’s biggest prat. After all, they had to live with you post-breakup, right?

Cripes. I’m going to commence a head/wall interface now. Back later when I have knocked some sense into myself. lundi, le 14 juin

So, yes. Sex. With someone I honestly expected never to have sex with again.

The Boy. The effing Boy.

Still sorting it out. It’s a mess. He gave me a lift back to London and now won’t leave. But I would like to confirm that-at least before the slightly tipsy postcoital glowing phase ended and the horrible, horrible veil of Oh-Dear-Me-Not-Again descended-it was good.