I AM on Jimmy Choo’s e-list. Every week I get an update on all the latest styles.
Anybody can join this list and pretend that they can afford to think about buying a pair of Choo’s shoes.
When I got the first mail from Number Sexy, I felt the same way that I do every time I open an email from Jimmy. His face shot was fairly feckin’ impressive: thick wavy hair, gorgeous smile, crinkles by his eyes.
His profile said he was 42, 6'1”, a nonsmoking, social drinker, Aries, separated with two kids and a car. The extra pictures he uploaded showed him in various parts of the world, in various states of undress.
I am shivering just thinking about the one of him on the boat, a big sailboaty thing. He’s casually sitting on the side, one hand reaching up to hold a rope or sail or Christ knows what, and he’s squinting at the camera in exactly the same way as George Clooney does when he’s papped.
He wrote to me! (Number Sexy, not George Clooney.) Said he loved my profile, said I had brains as well as beauty, and would I like to chat? Would I!
I sent back a buzzy, witty email and mentioned something about the sailboat.
In return I got a thesis on catamarans, which was grand. It was certainly an improvement on most of the replies I was getting. I had no idea that grammar was sexy or that punctuation made me wet to the point where I got that tingly shudder you have when you realise that you really want to shag someone.
“hey u r gorgeous” is, shockingly, not a very effective way to get my attention.
Number Sexy was clearly all man, all the time, and I logged on the day after he had said he would have to go fetch one of his girls. I sighed over that. “One of his girls.”
So adorable, very manly dad. I waited. I waited some more. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to be chasing. I have chased all my life. You know the way; always being the one to make the first phone call or sending a text after an inexplicable silence.
What could have possibly gone wrong?
We’d been chatting all night back and forth, until I knew more about feckin’ knots than any woman needs.
It looked like Number Sexy was as unattainable as those strappy diamante sandals from Mr Choo. Fecker. I’d show him! I think I’ll take one of those young fellas up on the slightly sleazy offers they’d been stumping up . . .