Read I Never Fancied Him Anyway for Free Online

in a nightclub, at that very moment, wrapped around the same very young, very pretty, very blonde ‘client’.
    Needless to say, very soon I found myself single again, but it was absolutely fine. I never fancied him anyway.
    But there is a lesson here: never, ever,
ever
lie to a psychic. Really bad plan, on every level.
    Then, before him, there was James. Alas, poor James. In the early days, I genuinely believed that my luck had changed and that I had finally,
finally
met a D.S.M. (decent single man). When I first met him, I’d just read an article in
Tattle
magazine about how, just before you go on a first date, you should tell yourself that you’re not looking for a soulmate, only a potential friend. Apparently this is supposed to take the pressure off and stop you from dwelling on the possibility of babies with the guy before the waiter has even had a chance to bring the pepper and parmesan.
    Anyway, he invited me to his flat for dinner and, hey presto, my new attitude worked like a charm and we started seeing each other and I liked him and my friends liked him and even my mother liked him and it took me weeks to finally put my finger on what was wrong with him.
    He never, ever,
ever
took me out in public. Or introduced me to his family and friends. I had become almost the girlfriend equivalent of a capsule wardrobe; kept on a hanger labelled ‘for sex and fun’, but always worn on my own and washed separately. On the rare occasions when we were walking down a street together, he’d behave almost like he was on the witness protection programme, and on one occasion, when I had the temerity to suggest going away for a weekend together, he looked at me as if I’d just fouled the pavement. I was always there for him, but always kept conveniently in the background. As far as he was concerned, I was as handy as Sky Plus. Or a ready meal. Or a wrap-over dress.
    You get the picture. So, feeling completely and utterly fed up, I was just about to confront him with all of this, when, suddenly, I got a flash.
    He had not one, not two but
three
other girlfriends on the go, all at the same time. So, that was the end of that, natch, but I’ll always remember Jo’s final pearl of wisdom on the subject, brilliant dating wing woman that she is. ‘Cassie, if you set the bar low enough, only a louse can crawl underneath.’
    Anyway, it was fine and I was fine. I never fancied him anyway and only hope none of the other three girlfriends did either. Like I say, we all have the power to choose between fate and destiny and on all of those occasions, I chose to go down the heartache-avoidance route.
    But after what I saw so clearly last night, this time I may not have any choice.
    Where Jo and I live is close to the city centre, only a brisk twenty minutes from
Tattle
magazine’s office on Fleet Street, and as it’s a lovely, sunny October morning, I’m racing into work, cursing myself for being so disorganized and leaving my column to the very last minute.
    Well, when I say ‘morning’, mid-morning would actually be more accurate; needless to say, my plan of having Prussian discipline and getting up at dawn came to nought.
    With me, this is a regular occurrence; if you want star charts done, astrological compatibility grids, aura reading, dream interpretation or any kind of space/energy clearing, I’m your girl, but ask me to do a tax return, or stick to a set-in-stone deadline or . . . well, you know, be all organized and grown-up, then I’m beyond useless. None of this is helped (a) by the minging hangover I’m still nursing from last night and (b) worse, the fact that I’m frantically willing my mobile not to ring, when, on the principle that if you dread something enough, you’ll attract it, of course, it does.
Shit. Shit, shit shit
. . .
    I don’t even have to look at the number to know who it is; more importantly, why she’s calling; and, worst of all, what I’ll then have to tell her.
    If she asks, that is. Which,