He promised he'd send a jet and whisk me to his Venice Beach pad, replete with hot tub on the roof.
When I was in my 20s, living in London, working in TV and painting the town red every night, I imagined that I'd run off with some hot famous man and live my life in unabashed luxury with homes in New York, Milan, and Miami. As a showbiz reporter I interviewed celebs daily, so it wasn't out of the realms of possibilty. Leonardo Dicaprio, Will Smith, the Spice Girls, Robbie Williams, Jamie Lee Curtis, Helen Mirren, Kate Winslet had all chatted into my microphone, so I was past the stage of being star-struck.
One Friday night a friend invited me to her birthday party, where I drank far too much vodka and met a Hollywood director. My buddy had run around her party covering everyone in glittery silver lipstick and this hot shot's opening line to me, pointing at my lips, was: "Is that edible?" Then he kissed the lipstick off me. I wasn't instantly smitten; he was lanky and a bit nerdy, but he had a sweetness and charm to him. He invited me out for dinner and I had several glasses of champagne before I went, just to feel comfortable. Ever the gentleman, he insisted on paying at the swanky restaurant, then helped me with my coat and put me in a cab home before promptly jetting off to LA for meetings. It was in the days before Facebook, Twitter and even texting, so I sat by the phone waiting for him to call.
He did. When he arrived back in London, he proceeded to sweep me off my size 6 feet. He took me to the movies, to dinner, to drinks, to parties and eventually to his bed. I was smitten, even though I knew that in a matter of weeks he'd be leaving for LA for six months to make a movie with a brunette A-lister who shall not be named. He promised he'd send a jet and whisk me over to his Venice Beach pad, replete with hot tub on the roof.
He never did.
A few phone calls and then ... nothing. I should have learned my lesson—men lie—but when he appeared back in London two years later, I convinced myself that ours was a fabulous love affair, so I let him woo me all over again. What I should've realized is that a man of his ilk probably had a girl in every port. The warning signals should have flared when he avoided my birthday bash because he had to show Andrew McCarthy around London. (Yes, the actor Andrew McCarthy.) No matter how I protested that he should bring Andrew along to my party (now that would've been exciting!) it appeared to fall on deaf ears. I needed to face it: I was a girl he prefered to keep hidden. Several weeks later, he flew back to LA to begin work on another film, which eventually became a successful franchise starring an a big-lipped, long-legged A-list supermodel who already had a successful film career. The following week, there were pictures of them all over the press; they weren't just PR-friendly, isn't-this-nice-working-together shots. They were a LOT friendlier than that.
Oh yes, I'd been dumped for a supermodel.
I felt like a prize idiot. All his lies about me coming to LA, spun not once, but TWICE were clearly all a ruse to get back in my pants. I felt gullible, stupid and well ... used. Still, I suppose if you're going to get dumped, it may as well be for a supermodel. She was brunette to my blonde, flat-chested to my ample bosom and cat-eyed to my big blues. We were total opposites; there was no point comparing myself and fretting over my thicker waist.
Bizarrely, when he appeared back in London the following summer shortly after I had begin dating a nice guy, he asked me out again, while he was OFFICIALLY dating the supermodel. He put my new number in his phone with just the initial 'S.' Then he rang several times, asking me to meet. I pretended the line was bad and hung up and never called back. I liked the new boy I was dating and obviously wasn't going to jeopardize my new relationship to be another notch on a rich director's belt. I felt almost sorry for the supermodel, though, since he clearly wasn't staying faithful to her.
Years later, I married that new boy and the director married the supermodel. Instead of feeling jealous or bitter when I see photos of them together, I only feel relief that I never called him back because sometimes, life works out just the way it should.