As I sat in The Famous Cock near Highbury and Islington tube a few years ago, I was blessedly unaware of the desperate irony that my then amorous suitor would turn out to be one of the sliest nasties I would ever have the displeasure to waste my time on. A dishonest man you say, in London of all places? How shocking. But truly, this was more than a simple case of “playing the field.” This guy was totally wacko.
We first met whilst in similar states of drunken disillusionment at The Electric Ballroom on Tottenham Court road where we had both been reluctantly dragged by our metaler mates. As I lounged at the bar in what I considered to be a languidly dishevelled pose (but later discovered from a friend’s heartless photographic evidence, was more akin to Manson than Monroe), I overheard a couple of lads having a conversation about Shakespeare.
Being too drunk to remember the golden London rule: “ignore and be ignored”, I butted in mid-sentence and finished the guy’s quotation. The chap in question turned to me and I was suddenly staring at one of the campest men I’d ever seen. He was wearing some sort of shiny shirt with faux rosary necklaces and had a rather girlish face, with big brown eyes. He was kind of pretty, if you like that unctuous look. His hair had the unfortunate effect of making me want to wash my hands.
Why, you might ask, did I end up going out for a date with this greasy Lothario? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. I think it might have been how interested he was. I, like most women, can be an absolute sucker for attention. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t deny it either. And I’m not alone. I am one of many intelligent young women - with a university education, a good job and a string of successful long term relationships under their belt - who have been targeted by this type of man and their anomalous antics.
Mr “Castor-Nova” (so dubbed on account of his oiliness) told me he was a journalist and worked for two magazines, neither of which I was familiar with, but I didn’t think to question him. You don’t do you? Or at least I didn’t. Besides, he went out of his way to show me an article he’d written for one of the magazine’s online sites.
It didn’t occur to me that he might be exaggerating or downright lying to me. Nonetheless, I should have listened to my instincts which told me right from the start that there was something weird about him.
He had the typically inflated jealous streak of most oddballs and whinged about my closeness to a few male friends. Finding himself ignored, he began to create several fictitious “modelesque” ex-girlfriends and female friends whom he’d bang on about incessantly. He received lots of messages from them on his Facebook page, something which I think he was disappointed that I didn’t ever comment on.
It turned out that he’d written them himself, from fake profiles. Pathetic.
Eventually it transpired that he’d been cheating on me with another woman, who I finally met and was heartened to discover was smart, successful and attractive. Between us we uncovered his lies. His job was, of course, a complete fabrication; he’d done a single day’s work experience for a magazine over a year before, hence the online article.
And the lies he’d told about me, whilst ghastly, were conversely comical in their absurdity: I too was a “model” (when in reality I barely reach 5 foot 3 and am certainly no stick figure) and a coke fiend (ha, if only I could afford it!) and, to top it off, a stalker (as if I would waste my time). It seemed that almost everything he’d told us was an invention, conjured up in the strange mind of this probable bed-wetter.
Walking away from this “relationship” (if you can call it that), was of course a huge relief, but it was positively humbling to acknowledge that I was capable of falling for such a load of rubbish. But I have wondered since, was it my fault that I didn’t automatically suspect him of constructing such huge whoppers? Is it realistic to check up on every word that a potential partner says?
It can’t be, not if you want to avoid turning into the personification of paranoia. Better to be fully aware that there are these oddities out there and trust to your instincts ladies! If you get a bad feeling, it’s best to not go there.
And anyway, aside from the androgyne sliminess, I should have known he was a deviant just from the name. As a die-hard Austen fan, I of all people should never have trusted a man with the surname Wickham.
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