As those of you who read the second book to the end know, I am still with the person who was my boyfriend circa the first book. It hasn't been an easy relationship, and the call girl thing/blog/books have contributed massively to our problems, but I had thought with some effort on both sides this could work out. I'm of the belief that no one is perfect, myself least of all, so anyone who could put up with my past deserves some understanding as he comes to terms with that. I'm a fan of trying.

Or as N always put it, I'm a stayer, not a goer.

So it's Friday, early evening. The Boy is still at work (he works in another city, and spends the weekends at home). Only, because of the rain, it looks like he might not be able to get out of Birmingham. Everyone at his office is telling him the roads are closed. He says.

Right, okay. I'm a little steamed, because he should have left 2 hours earlier, the evening meal's already on the hob, but whatever. He says he'll ring when he's figured out what's happening.

He doesn't ring for a while. Huh. So I ring.

No answer. Well, if he's in the car, maybe he doesn't have the handsfree on. I try again.

It picks up. "Hello?" I say. But, no reply. No reply to me, that is.

Because he's talking to the girl who's now sitting in his passenger seat. I guess he must have sat on the button, or something.

"Oh, little thing. Get in, You really are bust, aren't you?" he says, in the tone of voice that I hear only very rarely these days - the friendly, nice one. She replies in equally affectionate terms. He adjusts her seat. They giggle. He calls her a sweet tiny piece of fluff. She mentions my cat,

my cat,

MY FUCKING CAT,

the cat I never wanted that he bought me as a birthday gift last year, the cat that he looked after while I was on holiday when the paperback of the second book came out, the cat he said was in the care of a lesbian co-worker for two days while he went on a retraining course, THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT MY CAT AND SHE'S MAKING COOING NOISES.

Then he refers to her using a pet name he uses for me.

My heart is... well, you know what, if you've been there you know what my heart was doing. If you don't know no description will suffice apart from to say that the phrase 'gutted' sometimes feels very literal. I screamed his name, over and over, down the phone, hoping they'd hear. It cut off quickly. I rang right back and it went to answerphone.

He rang me back ten mintues later - alone this time. He said it was someone he was giving a lift to. I held out - no it wasn't. His lesbian co-worker? Er, no, clearly not. Sorry, this time the truth and only the truth will do.

The worst part is, the woman who was in the passenger seat is his ex. Not the ex he used to call by the same pet name he called me (ref. Book 2), nor the one he told I was not his girlfriend but some stalker coming after him (also Book 2), nor even the one he was actually staying over with all those times we had arguments in London (Books 1 and 2). No, this was the other hated ex, I think I call her Jo in Book 2 but I can't even remember because that's exactly what she is, a plain nonentity. A barren, middle-aged lackwit. A potato-faced giantess with a back end like two grunting pigs in a poke.

Who was just married two weeks ago.

And given away at the ceremony by my boyfriend.

I'm a stayer, but everyone has a limit, and mine was well and truly passed on Friday. Fucking hell. I have even said to him in the past, I do not object to porn, I do not object to strippers, I even think in a long-term relationship that the occasional visit to a sex worker is infinitely preferable to carrying on an emotional relationship with someone else. But he just doesn't get it. And, it's apparent, he never will.

It's funny, because I actually think everything that's happened has been positive for me. Before I was a call girl, I hated men a lot more. In that work I saw the raw, tender edges of them, and felt something like empathy. Having to negotiate everything that happened after with a partner made me much more sensitive to his view of what was going on. I think learned how to manage my reactions to people, how not to fly off the handle at any little thing. A little perspective. I've changed a lot. And now I see he hasn't changed at all.

Fuck perspective. Some men really are life support systems for their cocks.

So suffice to say it wasn't a great weekend. I screamed a lot. I cried a bit. I rediscovered the joys of drinking spirits at 9am. He gave me a lot of 'I'm sorry but...' which is pretty bad. And 'I can't believe you're throwing it away over something as small as this,' which is the last refuge of a man so damn guilty he can't even be bothered to deny it. And I think to myself, I didn't throw anything away, I'm just carrying the trash to the kerb. His car isn't so big, so his stuff is only 1/3 out.

But the locks have already been changed.