A quick guide to ... how to get your man back

Life is short.

No time to be wasted in fear of rejection.

One cold late evening, repeating this mantra maniacally, I make a decision to win Andy back.

Or at least to give it a try.

To call or to text?

Lying in bed burning (regardless of the white storm outside), with only a small bedside light on, I decide on text - to test the water.

‘Hi Andy.

Happy New Year.

Hope the new job is working out well for you.

All the best. M.’

If this doesn’t work, I have no Plan B, but my feminine intuition tells me that the text is neutral enough; not demanding nor needy. No pressure applied - focussed totally on him.

A day later I receive a reply, and smile to myself with (deserved) satisfaction.

‘Happy New Year.

Hope you enjoyed NYE.

Will catch up with you and Ella soon. Andy.’

Will catch up soon! Wow, that so lovely...

But, hold on, is he suggesting meeting with me AND Ella? What’s that supposed to mean? I panic silently, biting small bit of hardened skin, on the side of my index finger.

There must be something I could do to HINT he should meet me ALONE. There is only one option that would GUARANTEE us to meet without my dear friend and it would sound like this:

‘Ella is dead.

Would you like to meet for coffee or perhaps a glass of wine next week?’

It would be hard to believe, but I’m sure things like this happen all the time; young (well, in her early thirties) but suddenly not with us anymore. A terrible loss.

Accidents also happen… I reassure myself.

All I need now is to ask Ella for permission. That’s just plain politeness. I plan to drop it in subtly, at the dinner we are having tomorrow.

7.10pm Sunday, pub on Columbia Road in East London

Sitting with Ella at the bar; facing the entrance and playing with my desert. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything - our conversation has died (!); I’m staring at my plate, patiently picking raisons from my cheesecake. Not a fan of raisons. I now start piling them up methodically on one side of the plate.

It’s Sunday evening so the place is not as busy as usual; soft candle light sets the mood for what I’m about to drop. I am ready to ask if Ella would kindly consider pretending to be dead. For love. And my future children.

Looking straight up from the plate, I come eye to eye with a handsome face, gazing from behind Ella’s shoulder. God, it’s Alex Turner, AND he’s looking directly at me! (my friend was right – this place is a hidden celebrity hang out).

I try gently kicking Ella’s ankle to let her know I have an attention of the leader of Arctic Monkeys. She frowns, looks at me with annoyance, and asks ‘You alright?’ The signer casually glances at my plate, at what now resembles rabbit droppings, and then walks away. I turn to Ella utterly flushed, and passionately describe the magical incident (minus the plate moment), but in reply, she lets out one of her hyena laughs, and tells me to look behind.

And there it is – Today’s Specials - on the black board, just behind my head. I sigh and follow the musician, with a look of a wounded gazelle, to the table, where Alexa Chang awaits him with a striking long neck, and astoundingly glorious smile.

‘I need to ask you a favour Ella’, I start gloomily, trying to use temporarily gained sympathy ‘Andy texted me with New Year wishes, and…’

‘I know’ she interrupts, ‘He mentioned it when he called to ask me out to dinner this Friday’ she continues with pretended sheepishness, ‘I wanted to ask if you were OK with it first, before I committed to anything’.

My fork drops loudly, destroying the neat heap of raison dung. I stare hopelessly at the golden couple of Alexes, shamelessly smooching away, and pretending to be just ordinary people, hanging around East End.