I have somehow managed to muster up enough strength to write this blog entry. My head is pounding. My nose is raw. Every bone in my body aches. I still feel as though I’m dying, but it isn’t quite as horrendous as yesterday, when even lifting my phone felt like running a marathon. After a full day in bed, this Mayfair escort is now dosed up with Day Nurse, tangled in the sheets, and watching abysmal daytime television designed to rot the brain.
Cancelled Plans and Self-Pity
The morning began with a dilemma: I had to cancel Jed. The idea of putting on makeup, squeezing into lingerie, and trekking across London while my body felt like it was on fire was laughable. So I did the only sensible thing. I phoned, croaked my apologies, and explained that the glamorous creature he usually sees had been temporarily replaced by a sweaty, sniffling goblin in an ancient nightie.
After the call, I flopped back into bed and didn’t move for another hour. My muscles throbbed. My throat burned. A heavy, sticky tiredness pinned me to the mattress. Only when a raging thirst hit me did I finally surrender and peel myself off the bed. My mouth felt like sandpaper. I shuffled around the flat in slow motion, clutching my water glass like life support.
At least my mobile was within arm’s reach on the bedside table, so I could still cling to the outside world. Between sips of water and coughing fits, I sent a stream of pitiful emails and texts about my ailments. I was determined to keep everyone updated on The Cold From Hell. There is something oddly satisfying about sharing one’s misery in real time.
Jed’s Message from Kensington
Then, suddenly, I cracked a smile. It began as the faintest twitch at the corner of my mouth and turned into a full-blown, thousand–megawatt grin. A message had popped up from Jed, typed from his sleek penthouse:
“You poor, poor darling. I am sending my P.A. over with a package to make you feel a million times better. I hope you’re well enough to play games with me again soon. I’ve got a sweaty session in Chelsea booked for us, followed by dinner in Hampstead. J xxx”
Even through the fog of illness, that made my heart flutter. Trust Jed to turn a cold into an occasion.
I texted back to say I was at home in bed, hovering somewhere between the land of the living and the land of the dead. I asked him to tell his P.A. to let my doorman know she had a special delivery. I’d already buzzed down earlier to warn him that I was ill and not to be disturbed, except by food deliveries and emergency pharmaceuticals.
The Arrival of Gina and the Box
True to Jed’s word, within two hours my buzzer went off. I peeled myself off the bed again, wrapped my silk kimono over my greying, vaguely tragic nightie, and padded to the front door, shivering as I went.
Gina, his P.A., bounded up the stairs in four-inch Manolos as if she were on a runway, not a staircase. I had to admire it. I could barely stay upright in slippers, and there she was, all glossy hair and long legs, clacking effortlessly up the steps.
She handed me a large, beautifully wrapped box tied with a ribbon that looked almost too pretty to open. We exchanged the usual air-kisses, careful to avoid my germs. In a swirl of Chanel perfume, flicked hair, and a mist of hairspray, she was gone again, vanishing down the stairs as quickly as she’d appeared.
I kicked the door shut with the little energy I had left and staggered back to my bedroom, the box cradled in my arms like treasure. Once safely back in my sick bed, I placed it beside me and took a moment to admire it. The box was from Selfridges, that glorious temple of temptation, tied with a pale pink bow and smelling faintly of newness.
Tucked between crisp sheets of tissue paper was a small gift card. It read:
“Wishing you a swift recovery with these XXX.”
I could almost hear his voice as I read it. Then I started to explore.
The Perfect Sick-Day Survival Kit
Bless him, he had thought of everything. Inside the box was a perfectly curated survival kit for one very poorly Mayfair girl. First, a bottle of Lucozade – that classic childhood cure-all, the thing your mother buys when she has run out of ideas but still wants to feel useful. Then, a 24-pack of Sudafed, clearly meant to blast my sinuses back into submission.
There were fluffy socks, thick and absurdly soft, the kind that make you feel as if you’re being hugged from the ankles up. A bar of Green & Black’s peppermint chocolate lay beside them, dark and glossy, promising cool, minty comfort for my beleaguered taste buds.
He’d added ultra-balm tissues, a detail that almost made me cry. My nose had gone beyond red and was fast approaching the painful, chapped stage. The idea of something gentle felt like a small miracle. Then there was a bottle of Jo Malone Blue Agava & Cacao bath oil, sophisticated and decadent, as if he assumed I could manage to stand long enough for a luxurious, steamy soak.
And then, the pièce de résistance: a Missoni onesie.
The Missoni Onesie Miracle
I stared at it in delighted disbelief. It was made from the softest fleece imaginable, striped in unmistakable Missoni rainbow hues. Cheerful. Outrageous. Perfect. The zip ran from crotch to throat, so not a whisper of draught could sneak in. It even had a hood. A proper, snuggly hood, ready to swaddle my head in warmth and questionable fashion choices.
It was truly perfect. Impractical, dramatic, over the top – and exactly what I needed. Bless his heart. The man knows where and how to shop, and more importantly, he knows how to look after his favourite invalid.
I slipped into the onesie with reverence, sliding my chilled limbs into the fleecy cocoon. I felt instantly more human. Wrapped up like a technicolour caterpillar, I munched the chocolate, popped the Sudafed, sipped my Lucozade, and dabbed my sore nose with those miraculous tissues. I mentally planned a future bath steeped in Jo Malone.
Feverish Cocoon and Weekend Hopes
Lying there, completely cosseted by my survival kit, I wondered if I’d missed a trick by not playing the “ill” card with Jed sooner. Perhaps this is what happens when you finally admit defeat: you get pharmaceuticals, luxury bath oil, designer loungewear, and full permission to binge-watch terrible television.
I dozed, drifting in and out of sleep through day two of The Cold From Hell. My life was temporarily on pause. My phone buzzed now, and then with well-wishes and client enquiries I couldn’t face.
Outside, London carried on as usual. Inside, I was in my own feverish cocoon, swaddled in stripes and spoiling.
Here’s hoping these get-well-soon vibes work their magic in time for the weekend. I fully intend to emerge from this onesie, resurrected and ready for Chelsea sweats and Hampstead dinners once more.
