I hired private detectives to spy on my lover when he blew out our date. Then they sent a video from his flat with a bombshell revelation: LIZ JONES

He came to my hotel at 9.30pm. He was impressed by the luxury suite with its huge Christmas tree, copper bath, walk-in minibar.

I noticed he soon nibbled on the KitKats and Pringles, like a mouse. He opened a bottle of wine. We had sex until 1am, then went to sleep. He had to be up for work the next day.

We had morning sex.

He texted me later: ‘Thank you for a wonderful, magical night. I loved being with you. It was a kind of paradise. It does not happen in my world. It’s so special, I am so lucky. Nothing makes me feel valued. You doing this? Sorry, no one does this. I don’t feel I deserve.’

He said he would text every night over Christmas, given his ex-wife and daughter were staying with him. He didn’t. But we had made firm plans for NYE. I’m ironing my bedlinen. Here is my shopping list. I swear on Mini’s life I am repeating it verbatim: steak, eggs, sausages, mushrooms, bread, champagne, smoked salmon, dijon mustard, KitKats, Pringles, N Peal sweater.*

Against my gut instincts, on 30 December I went to Sainsbury’s and spent just over £200. The woman on the till said, ‘He’s coming, then?’ I unloaded the shopping, went upstairs and dyed my hair and eyebrows.

I cleaned the log burner.

At 16.47, I get this. ‘My daughter left sadly yesterday. I am shattered and my body is had it [sic]. Need three days rest.’

I text Nic: ‘He didn’t have the balls to say he’s not coming. Needs three days rest.’

Unfortunately, I send it to him.

I call Nic. How do I unsend it? Help! She tells me to update my software. It takes six minutes!! No, noooooo! He has read it! It’s like an episode of 24. He replies. ‘Ugh. I am not well.’

I tell him I’d bought smoked salmon, he’s obviously not keen, so let’s call it a day. I send him a photo of the inside of my fridge.

He sends this: ‘It keeps. I’m sorry, OK.’

I’ve had enough. Remember Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle? I am she. I hire a private detective agency. They are going to place surveillance on his flat (they send me a photo of the location) tonight, New Year’s Eve, and take photos at the back of the building. I feel I am now in an episode of Black Doves.

It is New Year’s Eve. He sends a stream of texts. ‘You know how special you are. You have always done so much for me. It’s so meaningful. You have been the only kindness in my life. We will be in each other’s lives. Thank you with all my heart.’

Surveillance is outside his flat. At 19.27 I am sent a video.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. A blonde woman rings his doorbell. She waits. He comes down, he greets her, she enters his hallway. I see his body language, the way he takes off his spectacles, his sweater, the angles of him. I can still smell him, see his face above mine as we made love. He takes a box of goodies from her, puffs his cheeks with the effort. She turns and looks back at the camera briefly but has no clue she is being filmed.

I am devastated. It is like an assault. I cannot tell you what I feel. It is in my stomach, as though I have been punched.

I was my very best. I was so generous. I had so much hope in my heart. Why am I not good enough? Why do men do this? Why? Look at her coat. Her hair. New Year’s Eve, for Christ’s sake! My first in my new house. When I thought I was rebuilding my life. He needed three days of rest.

‘We will continue to be in each other’s lives,’ he had texted me at 18.50.

Ten minutes later, at 19.01, he opened that door. To her.

*The only thing I can eat is the bread. Am allergic to mushrooms.

Jones Moans... What Liz loathes this week 

• Why aren’t there more subtitled screenings in cinemas? The Station Cinema in Richmond has no info on its website and when you call, they don’t answer the phone. My local Vue has no subtitled screenings of the new Florence Pugh, yet clear instructions for wheelchair users.