Jonathan and I were supposed to have lunch on Saturday, but he rang to postpone until Sunday and when I asked if it was because he’d had a better offer, he laughed and said I was perspicacious. “Perhaps we’d better wait till Sunday morning to see if you’re still single,” I said, remaining calm. It appeared he was ranking us in order of preference, and I wasn’t his first choice. Boldly, I put this to him (this whole process has made me shoot from the hip, because who has time for games and their players?) and he said it was his mother-in-law’s birthday dinner on Saturday and that he’d forgotten.
Mother-in-law? It transpired he was still married. I told him I didn’t have lunch with married men. He said his wife didn’t live with him any more, and were we having lunch or not? Yes, I said. I think we should have lunch.
Then he said, “What are you wearing? And what kind of underwear are you wearing?”
I told him I didn’t discuss my Marks & Spencer scanties with married men who cancelled lunch dates. He asked what I liked in bed. Cocoa, a Kindle and blissful sleep, I said. He said I shouldn’t be so coy, that it was thrilling to dare to be frank with a stranger.
I said more details of my preferences in all things weren’t available until at least the second date. I was sweating by now, so terrible am I at flirting with total strangers on the phone. (NB, I said to myself: no more cocoa talk. Ever. Kindles are no doubt also the enemy of the orgasm.)
“Question for you,” he said. “Do you really want a man? Do you really want a man in your life? Because I want a woman. I want to cuddle up and spoon a lovely woman in my bed. Is that you, are you that woman?”
“You never know,” I said. “But I’d like to know more about you. What do you do for fun other than spooning; what kind of books and films do you like?” He said that none of these things counted for anything, when it came right down to it, and I said that it was interesting at the least, surely, and began to tell him what I was reading.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said. I told him I’d been to an exhibition and he interrupted with “Arty farty. I’m not into that.”
“So what does interest you?” I asked.
“Meeting you,” he said. Really, this relationship was over already, following a characteristic online-dating arc, beginning and ending only in cyberspace, but I was determined to have the bloody lunch. He said he would book a restaurant for Sunday. He’d choose. I wasn’t allowed to help choose. He sent a text. “I’m hugely excited about meeting you,” it said.
Then a great silence fell. He didn’t reply to my texts or to queries about place and time. Nor did he ring in the evening. Where were we supposed to be meeting on Sunday? Hello? Jonathan? No response.
I texted again. “Is everything OK with you?”
The reply came immediately. “Fine thanks, just busy. Regards, Jonathan.” Regards? Regards, Jonathan?
Just busy is an absolute giveaway. The decision to omit kisses is a big red danger signal. Regards is relationship kryptonite.
Next morning I tried again. “Beautiful day here. How’s your day going?”
Two hours later he texted back. “Am good too. Jonathan.”
Changes in a man’s mode of communicating are not usually accidental. I may have been meant to take the hint, but I blundered on, as is my way. Saturday night, 11pm, and still no date confirmed, I texted: “Are we having lunch tomorrow or not?”
The reply was five words long. “Met someone who can deliver.” Met someone who can deliver? I guessed that our date was off. While I was simmering, another text arrived.
“Sorry for cancelling. I need someone who can make a commitment and you didn’t seem sure.” Seriously? He expected a commitment to the long haul before we’d even met face to face? I sat on my hands and said nothing, and simmered some more. By Tuesday, there he was, back on the dating site. He was trawling for women again. I don’t think the someone who can deliver can have delivered. Or maybe she delivered enough.
• Stella Grey is a pseudonym
