Markers of modern etiquette: one-line responses to 25-line messages are a sign that a chap’s interest in you is wavering. Longwinded emails explaining that he’s too busy to reply to your email may indicate that the relationship is dead.
I knew that, but I couldn’t let the Peter episode go, partly because of a profound sense of failure. There were things that had to be said, and I said them, in eloquent emails that were deleted unsent. There wasn’t any point bringing something that might not be absolutely over to a definitive end. (Yes, basically a hopeless case. I’m aware that I’m not always going to come over well in these bulletins, and this is developing into a humdinger of an example.)
Stressed by a peculiar sense of injustice, I went to stay with my mother. Bored on the long train journey, I decided to initiate a text Q&A. Two weeks ago, Peter had been mad for a bit of whimsical Q&A. I started with “So when did you last eat cheese?”
I admit I felt a little unwell. I was exhibiting signs of being just the kind of woman they’re talking about, when men on dating sites say, “No stalkers or bunny boilers.” Peter didn’t reply, so I texted again, saying I was on a train and bored, and off to see my mum. His response was, “Have a great trip.”
I texted straight back. “Are you OK, is everything OK?”
The phone buzzed a minute later. “Lot of work to do and things on my mind. Talk to you when you get back.”
I couldn’t leave it that long, the not knowing. We had to have a straightforward conversation. But I couldn’t ask the question I wanted to, “Is it over, our thing?” Instead, I texted again. “Do you like trains and long train journeys?” He didn’t answer. Forty minutes later, a long, long email about his work travails and tiredness and low mood arrived instead. I’m sorry, he said at the end. So that seemed to be that. I felt a kind of relief. It was over, whatever it was. It wasn’t going to drag and dribble on, at least, and there’s a lot to be said for that.
But – I couldn’t help obsessing over this – what was it, the reason it failed? We’d had a connection and something had happened to it. It had died. Was it my fault? I wasn’t going to take responsibility for the madness, the 20m emails, each growing more intimate and rhapsodic, that had preceded the date, because that was mutual craziness. But I had the unsettling feeling that somehow I was blamed, for bewitching him and then letting him down. For not being pretty, perhaps, or slender, or charming enough, or young for my age, or fascinating. Since meeting me, his sense of letdown has been almost palpable.
My poor mother suffered three days of dealing with a lunatic oriented completely towards her phone. I said I seemed to have developed an addictive personality and alarmed her. “Not drugs, surely not drugs,” she said. “Please tell me it isn’t drugs.”
“It isn’t drugs,” I soothed her. “I have no interest in drugs, honestly, other than cabernet sauvignon.”
Cabernet sauvignon, or at least the second bottle, was a really bad idea. Late that night, I wrote a heartfelt email, full of reckless honesty, went to sleep happy and woke up shrieking. My mother rushed in because I was shouting. “No, no, no, dear God please no!”
And yes, it was as bad as I feared – not only needy but borderline unhinged. So I sent a second email, which said, “Please digitally tear up last night’s drunken ramblings. Like you, I seem to be at a low ebb. It will pass. It’d be nice to see you again, if you’re ever back here. Meanwhile, I wish you all good things.”
He replied saying he’d been tired and overwhelmed with work, and that’s why he’d been so humourless, and he was sorry. Immediately following this, we talked on the phone, about anything and everything, but not about recent weirdness. Then he sent me a text: “When we said goodbye just now, I felt like I’d been ripped from your side.”
Not really sure what to do next, or whether dignity can allow me to persevere with this.
• Stella Grey is a pseudonym
