“I’m sorry you don’t want to continue,” Roger said in his reply. “Let me know, any time, if you’d like to have dinner again. Best, R.” I spoke to a friend about him. She saw his point of view. He’d been badly hurt and was spreading the risk. “American-style dating and seeing several people is exactly what you need,” she said. “Lots of nice dates, lots of nice men and no danger of heartbreak.” I had my own diagnosis of Roger’s easy-come easy-go approach, one that was more straightforward. Roger wasn’t actually attracted to me. He’s a complicated man, but I think it was that simple. Instinct was telling me that it was a hopeless case.
A few days later, I got to the coffee shop to find that Andrew was watching the door. He asked to join me. “I haven’t seen you here for a while,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
I had a physiological reaction to being in his vicinity, one that was unprecedented. My pupils were probably at maximum dilation. I was blushy, stammery, sweaty, an overexcited woman trying to appear calm. We talked about food, the pros and cons of old flats, little-known parts of the city, art, American TV series, and then, becoming overwhelmed, feeling I might have a heart attack, I had to excuse myself and go home.
On Saturday morning, I was reading when Andrew came and sat, temporarily he said, in the next chair (he was parked down the room). We talked about trying and failing to stay off the internet, punctuation and grammar, and about history degrees (he has one). A mother and adorable blond child of about two were sitting on the sofa opposite. The little girl made a grab for my phone and the two of us had a conversation. I had to swap it for her toy one. Negotiations were complex.
When they’d gone, Andrew said “Pretty child.”
“Do you have children?” I asked.
“No,” he said, looking away. Then he said, “Well I must get on. Work to do. Have a good day.” He returned to his table, but only for five minutes, before packing up and leaving. Clearly the query had been a faux pas. But of what order?
On Sunday afternoon, while I was doing some work, I became aware that Andrew was standing in front of me. I was in a quiet corner where there are only two tables and he sat at the other one, unpacking his laptop. He began to chat as he did so, and we got talking and lost track of time. Our laptops sat open and dormant. We had three, four coffees, at intervals, still talking, and then glasses of water, and didn’t stop. I realised afterwards, looking at my watch, amazed, that we’d talked for over three hours. It had seemed like no time at all and like an eternity.
Initially, I’d had the same physical response to him, but after a while I began to relax. This time we talked about ambition and money and fulfilment. We talked about time, and how different it seems at 50, and about infirm parents. We talked about going to live overseas in our old age, enthusing about the Mediterranean way of eating. He said that cooking was his main relaxant at the end of the day, and that he lived alone. He’d never married. I told him a bit about my divorce, and said that I’d been online dating. He said he was trying it too, but with little success so far.
He said he might buy a little house in France, and retire there, and it happened that I knew of one for sale, and he asked if I could send him the link, and gave me his email address. I had his email address now. I looked at my watch and realised the time, and bade him adieu and went home. Still high on the euphoria of communication, of real connection, I thought, this is it – this is the man I’ve waited for and wanted. It’s done. I’ve found him.
The first thing I did when I got back to the flat was email him. “I’m sending this to you before I forget,” I wrote. I attached the link and sent the email without pondering any cunning additions. I wrote it and sent it. Then I replied to Roger, saying I wasn’t suited to dating more than one person at a time, but that I wished him only well.
• Stella Grey is a pseudonym
