Roger, it turns out, isn’t the kind of man who communicates much, other than for facts and necessary words, digitally, in between meetings. He’s not a telephoner. He doesn’t text other than to say “I can’t do Sunday after all; could we make it Monday?” That kind of thing; the essential. He doesn’t do Facebook or Twitter, or even email unless it’s for work. He doesn’t do additional, supplementary romance via typed words. This takes some adjustment in the online dating environment. It isn’t the norm and wasn’t what I was used to.
So yes, he had to postpone Sunday to Monday, and it was done without fuss. I took Monday off and suggested lunch, and he said that was ideal, but then he had to squeeze in work on a project that was going pear-shaped; he’d had to step in. Could it be dinner after all? He should be finished by 4pm. At that time, armed with his address, I happened to cycle past his house, being very subtle indeed about slowing my pedalling to squint through his windows. I stopped at the corner and texted to say that I was on my bike and not far away from him, and happened to have cake. Should I pop by?
You see, I had this irrational conviction that Roger was married, and dating on the sly, for whatever reason. I can’t explain it. But he wouldn’t have been the first married man who’d claimed to be newly single (so new that his wife hadn’t yet been informed), going to his shed to write his dating site messages on his phone. “Can’t,” Roger replied. “Sorry – work has overrun, but am stopping at 7pm no matter what.”
At 8pm, we met at a different restaurant, for a different sort of a dinner. This was more of a fish knife and starched napkin sort of place. His treat, he insisted. I could get the next one. We chatted perfectly amicably, over three delicious courses and two bottles of wine. Warned it was fairly formal, I was wearing a cleavage-enhancing black frock. He was in the same black jacket and jeans as before, with a silky blue shirt open at the collar. I was so attracted to him that I could hear my heart thumping. When our eyes met, I felt physically revved up. I was having trouble being calm, and consequently gabbled girlishly, and apologised, and he said that no, on the contrary, he loved a woman with stories to tell.
He said he wouldn’t invite me back for coffee this time, as his son was at home with his friends, using the sitting room for computer games. Next time, he said. He put one hand to the small of my back and went to kiss me on the cheek, and I took his face into my hands and kissed him on the mouth. I asked him what he was doing tomorrow. At this point, I felt I needed to combat his natural diffidence with unambiguous interest. Some people need that, after all. He had to go to a concert tomorrow, he said, in fact more of a gig, that his son was a part of. Maybe I could come with you, I said. Hey, that’d be nice, he said. It’s boring having to go alone.
So we went to the gig together. It only occurred to me when I met him outside that his wife might be there, but he said not. She’d moved away; she was already living with someone else. We retreated to the bar afterwards, and he asked me what I’d like, standing very close to me, looking soulfully – slightly amused, perhaps – into my eyes. I said that what I’d like was to be kissing somewhere other than here, and he laughed and said he had to be up early tomorrow, alas.
Later, at home in bed, I counted all the ways in which I seemed to be doing all the work. I was doing most of the inviting and all of the flirting, and he was being charmingly lovely about all of it, while at the same giving the impression that he could take me or leave me. Perhaps, inescapably, my role was to be good enough company until a swishy-haired goddess came along. I told my friend Jack that I thought perhaps I’d overdone it, that Roger might be fastidious about taking the lead. I might have spoiled things. I told him I was going to cool down and wait to be contacted. He approved. “Though when men really want something or someone, they’re pretty resilient,” he said.
• Stella Grey is a pseudonym
