The Beginning

After my previous relationship came to an end, I had grieved its loss.

It had been a long, mostly loving and successful relationship, and although its demise had been shaped largely by the complexities and restrictions of Covid-19, six months later, I was no longer mourning what we had lost. What remained was the loneliness.

I was 47, and although I didn’t feel old, I was conscious that time was moving on. I didn’t want to waste any more of it. I was ready to put myself back out there and see whether love might have another chapter in store for me.

I had always been proud of the love and patience I brought to a relationship. I wanted to find someone who was deserving of those things, but I also wanted something for myself: companionship, comfort, security and someone with whom I could genuinely thrive.

I knew it might take some time, so I initially entertained myself with the idea of dating quite liberally. In my imagination, I would meet men of different ages, backgrounds and occupations, perhaps keeping a little black book of possibilities and choosing who to see depending on my mood.

It didn’t take long to discover that this was completely incompatible with who I am.

The moment I’m genuinely interested in someone romantically, I give them my full attention. I don’t have the inclination, or frankly the mental capacity, to divide my time and energy between several people. I can flirt with the idea of being a serial dater, but in reality I am an all-or-nothing kind of woman.

So I downloaded a respected dating app and began the strange process of assessing strangers from photographs and carefully constructed profiles.

I spoke to a few men and met two of them.

Neither experience was particularly pleasant.

In both cases, there was initially some rapport and chemistry, only for things to become awkward and confusing. I remained consistent, while the men seemed to have sudden changes of heart that they weren’t honest enough to communicate. Instead, I was left trying to decipher mixed messages until, eventually, both disappeared.

Ghosting is a peculiar experience. There is no proper rejection to process, no conversation that allows you to understand what happened. You are simply left with the silence and your own imagination to fill it.

I found I was questioning myself.

Perhaps I wasn’t attractive enough. Perhaps I’d said something wrong. Perhaps I had misread the connection entirely.

My confidence took a knock, and I began to wonder whether I could really be bothered with dating at all.

Then I decided to try one more time.

This time, I broadened my search and started closer to home. One evening, quite late, I saved perhaps ten profiles and opened conversations with five of them.

One of those five immediately caught my attention.

He was the youngest and, in my opinion, the best-looking man I had ever approached on a dating app.

His profile contained only a few photographs, but they were quite different from one another, and together they created an impression of someone who might be intellectual, funny and outdoorsy. He appeared to be mixed-race, and there was certainly something about his look that I found very attractive.

As I studied the photographs, I found myself filling in the gaps, imagining the sort of person he might be. I wondered whether he might be interested in yoga and healthy eating, both things I was keen to bring more of into my own life. His profile was funny and intelligent, and I remember thinking that this was someone I could probably have really interesting conversations with.

He was also a property developer.

That was less important to me than the other things I’d noticed, but it was certainly a bonus. After the financial and employment insecurities I’d experienced in my previous relationship, the idea of meeting someone grounded and financially independent was appealing.

And then there was the practical advantage.

He lived less than five miles away.

No more long, nervous journeys to meet someone who might ultimately give me the cold shoulder.

Of all the men I messaged that night, though, he was the one I considered least likely to respond.

In my mind, he was out of my league.

So when I opened the app the following morning and saw that he had replied, I was pleasantly surprised.

His name was Steve. He was 42.

And he hadn’t simply sent a polite response.

He had written me a long, personal message.

It was thoughtful, well written and full of interest and enthusiasm. There was something immediately different about it. On the surface, it felt genuine and promising.

I was still cautious.

My recent experiences had taught me that early attention didn’t necessarily mean anything. I knew how easily charm and enthusiasm could be used to create attraction, and I was wary of men who might say whatever was necessary to get a woman into bed.

So I kept my guard up, but I also kept an open mind.

It was the 23rd of December 2020.

By the end of that day, Steve and I couldn’t stop messaging each other.

The conversation flowed almost effortlessly. We talked about our pasts, our lives as they were, and the things we hoped for in the future. We discovered shared interests and a mutual curiosity about one another. We made each other laugh.

There was an ease to it.

Our intellects seemed to match, and there was just enough flirting to create a spark without either of us feeling uncomfortable. We were curious about each other, but neither seemed in a hurry to force anything.

It was only days before Christmas, and we were both busy with preparations, yet somehow that didn’t stop us.

The messages continued late into the night.

I had no idea then where that conversation would lead.

I simply knew that, after a few disappointing attempts to find someone, I had finally met a man who had made me want to keep talking.

And for the first time in a while, I was excited to see what might happen next.