It’s now spring 2021, and Stephen still has the bedsit.
He’s receiving help from government agencies to find employment when an unexpected opportunity comes his way: a role working for the same government department that has been helping him find work.
I’m immediately excited.
I can see Stephen being brilliant at it.
He’s fantastic with people, loves conversation and has a natural ability to engage with people from all walks of life. He’s also compassionate towards those who find themselves on the fringes of society, so the work seems particularly well suited to him.
The salary isn’t to be sniffed at either.
By this point, I’ve already started thinking more seriously about our financial future.
I’ve been crunching numbers, looking at my own income and savings and considering what I might be able to put away over the coming year. I tell Stephen that I feel inspired to start saving to give us the best possible start.
A decent income for Stephen makes those plans suddenly feel much more achievable.
We could both save.
We could make plans.
Perhaps some of those dreams we’ve spent the past few months talking about might actually begin taking shape.
Stephen is remarkably confident about his chances.
He tells me that he has to be careful which jobs he applies for because, once he reaches the interview stage, he tends to get them.
I’m impressed.
And remarkably confident too.
This feels like a slam dunk.
Stephen prepares thoroughly for the interview.
Then, when it’s time, he throws on a wonderfully creased seventies shirt as though ironing it would somehow destroy its character.
I look at him and think:
My boyfriend is so cool.
The interview goes well.
And after several more stages, including identity checks and the usual administrative hoops, Stephen gets the news.
He’s got the job.
We’re ecstatic.
I’m enormously proud of him.
But getting the job also means something else.
For months, I’ve been clear that Stephen can’t simply move into my house while he isn’t working.
Now that obstacle has disappeared.
But despite how much we both want to live together, we don’t simply throw his belongings into the car and hope for the best.
We talk about it.
A lot.
In fact, even before Stephen gets the job, we’ve begun discussing what living together might actually look like.
I’ve spoken to my sons about household contributions and worked out what seems fair while they are still living at home. Stephen and I talk about money too.
We talk about whether it might actually be more convenient for him to remain at the bedsit once he starts work.
Neither of us particularly likes that idea.
Then, once the job becomes real, the conversations become more serious.
Stephen is worried about how many things in his life are changing at once.
A new relationship.
A new job.
A new routine.
Living with me.
Continuing to be there for his family.
He tells me he finds it easier to focus on one thing at a time and worries that if he tries to adapt to everything simultaneously, something might slip.
I understand his concern.
And I have one of my own.
“I think we have to take this more seriously than we have,” I tell him. “Really strategise to get this right.”
The last thing I want is for all these changes to damage our relationship.
Stephen agrees.
He tells me that the part he absolutely doesn’t want to slip is us.
For a while, we consider two possibilities.
Perhaps Stephen should stay at the bedsit, start the job and establish his new working routine before moving in with me.
There is a certain logic to that.
But there is another problem.
Stephen doesn’t cope particularly well with being apart from me.
He struggles to sleep alone. He finds the bedsit isolating. He tells me that being with me seems to make everything else in his life easier and more achievable.
I worry about him trying to begin a demanding new job while simultaneously waking up alone and returning each evening to an empty bedsit.
Stephen worries about it too.
At one point, he tells me that although the job is important and a wonderful opportunity, he would rather the job failed than us.
There will always be other jobs, he says.
But you and me?
“We are a one off.”
I don’t want either to fail.
“We can have both,” I tell him.
We just need to be clever about it.
Eventually, a plan begins to emerge.
Stephen’s new job will start with several weeks of training, much of it from home.
Perhaps that gives us the perfect transition.
He can move in before the job begins.
Then, during those first weeks of training, we can concentrate on establishing our own domestic rhythm before his full working routine takes over.
What time do we go to bed?
When do we shower?
Who cooks dinner?
When do we shop?
How do we make space for ourselves, my sons, his sons, work and everything else our lives contain?
Nothing particularly romantic.
Just the ordinary mechanics of sharing a life.
“So, move in, then use six weeks to plan OUR routine?” Stephen asks.
“Six weeks just to find our groove…”
“That sounds like Home.”
And it does.
Finally, after months of snatched evenings, late nights, the bedsit, his father’s house and constantly travelling backwards and forwards, we’re going to live together.
We’ll go to bed together every night.
We’ll wake up together every morning.
It feels like something we’ve been waiting for since we met.
At the beginning of June 2021, I start preparing my bedroom.
I move the bed slightly to give Stephen more room on his side. I empty a bedside table and a chest of drawers for him. I clear an entire rail in my wardrobe for his clothes.
These seem like mundane little things, but they feel significant to me.
I haven’t shared my space with a man for a very long time.
My bedroom is my sanctuary. I’m proud of it. I’ve deliberately made it beautiful, comfortable and organised, with everything where it’s supposed to be because that makes my life feel calmer.
There is a little trepidation about giving some of that up.
What will it feel like having somebody else’s belongings everywhere?
Will he be tidy?
Will I still have enough space?
But those concerns are tiny compared with my excitement.
I love this man.
Of course I’m willing to compromise to have more of him in my life.
Stephen ties things up at the bedsit and we begin moving his belongings into my house.
I find myself imagining the ordinary life we’re about to have.
We’ll both be busy during the day.
We’ll come home from work.
We’ll have dinner together.
We’ll talk about our days, listen to music, watch something, relax and eventually climb into bed together.
Ordinary couple things.
After such an unconventional beginning, I can’t wait for us to finally experience what being a “real” couple feels like.
And underneath all that excitement is something else.
A sense that we’re doing this properly.
We haven’t simply decided that love will somehow take care of everything.
We’ve talked about money.
We’ve talked about contributions.
We’ve talked about work.
We’ve talked about routine.
We’ve talked about the pressures Stephen might face and how we can protect our relationship from them.
We are actively trying to build something sustainable.
And our physical relationship is extraordinary.
Stephen tells me repeatedly that it is the best and most comfortable sexual relationship he’s ever experienced. We’re so enthusiastic that my sons inform us during a house meeting, to our considerable embarrassment, that we’re being far too loud.
Our intimacy is playful, passionate and completely natural.
Most importantly for me, Stephen never hides his desire for me.
He makes me feel sexy.
At the time, I’m carrying about a stone more than I would have liked, but Stephen doesn’t seem remotely concerned. In fact, he once suggests that I could afford to put on a little more weight.
That surprises me.
Then I remember what he’s told me about the women he’s loved before and conclude that perhaps he simply prefers bigger women.
I think that’s wonderful.
Here is a man who seems genuinely unconcerned with conventional ideas about what a woman’s body is supposed to look like.
It’s another quality I admire about him.
Everything seems to be moving in the right direction.
Stephen has a good job to begin.
I’m thinking about savings and our financial future.
We’ve thought carefully about how to combine our lives rather than simply assuming it will work.
We’re deeply in love.
We desire each other.
We talk about marriage.
We talk about our future.
And now, finally, we’re going to share a home.
I don’t feel as though I’m taking a reckless chance on Stephen.
Quite the opposite.
I feel as though we’ve considered the risks and made a plan.
We’re not simply hoping that living together will work.
We’re going to make it work.
Six weeks to find our groove.
That sounds like home.
