For reasons as peculiar as the moon rising from the wrong side of the Thames, many English women seem to decide that after turning fortyperhaps with one or two divorces folded in like an extra napkin at a pub lunchthey are meant to place a full stop at the end of their story. I find myself living in that same chapter. Ive been married twice. The first, in the long-lost mist of my youth, brought me a daughter. The second marriage, at thirty, flickered out before its second birthday too. There always seemed to be something subtly wrong, as if the men were tea left too long to steepbitter, unreadable.
Of course, between then and now, I wasnt exactly a recluse on some windswept moorI had my share of men, though none carried me down the aisle again. Now, here I am at forty-five, stubbornly believing in happiness and the curious hope that my soulmate could still be somewhere, perhaps lingering at a country railway platform, or tucked behind the hedges of the world. To keep it briefand dream logic rarely isabout a month ago I bumped into a man. His name was Mark, nearly fifty and pleasant enough in a haphazard, British way. I was gliding through Hyde Park in my usual elegant, polished manner, and thought Id treat myself to a coffee by the duck pond.
Thats when Mark appeared, as if summoned by some unseen playwright. He wandered over, eager for an introduction. Not quite the dashing hero from a Brontë tale, but neat and certainly more tidy than most. He bought me another coffee and we sat, chattinghalf strangers and half conspirators. Naturally, I asked him straightaway if he had a wife or someone waiting for him at home. His reply danced around the edges, like morning fog on a cricket pitch. Clearly, there was someone. Nonetheless, motivated by some afternoon strangeness, I invited him back to mine for a proper cup of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge Id baked the day before. Yes, you might think me quite mad, inviting a stranger into my home, but we were in public view, nodding to familiar faces, and Mark had all the menace of a confused sheepdog.
At my flat, we stepped through the narrow hallway; Mark took in his surroundings with a bemused smirk.
Blimey, youve got a flat bigger than Buckingham Palace, but it looks as if the decorators last paid a visit when Tony Blair was in No 10.
I smiled like the Mona Lisa, baffled but calm. Truth be told, Id last painted ten years ago. But the place has charm. Why spend pounds repainting the walls or buffing the ceilings, when I could invest in myself instead? Surely thats the sensible approach?
I brought Mark tea and served cake on blue-and-white china. As we sipped and nibbled, he found new reasons to grumble about my sofa and faded wallpaper. So I said, plainly, What difference does it make? Why not invite me to your place, then? Suddenly, Mark was struck dumb, as if hed swallowed a Thesaurus sideways. The evening fizzled out; he left, promising to ring in a weeks time.
A week went by and not a peepno calls, not even a text. Then, just as Saturday shaded into Sunday, he messaged to say he was on his way over. I replied, saying, Finebut youll need to help me with the wallpapering if youre coming round. Mark immediately recalled some urgent business hed misplaced and promised to reach out next weekthough I doubt Ill ever hear from him again. Most likely, hes married, simply hunting for a secondhand fantasy with a well-off woman. Not meIm hardly the sort for that role.
It doesnt trouble me, truly. What matters is I recognised the only thing we truly shared was a curious companionship, as shapeless as clouds over Hampstead Heath. I remain certain that love is still out there, yawning quietly on some forgotten bench, waiting for me. So heres my advice to other women: if a man cant lift a finger for you, why on earth would you want him around? Let the dream carry you onwards.
