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girlfriend, but I just don’t seem to learn. If I meet a new guy, who is reticent when questioned about his romantic status, I never assume he’s married with two kids. Instead, I have a tendency to construct an elaborate excuse for his monosyllabic responses and his reluctance to give me a landline number. I mean, it
is
perfectly possible that he’s grieving for a tragic lost love; maybe his last girlfriend died, or maybe he’s never dated because he’s been nursing his terminally ill relative, or maybe he loved his last woman dearly but she turned lesbian … You do hear of such things. Maybe not often, but there’s a shopping list of reasons why a man might be reticent.
    I suppose I am inclined to spend a great deal of time and energy imagining how I might save him, how I – and I alone – could draw him back into the land of the living, fill his world with love once again, a love that would be better, deeper, more meaningful than anything else he’s ever encountered. I don’t believe I’m the only one who does this.
    I always start with sex.
    It’s an odd thing to admit to, but I think I’m pretty safe in saying I’m good at sex (lots and lots of men have given me the thumbs-up; well, not thumbs exactly, but you know what I mean). And men like sex, so sex seems an ideal place to start. Experience never seems to teach me that relationships that start with sex usually stay with sex.
    Martin was different. He isn’t a bold and bad man. He is a steady and solid man. I dated him for four years; it was a proper courtship (to use my mother’s term). We took things slowly. We were really happy in the beginning, or at least content. There’s nothing wrong with Martin, and that alone sets him apart from my other exes. Martin is handsome (my mother was always saying as much, although my personal preference is dark hair and light eyes and Martin has blond hair and brown eyes). Unlike many of my other boyfriends, before and since, he had a good job; in fact during the time that we dated, he shot up the career ladder. He was promoted from analyst, to manager, to senior manager in the management consultancy firm he worked for. Lisa was always telling me that it was unreasonable to resent the long hours he worked and the way he appeared to always put his work ahead of his relationship. Of course the marrying kind often do that; they know the importance of being successful and creating financial security. I just wished that sometimes he’d get home when he said he would, that he’d take a day off work on my birthday or that he’d simply turn off the damned mobile phone when we were in bed.
    Still, everything was on track. After dating for two years, we moved in with one another; after a year of living together, on my twenty-ninth birthday, Martin proposed and I accepted. Our plan was to get married on my thirtieth birthday. Well, the day before actually, so then I could say that technically I’d married in my twenties. We went at the wedding planning full speed ahead; me, Martin, my mother and my entire office. It was going to be a fabulous event, one with white doves, chocolate fountains and ice sculptures. I thought I had everything I’d ever wanted, until one day I realised I wasn’t in love with him.
    I loved him.
    Probably.
    I
certainly
liked him. But he didn’t make my heart (or any part of my anatomy) leap. The realisation came to me during my final dress fitting, just two weeks before the big day. Timing has never been my strong point.
    But now,
now
I’m considering the fact that maybe I got it all wrong. Those four years that we were together were important, defining years. When I stepped into the relationship, I’d been a carefree twenty-something; by the time I returned the unwanted wedding gifts I noticed that practically everyone I knew had married and started families. Not to mention the years since. Where has the time