Laid in Chelsea

Recently, I’ve been seeing a man who was practically perfect. Talented, charming, intelligent and handsome. I felt — I imagine — like Marilyn Monroe must have during the early stages of her romance with Arthur Miller: a bubbling blonde in awe of her sophisticated catch.

Our courtship was all glitz and glamour. Dinners at Blakes, Cipriani or Mark’s Club, evening strolls through Hyde Park, and impassioned discussions over champagne, which strayed onto the subject of our future. (In my mind, following fairytale nuptials we would move into a castle and live happily ever after.)

As I said, he was practically perfect… except for one trait: he would not sleep with me after sex. And by that I mean he wouldn’t — in fact, he refused — to share a bed with me.

He kept a single bed (to make sure that no girl tried to bunk up) and when I first started staying over he would disappear downstairs afterwards, leaving me to sleep in his adolescent boy bed alone.

As he got more comfortable (which I really wish he hadn’t), he didn’t even pretend my post-coital presence was welcome and would quickly send me home. He needed his “precious sleep”, apparently, and I was “a distraction”.

Now ladies will agree, and probably gentlemen too, that this is really quite insulting. One of the loveliest things about a relationship is having company in bed. But apparently he felt “too self- conscious” in front of me to sleep. Right. What on earth was he planning on doing in his sleep?

Always up for a challenge, I have to admit that at first I saw this as an obstacle to overcome. After all, other than his bed etiquette, he was practically perfect. Perhaps it was just a quirk? Perhaps he had intimacy issues? Perhaps (dear God) he was a snorer? As always when it comes to playing hard to get during dating, it proved only to pique my interest.

One idle Tuesday he invited me to go to Moscow with him, which he was visiting for work. We flew first class, enjoyed caviar and vodka on our arrival at the Ritz, before he checked us in. To separate rooms. Essentially, he made me feel like a Slavic escort.

Seriously. I know he might just not sleep well with a bedfellow, but it’s hardly like he was sharing with Stalin.

When we flew home the following afternoon I called it a day. (In my fairytale, the castle came equipped with a happily co-habited four-poster.)