Caggie Dunlop: Laid in Chelsea

When you meet someone you like, it’s rare that you slip straight into a relationship. There are certain hoops you must jump through; tests you must pass; games you must play. You’ve got to ride the waves of early relationship-dom, first. Tedious, isn’t it?

But we all know that if you eventually manage to sail into that safe harbour known as the “honeymoon period”, all that hoop-jumping was worth it. I know that that sentiment is so schmaltzy you may be reaching for your sick buckets but it’s also true. And the phase often prior to said honeymoon period, “the chase”, is an intrinsic part of the journey there, too.

Personally, I almost prefer the chase to the potential destination. If I’m going to be perfectly honest, it’s more exciting. Well, as long as it eventually goes my way. I can still, vividly, recall a certain occasion when it didn’t …

I had been seeing this guy, fairly casually, for a couple of months, and I was completely besotted with him. Obviously what I really wanted was to sail into honeymoon harbour; in the words of our American cousins, I wanted to “lock this thing down”.

So far, me and this guy — let’s call him Boris (and no, I’m not referring to a certain mayoral candidate) — had agreed that we wouldn’t see other people but we still hadn’t got around to making things quite official. Y’know, the dreaded “Are we boyfriend or girlfriend?” conversation. One evening, over a romantic dinner that he had surprised me with, I hoped we might finally be updating our Facebook relationship status.

As I started to order wine for us both, he stopped me in my tracks. “No, none for me, thanks. I need to be fresh for tomorrow night,” he said. “Oh, okay. Just one for me, then,” I re-informed the waiter, at the same time plastering a false smile across my face. I could already smell the rat.

“So … what are you doing tomorrow night?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Tomorrow night? Oh, I’m just taking someone out for dinner,” he replied, completely non-plussed.

My mind started racing, and that’s not to mention my blood boiling. I tried my best to keep both my thoughts — and emotions — in check. After taking a deep breath, I tried to talk about something, anything, else. But I couldn’t help myself. I. NEEDED. TO. KNOW.

“Who are you going to dinner with?” I squeaked, interrupting Boris mid-sentence. He smirked slightly in response. “My friends are making me take this model out for dinner. She doesn’t know anyone in London — she’s Swedish,” he said, with not a scrap of sensitivity. In fact, he may as well have got out a machine gun and given me two rounds.

Soon afterwards we got the bill and our coats. I bit on my lip as I tried not to cry.

As we parted ways for the night, he pulled me into a casual embrace, as if nothing had even been said. I do not want to share this person, insisted the little voice in my head, as my tears finally broke free. Especially not with some clothes-horse. I knew this was my opportunity to tell him so but I stopped myself. Reality had finally kicked in: did I really want a boyfriend who was happy to smooze some slinky Swede, anyway?