Hello! My name is Sophie and I am a typical London girl. I am between 25 and 35 – 33, to be precise – I am a successful journalist, a dedicated shopper, popular with my friends and – I am single.
Like most of my friends, I have spent the last 15 years studying for an exciting career, partying hard and travelling the world. Now, in my early 30s, I have everything I want. I have a successful career as the journalist I always wanted to be, live in a stylish apartment in glamorous Chelsea; I travel extensively, both for work and – even better – for leisure. I have a large flock of exciting friends, all single, of course. They drag me out into the nightlife, to art exhibitions, to new and en-vogue restaurants… we sup, we dine, we brunch and lunch. In essence: I live the good life!
And yet…
In the small hours, when the hustle and bustle on Kings Road is dying down, when my investment banking and jewellery-designing flatmates have gone to bed, I lie on my designer bed and think. I dream about love…
Last week, I met this guy. We had briefly been introduced at a vernissage that my good friend, James, had hosted in his Battersea gallery. Mark, who, despite his cute Dutch accent and casual designer jeans and T-Shirt, turned out to be a risk data analyst, had not immediately caught my eye. I don’t usually go for blond guys and he was too skinny to be my type. On top, I had promised my flatmate, Kate, not to go down the same path than last week and not to date a finance-man again. What a disaster that had been….
Anyway, Mark had brought me a passion fruit martini (how could he have known that I cannot resist passion fruit martinis?) and we had talked long into the night about abstract art, about remote Caribbean Islands and the beauty of London in spring. By the end of the evening, I had been more than intrigued and when Mark cabbed me home without trying to steal a kiss, I had been excited to give him my number.
He had called a tantalising two days later and invited me out for dinner. After some consideration and a brief double-check with my schedule (of course I hadn’t made any other plans in anticipation of this date, but a girl has her pride) I agreed for him to send a car to pick me up at my house this Friday at 7:30 pm.
I had looked glam! The restaurant had been a cosy Notting Hill Italian, the food and wine had been delicious, the conversation great. Mark had turned out to be funny and intelligent and best of all, he had been a true gentleman. After an amazing evening he had cabbed me home, kissed me passionately and left. Left? Yes, left – with, apparently, no intention of repeating the experience.
This happened a week ago and I haven’t heard a word from him. Why? What has gone wrong? This seemed to be such a good date… Everything was well, wasn’t it? Is it my fault? Or is he just another London city guy, unable to even commit to a second date?
It is quiet on Kings Road, the hustle and bustle of the day has died down, and even the most arduous revellers have finally gone to bed. I’m lying awake and thinking…
By: Sophie
Read more about my – sometimes more, sometimes less successful – dating adventures, meet my good friends Kate, a single jewellery-designer in her late twenties with a knack for hopeless romanticism, James, a gallery owner in his late thirties, who would be the perfect dad despite his futile attempts at dating ‘the right’ women and Andrew and Lara, who have been going out for seven years and who have the most spectacular experience in how to and how not to have a working relationship.
