After my first night with the German, I texted him and said he is the first man I respect enough not to write about. That being in the media is ‘hellish’, has made me a pariah. He replied he doesn’t care. He knows I won’t hurt him.
Then he ghosted me for a week, and I was wailing that he must have read stuff online and backed off screaming. So I wrote about our first meeting. Our week of frantic texting. And then he explained his silence (nothing to do with me, so I started to think, well, ‘Phew. He’s too busy to read the papers!’). I asked if he was going to come the following weekend and he said, ‘I’m hoping.’ To which I replied, ‘Hope more!’ I was only insistent as my wax/threading/hair colour goes off by day ten. Then, on Saturday, he texted to say he was on his way to King’s Cross. He would be with me at 5pm.
Oh my god! I had pictured picking him up, showing him round my house, but never believed it would happen. I drew a little map of the…