Brixton Man: the back story

There's a column in the Family section of the Saturday Guardian with the title 'A letter to ... ' which I absolutely love. It's written by readers, often anonymously, and almost always makes me cry. Most letters are about love and loss - written by mothers to disappeared sons, unloved daughters to unloving fathers, and so on - though occasionally there are contributions which are hilariously funny, too.

When I first met Brixton Man, almost two years ago, I wrote a letter to him. Not with the intention of ever sending it to him, or to The Guardian, of course. Rather, I wrote it in an attempt to clarify my thoughts, to give voice to my fears.

I called it 'A Letter to a Prospective Lover' ... but really, it was just a letter to myself.

This is what I wrote:

"We met recently on a blind date. My first ever blind date. I was absolutely petrified, waiting for you near Putney Bridge. I've been on my own for a while now. You, never married, single for some time, confided to a mutual friend that you were lonely. She gave you my mobile no. (after asking me first) because she thought we'd get along ... and a few days later, you rang. I wasn't sure that you would but I was ridiculously pleased when you did.

You sounded friendly: very cheerful and upbeat and possibly a bit posh. In my mind's eye, I pictured someone small and soft and jolly, with a foppish fringe and delicate hands. I imagined you'd been educated at some fancy public school. I felt slightly hesitant. But when we finally met up (after weeks of missed calls and voice mail messages) you were, to my enormous relief, the polar opposite. You were, basically, a builder - although you preferred calling yourself a 'property developer' which I found rather endearing.

I liked you immediately. You were funny and confident and seemed so comfortable in your own skin. Unconventional. Bald, but wonderfully so. You arrived on a motorbike. You wore a
necklace that could only have come from Africa. You were so very different from my Ex-Husband. You told a hilarious story about an under-rehearsed magician who you'd seen the
previous evening and I loved the way you leaped up to illustrate your point. You didn't take yourself too seriously. I thought you were interesting. You made me feel interesting, too.

And so we saw each other again a few weeks later, after you'd been to Spain and back, rock-climbing. A lovely, lazy picnic in Kew Gardens, after weeks of rain. I was touched by the effort you'd made: excellent wine, picnic rug, bats and ball, delicious food (so much of it!) and a truly terrific homemade salad dressing. We talked about our mums (how yours had died too suddenly after a catastrophic stroke, how mine had died too slowly of ovarian cancer, how both had been far too young to die). I got a bit tearful and knocked over my glass of wine. You then told a funny story about a lost rugby game and you made me laugh.

I think we were flirting but I'm so out of practice I couldn't be sure. You took your shirt off in the heat (I was genuinely touched by how you asked first. What would you have done if I'd said 'no'?) and I felt giddy at the sight of you. You have a beautiful body: tanned and hard. I like your shoulders. And your hands. Proper hands. Builder's hands. Rock-climber's hands. I've been thinking about them a lot.

We had fun that day but we never kissed. We still haven't ... though I've seen you once more since then and I've decided that I would like to.

The truth is, I have decided that I would most definitely like to make love with you ... but I'm genuinely terrified at the prospect of being with someone new. My body has carried and born two children and I have the scars and stretch-marks to prove it. The very thought of being naked and vulnerable with you makes me feel faint. Your body is beautiful and hard. Mine is most definitely neither. I now totally regret cancelling my gym membership.

What if we did decide to get naked? What if I start laughing hysterically? Even worse: what if you do?

After my marriage ended, my heart was shattered - and my confidence equally so. I really expected to be married forever but after years of bitter silence and not nearly enough love, I decided it had to end. It was, without doubt, the hardest decision that I have ever made. And I would have made it sooner, were it not for my two gorgeous girls. In the end, I couldn't bear feeling so isolated, so unloved, for one minute more. A beloved friend suggested that I make a list (reasons to stay vs reasons to go) and I couldn't think of a single reason why I should stay.
Worst of all, I realised that my unhappiness was starting to affect my children. That's really what decided it for me. I woke up one morning (after then-Husband had failed to return home for the night, yet again) and I realised that enduring an unspeakably bad marriage was setting the very worst example to my two daughters. I called a lawyer that same morning.

And I've never regretted my decision, although it meant enormous upheaval. My gorgeous girls and I left behind a huge house in a smart street and moved instead into a complete wreck of a place that needed rebuilding, entirely. It has taken years to make it habitable. I've only recently hung the last few pictures and we still need more furniture. But it's near the river and it's beautiful. And it's a happy home. I'm proud of it ... and I'm also proud of the fact that my daughters enjoy a loving relationship with their Dad who is, ironically, less absent and a far better parent than when we were married.

And now that my house is in order - literally & figuratively! - I feel ready to embark on a new journey of my own. Isn't it funny? The truth is, I simply could not have contemplated a relationship while a skip was parked outside my front door and a cement-mixer stood in my kitchen.

But now that they've gone, I feel ready. I know what I want. The problem is, I have no idea what you want. And I'm not at all sure that you do?

A mutual friend who has known you for a long time emailed me recently and described you as 'compelling ... but complicated'.

This has made me a little nervous. Perhaps I shouldn't over-analyse things. It's not like I'm contemplating losing my virginity. Perhaps it doesn't matter whether you're after a quick shag or a proper relationship. Perhaps it doesn't matter what you want? But the Capricorn in me can't help thinking that it does."

Hmmmmm. Needless to say, so much has happened since I wrote this, nearly two years ago. A big part of me wishes that I'd listened to my 'inner voice' back then. It would have saved me a whole bucket-load of heartache. But, had I done so, I also would have missed out on some of the happiest times of my life. Since then, Brixton Man has been & gone and been & gone ... but after every 'going' he has always re-surfaced, weeks or months later, with apologies and protestations of adoration (if not love). But he 'went' last month - with tears in his eyes, standing on my front doorstep, clutching his spare helmet and 'Perfume' which he'd loaned me - with his gorgeous mouth opening and closing like a hooked fish, looking stricken.

And I just knew that this time, he wouldn't be back. And, needless to say, he hasn't been.