A few weeks ago I went out on a date with a boy that had been emailing me for a while. He played tennis. He was tall. He was good looking. Ticked a lot of boxes.
But I didn’t let it go anywhere because I was dating The Toyboy.
While I never put up ‘off the market’ on my profile (yes, I am totally addicted to the ego boost that is TBW, aren’t we all!?!), deep down The Toyboy knew I didn’t really want to be with anyone other than him at the time.
We had had the most fantastic few months, outrageous weekends away in little hip hotels, huge laughs, lots of champagne and yes, lots of ….well you get the idea. It put what little was left of my soul back together.
He was gift to help me get through those last hard days of my marriage. And I was and remain very grateful for that.
But we both knew it had a shelf life. We just were never going to fit into one another’s lives.
He wasn’t sporty. I can’t imagine my life without it. Tennis. Golf. Swimming. Sailing. Its part of who I am. He read the Guardian, I read the FT. He couldn’t afford to do a lot of things I could. We ate a lot of pizza. He was worried about the fact I had children (God only knows why, its not like he was ever going to meet them). He was obsessed with the fact that all his friends were getting married and why wasn’t he. He felt he should be. He felt that something was wrong with him because he wasn’t. I couldn’t help him with that.
And before we knew it, it was the end of June, and we were planning to go away for another long dirty weekend. We hit a wall and called it a day.
Then one Saturday night not long after, I get a text that said something like, this is ridiculous, when are we going to play tennis?
I was like, oh, that’s a surprise. Thought he’d given up on me. I was out with friends at the time. So I lightly texted back, oh that would be lovely, will check my diary, blah blah.
He finally tied me down to a drink about a week later.
Back me up and slap grandma. The boy was just beautiful. And smart and hard working. Engaging. Someone that makes you smile from ear to ear that you just want to wrap up, take home and eat up with whipped cream on top.
And then after a few really good margaritas by the river, he walked me to the tube and kissed me.
I felt like a million bucks.
Million buck dates don’t come along very often.
They are a bit like Bobby Rae kisses.
They restore your faith in, well, a whole mess of things. Of important things.
Ya’ll I gotta be honest (sometimes too much for my own good…when will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?), since Beautiful Boy last summer, well, its been a heap of fun.
I have danced on my share of table tops.
Gotten drunk in grungy bars in Camden.
Sewn quite a few overdue oats.
Snogged in one too many taxis.
Told Charles Dance he looked great in his boxer shorts.
Broken champagne glasses in hotel rooms knocking over furniture in the heat of the moment.
Gotten divorced.
In short, its been a whale of a time.
But, erm, nobody has really gotten under my skin since Beautiful Boy. Made me stop and think.
Well, not until now. Dammit.
Made me think, eh-oh, maybe the best toyboy isn’t around the corner, on the next date, the next message, the next profile.
Maybe he’s sitting right in front of me across the table at dinner looking at me with those heavenly blue eyes.
Oh hell, no wonder I was so nervous on our way home from tennis the other night (note to self, change coach), I couldn’t parallel park and then made a total jerk out of myself at dinner!!!
Ms. Magnolia
