I floss! – is the headline of his profile.
        In the body text he even admits: I floss regularly.
        He also owns up to having homoerotic thoughts about Celtic's Henrick Larsson and to spending too much time in his local bar.
        His photographs are suave and artsy – black horn-rimmed glasses, black blazer with black shirt and dark grey tie.
        In his first e-mail to me he describes our future: After having volleyed e-mails back and forth for two years, we finally undress in front of web-cams and agree to hook up in the Autumn of 2009 on top of the Eiffel Tower. There we discover that we like the same TV shows and both hold master’s degrees in body painting. We flush our collective anti depressants down the toilet and live happily ever after.
        We are on the phone a few hours later.
        ‘I’ve been trying to get this movie off the ground for seven years,’ he says. ‘Two years ago it almost got made when Rod Steiger was interested. But you know what: The day I arrived in LA to meet him the fucker died on me.’
        Another story involves his family who came to Scotland from Germany on a boat run by crooks. Apparently his grandfather lived in Glasgow for two weeks before he realized he was not in NY as was written on the ticket.
        I must have some equally entertaining stories because we talk over an hour and he keeps saying: ‘How can a woman like you be lonely in London?’

We set a date for Sunday afternoon. On Saturday I need to go on an emergency business trip to Florence for a night. When I get home tired and exhausted from travelling he is kind enough to drive all the way to Penge from North London to meet me.
        He gets lost on the way, calls twice for directions - we meet at 4.30 instead of 3.
        I like him the moment he walks into the pub. He is short, but in a grounded sort of way. And he is rougher than his photographs, more earthy than artsy.
        We talk, talk, talk – about movies and writing, guilt complexes and therapists, Jews and neurotic parents.
        His mother died only a year ago and his father is ‘grinding to a halt’. He looks worried when he says that but then changes the subject and concentrates on making me compliments.
        My accent is great. My perfume is great. My skirt is great.
        My bright, red top is great. He apologizes for having to stare at my breasts and asks me if he may guess my bra size. He guesses right. We laugh and every time I catch him staring we laugh some more.
        My hair is great. My skin is great. My fingernails are great.
        Hell, I am great.
        He drinks four glasses of red wine and smokes half a pack of cigarettes. He cannot get over the fact that I don’t drink, smoke or take drugs and still make him laugh. He calls me an enigma and the most interesting woman he met in a long time.
        ‘How can a woman like you be lonely in London?’ he asks again.

He walks me to my doorsteps. I drop my shoulders to appear the same height as he. Gotta get rid of the heels!
        We exchange pecks on the cheeks. He holds me just a split second longer than appropriate after a first date. He turns to leave then turns back and we talk for another few minutes. He embraces me again and we hold onto each other, softly, gently, without pressure or haste. I wish he would kiss me but he doesn’t.

He calls the next day to tell me he has to go to Glasgow to his ‘grinding to a halt’ father. We talk for a while. We both want to see each other again. For a moment I feel that love might be very simple, no big fuss, just a few kind words.

The next call is two weeks later. He has been back from Glasgow for some time but was very busy. He is worried about his movie and spends his evenings in his local bar waiting for LA to wake up so he can call there. The moment I put down the phone he sends a text asking me out for dinner.

I wear my best black top, a mini skirt and flat shoes I bought especially for the occasion. He is in Jeans and a red and blue chequered shirt. He looks even rougher than on our first date. He also looks older. And shorter. Those shoes I bought, their heels are practically inverted. But only when I cunningly walk on the downward sloping side of the sidewalk are we the same height.
        Older and rougher I can understand.
        Too many nights in the bar! Too much drugs and alcohol!
        But surly sleepless nights cannot shrink a man?
        That evening he doesn’t ask questions. He only talks about his movie. He lost his producer which means he now has to produce himself. He is constantly on the phone with studios in California. This movie is the fucking project of his fucking life and project and life are going nowhere fast. He is drunk when we say good-bye.
        There is barely a wave of hands when I hop on a train going south and he on one going north.

Three days later he calls to let me know he is going to Glasgow again.
        ‘My father is grinding to a halt.’
        Oh really.
        He calls a few more times but never asks me out, just updates me on his movements – London – Glasgow – father grinding – movie producing – Glasgow – London – producing – grinding – Glasgow – father – movie – grinding –

Then there is another two-week silence.
        ‘How can a woman like me feel lonely in London?’
        You tell me.
        I send a text to which he doesn’t reply.
        I call.
        He is in his bar, watching football. There is a lot of background noise. He slurs his words. I can barely hear him. I am not sure he knows who I am.
        ‘I will call you,’ he mumbles into the phone. ‘I will call you very soon.’
        Those are the last words I hear him say.