Cakeman… he writes he wants a woman with an MBA, who also knows how to bake a cake, because this is something he knows how to judge properly.
        Since I have an MA and know that the best cakes come from Vienna, Cakeman and I surely must be a match made in heaven.
        He also writes he cannot walk past a bookshop without going inside and buying something, so we arrange to meet Friday at eight at Waterstone’s on Piccadilly Circus. I arrive early and go inside to browse, expecting him to do the same.
        At ten past eight I leave again.
        I find Cakeman standing by the entrance, stiff, like the statue of a properly serious Englishman waiting for a train. His face is white and doughy and his lips are moist, set in a grim, determined way, as if he was biting on glass.
        How did I miss this horrible mouth in his online-photograph?
        My instincts tell me to run but that would be impolite so I walk up to him.
        ‘Hello, I’m Pink.’
        ‘Oh,’ he consults his watch. ‘You’re late.’
        ‘I was here early,’ I defend myself. ‘But you said you couldn’t walk past a bookshop, so I thought inside would be…’
        ‘Ah, well,’ he replies. ‘Whatever.’
        Without another word he starts walking. I’m not sure if I’m dismissed or if I should follow him.
        I follow him – mostly because he seems to be aiming for a nice Indian restaurant.
        Once inside, he disappears behind the menu and ignores me when I ask if he has been here before.
        Only after we have ordered does he acknowledge my existence and asks me a few ‘how do you like London’ and ‘how do you like your job’ type of questions.
        When his glass of red wine arrives he finally starts loosening up and tells me all about his ex-fiancée and that she left him when she was diagnosed with MS. Another glass and I learn that both his parents died of cancer and that he gave up his job to look after them.
        I have no experience with death so I nod and let him talk, an approach which seems to be the right one because he pays for the food and invites me to his private members club for a cup of tea.
        The short walk through the cool evening air sobers him up. As the eternal London tourist I’m thrilled when at the club he shows me the staircase where scenes of Die Another Day were filmed. I can almost see the footprints left by Pierce Brosnan and Madonna duelling it out for world domination.
        We sit down and he tells me about the IT consulting company he’s in the process of setting up. While he talks about the risks and opportunities, the hopes and fears, the dangers and challenges of IT consulting my eyes glaze over.
        IT – that’s a topic that always has the effect of a double dose of valium on me and all I can do is watch his moist lips open and close until a string of saliva gets stuck to the corner of his mouth. It builds tiny white bubbles that pop at regular intervals
        Luckily, he orders another glass of wine and soon is back to the story of the ex-fiancée and how he had to let her go because his parents were more important than she and how everybody is dead now.
        I remain quiet. I still have nothing intelligent to say about death.
        The more Cakeman drinks the deeper and more meaningful he sounds.
        ‘It makes no difference whether you’re healthy or sick or about to die. You do the same things, read the same books, watch the same shows,’ he repeats several times.
        I nod, impressed that he has learned something everybody must learn eventually and also because he’s eager to share his experiences. But after another glass his eyes turn limpid and bright. And as sensitive as my soft heart is – it doesn’t know how to deal with the tears of a stranger.
        Cakeman needs a hug and somebody to kiss him better but I’m not the one to do it – not as long as his mouth produces white, slimy bubbles and is set in its grim, teeth-clenching way – which is why I look at my watch and express worry about catching my last train.
        ‘Of course,’ he says and blows his nose.
He walks me to the tube station and kisses me on the cheek, leaving a wet trace on my skin
        ‘Let’s do a movie next time,’ he says.
        ‘That would be lovely,’ I reply – and I mean it. Just because I wipe my face the second he’s out of sight doesn’t mean I can’t go to the cinema with this man.

He sends an e-mail the next day asking what films I would like to see. I compile a list and add how nice if would be to see him again – as a friend.
        He never replies.

I tell Lovey how Cakeman was nice but drank too much. How that made him open up more than our combined English and Austrian repressions were able to handle. How I’m still miffed that he ignored my last mail.
        Lovey’s advice is to never say the fr-word to a man looking for a partner as that would naturally hurt his feelings and send him running.
        Yes, but what about my feelings? I don’t even mind the running. But why did he need to run without saying ‘good-bye and good-luck’?
        ‘You know what,’ Lovey says. ‘In that photograph – he seems to have beautiful lips, no?’

And then I hear nothing from Lovey for a while.

And then I hear this:

        Lovey: I’ve been meaning to tell you
        PinkParanoia: what?
        Lovey: I hope you don’t mind
        Lovey: but I hooked up with Cakeman
        PinkParanoia: of course I don’t mind
        PinkParanoia: how did it go?
        Lovey: you said he drank a lot?
        PinkParanoia: he did
        Lovey: well, I think the winning formula with him…
        PinkParanoia: yes?
        Lovey: …was to drink along.
        PinkParanoia: you reckon?
        Lovey: I haven’t left his house since J
        PinkParanoia: oh, I see
        Lovey: he offered me a job in his new company
        PinkParanoia: IT?
        Lovey: yes, I know, I know, I know
        Lovey: I don’t know anything about it
        Lovey: but he needs help with a lot of stuff
        PinkParanoia: wow, Lovey
        PinkParanoia: I wish you luck!
        Lovey: likewise, dear Pink, likewise
        Lovey: and thanks for
        Lovey: you know
        Lovey: sort of introducing us