Towards the tail-end of my 20s, I fell in love with a man who (for legal reasons) we’ll simply refer to as J. J had been a good friend since journalism school. Think dark eyes and public school vowels, like south London’s less hacked off answer to Hugh Grant. He told me which football team to support (Spurs, which didn’t age well); I told him which novels to read on holiday. He took me for pizza after I’d had a bad day; I took him for pints after his. He told me to ‘treat men mean to keep ‘em keen’; I told him to just bloody communicate. By the time we discussed becoming ‘something more’ seven years into our friendship, it seemed too When Harry Met Sally to be true.
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Surprise, surprise – it was. Some storylines are better left to Nora Ephron; some friendships are better left as friends. This is The Spectator, not the New York Times, so I’ll spare you the tumultuous details. But, in short, we weren’t compatible. End of short-lived love story.
