Just Haven't Met You Yet(2)

They kiss for the camera, and it’s not a demure, other-people-are-in-the-room kind of kiss; it’s a proper let’s-race-home-and-rip-each-other’s-clothes-off kiss. I bet she gets him to wear his fireman’s outfit in bed. I shake my head, trying to stop my mind from wandering down these inappropriate thought alleys. But then I look back up and she’s nibbling his earlobe.

Maybe it was easier to do these interviews when I wasn’t single. My ex, David, and I weren’t exactly having goose bumps–inducing sex, but clearly it was enough to stop me from feeling jealous when faced with crazily loved-up couples.

What if I never find a connection like these two have? The thought brings a lump to my throat. Everyone assumes single girls approaching thirty spend their time stressing about whether they’ll ever get to have a wedding or a baby. But for me, I’m more concerned that I’ll never know what it feels like to have that kind of life-altering connection with someone, and that I’ll never get to experience sex like they have in the movies. I know, I know, movie sex isn’t real—it’s all choreographed and everyone orgasms together, like a perfectly conducted orchestra, but surely someone must be having mind-blowing sex like they do in The Notebook. These guys, these guys are having sex like that.

“Don’t try this at home, people,” I say, turning to the camera with my most cheerful not-thinking-about-sex-voice. “We don’t advise burning your house down to find your perfect partner. Ha-ha. If you’ve got a great story of how you met and would like to feature on How Did You Meet? please get in touch via the website. We love hearing your amazing real-life love stories! I’m Laura Le Quesne, reporting for Love Life—‘Love what you buy, buy what you love.’?”

I look over at Dylan to signal it’s a cut, then jump up to open the door and let in some cooler air. We hire the studio and all the equipment by the hour, so I need to be mindful of the amount of takes we do.

“Guys, that was perfect, you were brilliant, adorable,” I say, then scrunch my eyes closed in frustration. “Oh wait, I forgot to ask about the cat. Was the cat OK?”

Silence for a moment, and Sian lets go of Paul’s hand.

“No, well . . .” She hugs her arms around herself. “It turned out Paul’s fire truck ran Felicia over. She had to be put down.”

Paul squeezes Sian’s shoulder and shakes his head.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” I say, mirroring their sad body language. “Well, I think maybe it’s best we leave that detail out—might be a bit of a buzzkill for our viewers.”

Sian flinches ever so slightly. It looks like I’ve killed the sexy mood by mentioning the dead cat, and now they’re not going to rush home and rip each other’s clothes off. No sex for anyone! Woo-hoo!

What is wrong with me? I’m a horrible person.

I have three more interviews scheduled that morning: a couple from Liverpool who met sheltering from a lightning storm (they called their first child Light Ning Jones—seriously), a couple from North London born in the same hospital on the same day who reconnected and fell in love thirty years later (what are the chances?), and a couple from Nottingham who met as cancer patients on the same ward. Their oncology doctor was the maid of honor at their wedding.

By the end of the morning, I am emotionally drained. When the cancer woman says, “I might have lost all my hair in that hospital, but I found my heart,” I let out a sob so loud I have to ask her to say it again two more times so we can get a clean take.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these stories. “How did you meet?” is my all-time favorite question—the first thing I ask anyone in a relationship. I love hearing how people’s paths have crossed in seemingly random ways, and how that chance encounter has affected the direction of their lives so profoundly. I’m your classic hopeless romantic. And yet recently, perhaps since losing Mum, I’ve been finding it harder to witness other people’s “happily ever afters.”

Maybe it was easier to be happy for other people when I felt my own soulmate might be just around the corner, but I keep turning corners, and no one is ever there.



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Once we’ve wrapped filming, I walk through Soho on my way back to the office and pass the alleyway off Carnaby Street where Vera’s Vintage, a grotto of secondhand clothes and jewelry, is tucked away. I haven’t been inside a shop like this since Mum died, but today I find myself standing in front of the window, peering into the Aladdin’s cave within.

When I was a child, Mum and I spent every weekend driving around the country in her worn-out Morris Minor, following a trail of flea markets and vintage fairs. She could scour a car-boot sale for treasure better than anyone; she had a magpie’s eyes. Mum used to tell me that objects hold memories. That the more owners an object had had, the more meaning that object possessed. If what she said was true, her drawers and cupboards had been stuffed full of more meaning than anywhere else in the known universe.

She collected old jewelry to repurpose it, to give it new life. It started out as a hobby, but then she found people wanted to buy what she was making. Her jewelry was the one thing I didn’t know what to do with when I packed up her house. I’m still paying forty pounds a month to keep the boxes in a storage locker in Wapping; a tax on deferred decisions. I press my hand against the shop window. Just looking at the treasures on display sends a skewer of pain into the everyday ache of missing her.