This is modern life:
More than twenty-five years later than almost everyone else I know, I have finally entered the world of the Bridget Jones mini-break, except that I am playing the part of Bridget after Mr Darcy has left to pursue other interests from his small bachelor flat in Shepherd's bush.
So this is how I come to find myself sipping coffee on the terrace of a lakeside cafe in Bellagio opposite a man who is not my husband with the prefix ex, but who is instead, I suddenly realise, almost a total stranger of whom I do indeed have extensive biblical knowledge, but otherwise know almost nothing about. We've been seeing each other for almost six months but since we live a hundred miles apart and only manage to meet up every few weeks, we have not, until now, spent longer than 48 hours in each other's company.
As the waiter takes our order we are now on hour 36 and will soon enter uncharted territory.
What will we say to each other? Will there be awkward silences? Chance, I see him thinking, would be a fine thing, as I babble on like I'm being paid by the word. I've been on my best behaviour for months, and even that hasn't softened him much. How will I keep it up? He's a self-confessed control freak and has already spoken ominously about itineraries and timetables. Is his idea of fun to recite great chunks of the guide book to me while we are standing in a public square? (Indeed it is, but since I don't have my glasses on and can't see the print - while not exactly John Donne in the bath - this is nevertheless an endearing quality.) Should I hide my aversion to heights (possibly before we've climbed a bell tower with no handrail that teeters on top of a medieval hillside town)? What happens if we quarrel? What if he's a member of the National Front. Or the Countryside Alliance?
'So where do you stand on hunting?' he suddenly asks as I stir sugar into my coffee in a vain attempt to sweeten my tongue.
Someone should really write a user's handbook for previously owned men so that subsequent partners know how to negotiate the time when you are vertical and ambulatory instead of merely amatory, and what topics can be safely discussed when polite conversation is required. It would also help to know such things as a love of blood sports, well in advance.
He's wearing a quilted jacket, stout shoes and a scarf wound round his neck like he's been styled for the Boden Catalogue. Everything I'm wearing is stout. I'm in jeans and a long, large, knitted coat into which I've tucked a pashmina that I've draped over my head hijab style. I keep catching sight of myself in shop windows and thinking I look like a Muslim matron with an aversion to the cold. And it is cold. There's an icy wind blowing off Lake Como, despite the cloudless blue sky that dutifully accessorises the Mediterranean scenery, and white caps tip the jagged waves.
We smile at each other, huddled into our respective sensible coats and he reaches across the table and takes my hand. 'I want to give you my sister's telephone number,' he says, confidingly, and the smile that has been beaming from my face all weekend, widens. This is surely one of the milestones of grown-up courtship. Forget meeting the parents (who are in any case often dead) or the children (you have to meet them because otherwise you don't get to set foot in the bedroom since they are usually blocking the entrance playing Grand Theft Auto) - it's the being invited to befriend the siblings that bestows on one the public seal of approval. I've already met and immediately liked the sister, so much so that I made an early request that I should be allowed to keep her if we break up, so I'm delighted to be invited to take her telephone number. Maybe he's going to suggest I get in touch with her and meet her for coffee one of these days.
'Yes, you really ought to have it,' He adds.
I get out my mobile. 'Why?' I ask cheerfully, seeing family get-togethers and Sunday lunches and tennis parties stretching off into the future (I can't play tennis, but nevertheless)...
'Just in case something happens to me.' He answers. 'I woke in the night and it occurred to me that if I had a heart attack and pegged it you wouldn't know who to contact.'
Ah, romantic, middle-aged love, or what? And so we sit there with our respective phones keying in the numbers of people to contact in case of an emergency. I give him my ex husband's cell phone.
'There's so much we don't know about each other,' he says, by way of explanation.
'That's true, ' I agree and look up at the yellow stucco of the hotel on the shores of the lake next to the cafe where we are seated, whose balconies overhang the the terrace. 'For instance, do you see the Hotel Metropole, just over there?' I ask.
'Yes?' His eyes turn dutifully upwards following mine to the the third balcony on the second floor.
'That's where I stayed for my honeymoon.'
