Cosmo Landesman, 61, has been married twice. He is now divorced and living in Islington. He has proposed and been turned down five times, but remains hopeful.
For the loveless and the lonely, autumn is worse than spring. Spring gives you hope. Autumn takes it away. In spring you smell the roses; in autumn everything smells of dead leaves. It’s best to avoid having that early-evening G&T on your own and listening to Sinatra singing It Was a Very Good Year. That way sadness lies.
Sorry for the mope. It has been that kind of week. I heard some news that upset me: a couple I know who have been married for 51 years told me they’re getting divorced.
I hate it when couples who have been together for what seems like for ever split up. For some reason, it’s more shocking and sad than when people who have been married for only a few years part.
It makes you wonder if modern marriage and relationships are built to last? Does anyone believe in “till death do us part” any more? Never mind death — these days, boredom or bad sex can kill a marriage.
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Unless there’s a deep unhappiness, I don’t get why these long-term couples decide to split. You’d think that after all those years together, they might as well just stick it out to the end. It’s like climbing a mountain together, getting to the top, loving the view — and deciding to go your separate ways on the descent. I asked the wife what had happened. She said: “Nothing — for 30 years.”
Those long-life marriages that suddenly seem to crack make you wonder: is it possible still to be crazy about someone after all that time? My heart says yes; my head says, don’t be a romantic schmuck. After 30 years of marriage, nobody has fireworks any more.
OK, but can’t a single sparkler light up the dark?
All this autumn gloom got me thinking that I should give up that old dream of mine. The one where I’m sitting on a park bench in autumn with my adoring wife of 45 years, and we sip sweet tea from a flask and eat cheese sandwiches made from white bread — and we’re still madly in love.
Then I heard this radio show where people send in email requests for a romantic record to be played for their loved ones. They were saying things such as, “Please tell my darling wife of 30 years that I love her more than ever. She’s a constant joy,” and, “We’ve been married for 41 blissful years, and he’s the most wonderful husband in the world.”
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Who are these people? Do they really exist? Or are these emails written by a lonely, love-starved fantasist who lives in a dingy flat in Pimlico with the skeleton of his mother in her rocking chair? I hope not.
Dolly Alderton, 27, is currently (sort of) single. Her last serious relationship was three years ago. Her dating adventures include a misjudged three months with a musician and a fling with a playboy she met on Tinder.
Thursday evening, 8pm. I get a call from an unknown number.
“Hello?” I bark, expecting an irksome PPI robot.
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“Hello, Doll,” says a familiar voice.
“Hello,” I say, panicking. “Sorry, I’ve changed phones...”
“Oh shut up, I know you deleted my number.”
The A&R guy. A free spirit as wild as his overgrown beard. We dated in the summer of 2014 before it fizzled out, mainly due to the fact he was always losing his phone. We shared a love of staying out all night and old-man music; he wooed me with the text: “Pink Moon or Harvest Moon?”
“How are you?” I ask.
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“Fine,” he says. “I need to tell you something, but it’s...” he pauses. “Delicate.”
“Delicate? What?” I ask, chomping an apple. “You’re pregnant and it’s mine.”
“It’s in the same vein.”
“You’re getting married?”
“Christ, no. Oh God. I don’t want to say, but I have to.”
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“You’ve got a girlfriend?”
“No,” he says. “I’ve got chlamydia.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I have to tell everyone I’ve slept with, so they can get tested.”
“Well, I was tested 10 months ago, and I was clear, so you didn’t give it to me.”
“Brilliant,” he says. “Great news.”
“I can’t believe you actually called. I assumed nobody ever did.”
“Yeah, well, it’s important, you know.”
“I agree,” I say. “How’s the ring-round gone?”
“Hmm. Mixed. How are you?”
“Great, thanks,” I say. “Moved house. Gone freelance. Thinking of getting a fringe.”
“Why did you delete my number?”
“Because I didn’t want to call you when I was drunk.”
“You were a nightmare when you were drunk,” he says, laughing.
“Only because you used to make me a nightmare.”
“It’s nice to talk to you,” he says.
After the call, I go into the kitchen.
“Remember the A&R guy?” I ask India. She frowns quizzically.
“The homeless guy?”
“He wasn’t homeless.”
“He looked it.”
“He just rang me to say he has chlamydia and to get checked out. I think that’s so wonderful of him. I knew he was a decent person.”
“Dolly, the man thought he gave you venereal disease and owned up to it. I don’t think that qualifies him for heart-throb of the year.”
How strange that the call that everyone dreads leaves me feeling uplifted. It’s reassuring to know I dated someone who cares a tiny bit about me. It’s good to be reminded that it’s not all for nothing.