Cosmo Landesman, 60, has been married twice. He is now divorced and lives in Islington. He has proposed and been turned down five times, but remains hopeful.
I had my first Grief Lover encounter this week. She was late forties. Big lips. Big nose. Big heart.
“So sorry for your loss,” she said with big eyes moist with pity. She gave me a premature hug; I gave her my phone number.
Three days later I was at her place for dinner. She was all cleavage and compassion. I sat on her sunny terrace and she brought out drinks and spicy olives. My hopes were high, and then she went off and returned with a Cry-Me-a-River, man-sized box of tissues.
“How are you feeling?” she cooed.
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“Fine,” I said.
“No, how are you really?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Honest. I’m good.”
For the Grief Lover good was no good. She wanted woe. She wanted tears. She wanted a devastated dad in need of a shoulder to cry on.
“That’s OK. Denial is the first stage of grieving.”
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“I’m not denying anything — it’s just sometimes...”
“What you’re going through must be incredibly painful.” (What am I meant to say to that, “Oh, it’s not really so bad”?)
She offered me a tissue. When I refused it, she took one out and placed it in front of me as if this would tempt my tears to make an appearance.
“I just don’t want to talk about my son’s death.”
“I totally understand and respect that,” she said. And then added: “But it’s important that you don’t blame yourself.”
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“I don’t blame myself.”
“Good. That’s healthy. Letting go of blame is an important stage in dealing with grief.”
“How many grief stages are there?”
“Five.”
“Crikey! Couldn’t we just skip two, three and four?”
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She took my hand and said: “You have to understand that grief is a form of growth.”
“What, like a tumour?”
She took my other hand. “You’re angry. Expressing your anger is good.”
“No, I’m not bloody well angry!” I shouted.
It was an obvious joke, but she didn’t smile. Then I asked her: “Are you some kind of secret therapist or bereavement counsellor?”
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“No, I work in corporate entertainment,” she says. “But I think I have a natural gift for healing.”
Clearly, this isn’t going to work. The Grief Lover wants an evening of gorging on grief, and I want an evening of gorging on True Detective and ice cream.
I get up to go.
“Let me give you a hug,” she says and proceeds to hug me as if she could squeeze all the sadness out of my life. “So sorry.”
She gets tearful, and now I feel guilty. Have I been unfair to this woman with the big heart who only wants to help?
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Dolly Alderton, 26, 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.
“Where do you meet men?” I think this is the question I have asked and been asked most as a twentysomething in London. Even more than “How much is your council tax?” or “Shall we get prosecco?” or “But why kale?”
No one knows where to meet people any more. We all think someone has the secret answer: a great club night, a dark corner of an undiscovered bar. We’re all wandering around this city, lifting up rocks and peering underneath, trying to work out where all the single people are.
This week I am on holiday in Barcelona with long-standing friends AJ, Sabrina, Belle and India. We’re pretty good as a group at avoiding the boy talk by stuffing ourselves with patatas bravas instead. But inevitably, when the amaretto comes out on the final night, talk turns to love.
I’m wondering whether the Comedian is shagging some teenage flyerer in Edinburgh. India is waiting for a text from a man who’s “ghosting” her, Belle’s getting over a guy, AJ’s just moved in with her boyfriend. And then there’s Sabrina — one of those beautiful, funny, charming single women for whom nothing seems to be happening and none of us knows why.
For everyone else, I can trot out the right things: “If he doesn’t want to talk to you, he’s wasting your time”; “There’s another person somewhere. When you release the idea of soulmates, you will finally be free”; and “You’ll learn how to time poos for when he’s out of the flat”. But for Sabrina, I have no answers.
After dinner, we split into two cabs and it’s just me and her, loose and light on syrupy liqueurs and speeding through the hot Barcelona night.
“You need to do online dating,” I say firmly. “Not apps, a proper dating site.”
“I hate online dating,” she sighs.
“But that’s the only way people quickly form serious relationships now, I think.”
“But I don’t even want a serious relationship, I just want... something.”
I know that void. Feeling disconnected in a chattering city of twinkling lights. Just waiting and wondering how you’ll find... something.
“You need to just sit it out,” I say. “I think, nowadays, people meet a person in real life who’s fabulous probably every five years — at some dinner party or in a pub. And you’ll spend all night talking and walk all the way home just to carry on the conversation and swap numbers at your door.”
“And then what?” she asks. There is silence. I am stumped.
“I don’t know, darling,” I finally say. “But I think it’s worth waiting for it.”
Photographs: David Yeo. Styling: Flossie Saunders. Hair and make-up: Celine Nonon at Terri Manduca using Estee Lauder and Paul Mitchell. Cosmo: shirt and tie from Reiss, suit by The Suits and shoes from Russell & Bromley. Dolly: top by T By Alexander Wang, skirt by Suno and heels by Rupert Sanderson