I’d always thought of myself as the only writer with the surname Jensen — which is my Danish father’s name. Then, at an international writers’ festival in Canada in 2000, there was another Jensen, a Dane called Carsten. I was a bit annoyed: after all, no writer likes to share a surname with someone else. So I went up to him and said so. Our first conversation was about us sharing Denmark’s most common surname — rather banal. Later that week we were both on a panel discussing inspiration and creativity, and he said some very witty things. I was extremely impressed by how well he’d prepared. I even felt a nudge of professional jealousy.
After that we couldn’t stop talking. We talked about our kids: my sons and his daughter. I was married; he was going through a divorce. There was a strong physical attraction. I loved his eyes. And I loved his brain. By the end of the festival there was a deep friendship and a growing mutual admiration — but we said goodbye and went our separate ways.
Immediately, I realised I missed him. So I sent him an e-mail. He wrote straight back, and I wrote back again. We wrote hundreds of e-mails. I’d creep downstairs in the night because I couldn’t wait to see what he’d written. We must have written the equivalent of two novels to each other. We also read and loved one another’s books. Then, a month into our correspondence, he phoned me and we talked for two hours. He came to London. And that was that. We’d fallen in love. And it was bigger than both of us. We didn’t really have a plan — all we knew was that we needed to be together.
My marriage had been in a bad way for some years. It was in state of extreme neglect. Suddenly, divorce looked like the only option. Fortunately, my husband made it very easy for me to leave: I think he felt the same way I did about the marriage. In any case, he began a new relationship straight away. Dismantling the marriage was hard but we were determined to do everything possible to make it tolerable for our sons, so we arranged a very civilised divorce, with shared residency for the kids. They could see I was leading a better, happier life, and that helped.
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Some of my friends understood immediately; others thought I’d gone mad: I.d broken up the family for the love of a man who didn’t even live in this country and couldn’t because he has half-custody of his daughter. On paper, Carsten looked a very risky gamble. But I knew he wasn’t. I was sure I’d met the great love of my life. So was Carsten. And Denmark is just a commute. Everyone who met him knew why I was doing what I was doing; they could see how happy we were together — and still are. The kids think he’s cool, and I’ve gained a gorgeous stepdaughter.
After we met I was worried that what drove me to write would disintegrate, but I feel it’s no coincidence that my career has taken off since. I was ready to write The Ninth Life of Louis Drax — a gloomy, dark book but written by a very happy woman. Since we met I’ve been been on a level of bliss I didn’t know was possible. I didn’t think my life would bring anything as amazing as our love for each other, and we’re still ridiculously romantic. You could argue it’s because we can’t live together, but when we do — one week in two — it’s not just long romantic dinners and all day in bed. We write our books and have a proper domestic life where we empty each other’s dishwashers and enjoy our kids. When we’re together in Denmark we sit writing at the same table, in a slightly competitive way about who’ll write most. He always wins because he’s much more prolific than me. Our laptops will be touching, but we’re off in completely separate worlds. Then we’ll break off and talk about what we’ll have for dinner, and about the life we’ll eventually live together.
Since I met Carsten I feel truly myself. There’s something wonderful about feeling loved which gives you an aura. You can spot people who are loved: it’s as if they’re carrying something within them — a kind of light, and you can see it in their faces. I have this feeling of being given a second chance, and I savour every moment.
It’s tough for children to see their parents divorce and to adapt to a new kind of family life. My own parents didn’t get on and I used to wish they’d get divorced: I don’t believe staying together is always best for the kids. I think they need to see happy, well-functioning relationships. Now, when they see me and Carsten together, I think to myself: “At least they know what love looks like. For all the pain I’ve caused them, at least they’ve seen that.”
Liz Jensen’s new novel, My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time, is published in June