The perfect man really does exist

Instead of doing some work, I’m sitting at my desk thinking about my dating past. Again. The good (not many), the bad (where do I start?) and the forgettable: dates, shags and club toilet hook-ups so rotten I only dredge them back up for laughs at the pub. And writing material.

For all the rubbish, there is, supposedly, ​“the one”, the man so perfect that, when we finally meet, we’ll immediately have great sex and end up married ​’til we’re dead. We see it in movies, read about it in books and old people swear by it. But it sounds more like a fantasy, doesn’t it?

My Dutch friend, who lived in London while we were in uni, was down from Amsterdam the other weekend. Naturally, she organised a big group dinner and brought along a couple of newbies from her city who I’d never met before.

I arrived at the chosen Indian restaurant late and inexplicably sweaty, with an indistinguishable stain down my blue and white striped shirt. I looked like shit, actually. Everyone was already sitting at the table, so I quickly found the one free seat saved for me, did a quick “’iya!” with an awkward semi-wave and sat down.

As we made small talk while looking at the menu, I was drawn to a guy sitting at the far end of the long table. He was really tall – as Dutch people usually are – had big broad shoulders, an impossibly wide, toothy smile, wavy hair and a subtle tan. Perfect Guy caught my eye, shot a smile and, for a split second, I could have sworn the world stopped spinning. He was that fit.

We ended up going to a friend’s exhibition opening afterwards and, in the Uber there, I noticed how badly I stank. My coat had absorbed the grilled onion, garlic, cumin and chilli of the restaurant’s sizzling clay pots. I was about to go on a night out, with that mystery stain on my shirt, smelling like a sweaty lamb chop.

Perfect Guy was in the other Uber, so I took the opportunity to quiz my mate about him. She told me he was the nicest guy she had ever met. A big statement, yes, but he was studying for an MA in philosophy and even did a bit of charity work on the side. And he loved pills.

She must have told Perfect Guy that I was asking about him. Within 15 minutes of being at the exhibition, we went outside for a fag and almost instantly started snogging. Apparently he wasn’t put off by my stench, sweat or stain.

From then on, the night went from good to really, really good. The chat was natural. He asked me loads about myself: what I was into, about my work, even my family. The night went on and we went back to his friend’s house, did some lines and felt up each other’s cocks in the garden.

We arranged to go for a drink the next day and met at a pub near mine. Sat next to each other on the wooden bench – and, look, I know this sounds dramatic – it felt like I’d known him for years. Like we’d been together for years. We had loads of similar interests and beliefs. And when we disagreed on something, it still felt flirty – especially when he’d touch my knee and start kissing my neck.

We never did sleep together, though. I had a mate’s birthday that evening and had to leave. Looking back, I should have taken him with me. He took the Eurostar back to Amsterdam the following Monday. I went to meet him at King’s Cross, like something out of a bloody romcom. We had a long chat and I took him as close as possible to the platform. Then we shared a final kiss and I waved him goodbye.

Afterwards, we messaged a lot, mostly about me visiting Amsterdam. He even planned a day out for us: we’d cycle around, get some drinks down us, he’d make us dinner at his and then he’d fuck my brains out. But it never happened. After a while, we stopped messaging as much and then he told me he was moving to Santa Barbara, California, for his MA – a little less accessible than Amsterdam.

Sitting at my desk, deadline looming, I’m wondering why it never happened. Was it not meant to be? Will I ever find ​“the one”? Was he even ​“the one”, or ​“the one” that got away? Reminds me of what Dan Savage once said: ​“The one” does not fucking exist. ​“The one” is a lie. But the beautiful part of the lie is that it’s a lie you can tell yourself.” I wonder how much a ticket to Santa Barbara is…