Bye-bye single life

After years as the poster girl for unattached London, Liz Hoggard has found a man. ‘It’s weird being in a relationship with an actual grown-up,’ she says of her utterly changed existence
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13 March 2012

London is the great city for singletons. From sampling cocktails at art deco bars to left-field jazz gigs in Hackney parks, across the capital each night there is something new to try, something different to do. Regardless of your relationship status. And for years now I’ve been “not married”, and, certainly, not bovvered.

One of the pleasures of living in the city is that you can see so many different tribes of friends for the varying parts of our jigsaw lives. You are no oddity if you are still single.

However, despite my web and wealth of friendship, I did sometimes feel sad that I didn’t seem a candidate for long-term intimacy. I tried internet dating, joined supper clubs, and was once even sent to Love School by this very newspaper. But nothing took.

In your forties it seems Friends With Benefits is the default position. But after yet another cancelled supper, it dawns on you that he’s not quite a friend. And there are precious few benefits.

Instead, I focused on my platonic relationships. “To Liz, The Empress of Friendship,” my friend Marcus wrote on my 45th birthday card — I was incredibly touched. Perhaps romance just wasn’t my forte, I decided.

But now — ironically — I feel something of an impostor. Last August I met someone online: Chris.

He’s a writer too — though of film and music — and like me obsessed by the poles of high and low culture.

He’s even a fellow south Londoner. It turns out we lived only seven minutes apart by train and have often been at the same film/gig/literary event at the same time.

In fact, if I’d only looked sideways at Yasmin Reza’s God of Carnage in the West End, or Wayne Hemingway’s Vintage Festival, it would have saved a lot of time. But it’s taken us more than 20 years to meet.

In all honesty, I wasn’t exactly keen at first. Chris is utterly straightforward: no games, no wasting time. He’s been through a divorce so he knows what enchants — and what gives pain.

He’s affectionate and loyal too. What’s not to like? Well, actually, after years of the single life I was slightly appalled by such warmth at first. We had tentative dates where I sat so far back on my bar stool I nearly fell off. I talked airily about being long-term friends. That would be enough.

He also knows — shamefully — that I only really asked him to my book launch because I thought it would be good to have someone there who worked for the BBC.

But that night something shifted. While I was trapped greeting guests and signing books, I saw him chat enthusiastically to my friends. There was no shortage of glamorous women keen to meet him. Friends emailed the next day saying: “Who is that lovely man?” One agent wanted to read his novel; another friend invited him to lecture to her students.

I was slightly amazed. Had I missed something? Better pay closer attention, I resolved. Or someone else will nab him.

My friend Helen took charge. “Email him and say, ‘Ahem you know I mentioned a while back that you should go on dates with other women, well, being one myself, and running true to form, I have changed my mind and would prefer it if you didn’t’.”

She arranged a lunch. We talked for 12 hours solid. As I warmed up, he calmed down. But I was getting the hang of someone genuinely nice.

I joke that Chris has given me Tweetdeck — and renewed self-esteem. He’s on my side. He understands my baggage (well, the edited bits). He even appreciates the madness of freelance life. He’s recently left his job at the BBC as a head of digital social media to finish that novel. Most days we send each other tips about screenings, blogs and interviews that might generate a fresh angle. Or take our laptops over to No 67, the café at the South London Gallery.

We had a pact to stick together until this Valentine’s Day — even if we hated each other’s guts by then. We’ve spent too many ghastly evenings drowning our sorrows in Pizza Express with loyal stalwarts.

We were still together come the 14th. Some friends are thrilled; others a little wary. Will I change? I’m often asked if London is a different experience once you’re in a couple.

Well, yes, the landscape is slightly different. As the poster girl for singledom, you are often booked up six months in advance. It’s important to keep the diary full of minibreaks and festivals, so it can be quite a thrill to stay at home — and watch Sherlock over beans on toast for a change.

Even days spent apart have resonance. “I’ve missed having someone to miss,” Chris admits.

But it is weird being in a relationship with an actual grown-up. I’m so used to dates who don’t really want you to meet their friends and who holiday solo that I’ve learned to be very independent. Every so often I catch myself pouring a cup of tea for one, or putting out the light when he’s still reading. When did I become so selfish?

And I’m very lucky that he likes cats. Lots of them. “Don’t worry, Jasper,” he reassures my elderly tabby. “You’re still boyfriend number one.”

I would hate to seem smug. I’ve no intention of letting go of my friends or becoming a Surrendered Bride. It still makes me indignant that lovers are prioritised over deep friendships. That dreaded phrase “plus one” on an invite still makes me shudder. Why is it OK to bring a boyfriend of two days, and not a dear friend/cousin/colleague?

Surely this city can adopt a more pluralistic view of relationships. While London’s great to be single in, it also causes us to become hard-wired for rejection, set-up for disappointments and let-downs. And we all deserve a little better than that.

Of course, meeting someone later in life can be bittersweet. What-ifs inevitably hang in the air. Though I’d argue Chris has met a much nicer version of me than he would have done just a decade ago.

I certainly still don’t regret my protracted single experience — living through what writer Ethan Watters dubbed the Urban Tribe years. For many of us, friends become our most significant kinship group. As we delay pairing off, end long marriages and stay independent adults for longer, we crave the support network of people who understand “the real” us.

But even months later, I still can’t use the boyfriend word. Or imagine living with anyone. I need my own space, as does Chris. He affectionately calls us the bullet dodgers.

Chris has slightly called my bluff, though, by renting a flat in the street next to my home in Peckham. Perhaps we’ll manage to live side by side like Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre.

We joke about it all going horribly wrong at any moment — but what the hell. As writers, it’ll be great material for that next article.

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