The Naughty Professor

Some dates are good, some dates are dreadful, and some dates are promising. If you follow the blog, you’ll probably believe that there are only terrible dates, I have regaled you with stories of the screwballs I have had the pleasure of meeting along the dating way. Occasionally there is that match that seems highly promising. The person you have matched with seems ‘normal’ in the sense there is nothing outstanding about them that rings any alarm bells. They have a decent job, drive a car to get to that job and generally work to pay bills and a mortgage. The professor was that guy. I was trying out yet another dating app in the hope that it offered the classier clientele as boasted about in their adverts. My first match was with a man who was 43. He was handsome in a James Bond kind of why, if Bond wore a tweed jacket rather than a dinner suit. He had kids, lived 37 miles away and was hoping to meet someone who enjoyed travel and nights in. His job wasn’t disclosed but from his photos I assumed it was a pretty decent one. He wore a lot of tweed (maybe he liked to hunt), he drove a Range Rover Evoque (right on trend for any social climber) and had many photos in different countries (so he had a passport). He messaged first and was very proper and polite. He said I looked friendly, and he read from my profile that I liked to travel. He explained that he worked in a university and was doing research in a field that was far beyond my comprehension but sounded very important indeed. I learned he often travelled with work to far and distant lands to collaborate with colleagues on ground-breaking research. He was interesting which made chatting very easy but most of all I was impressed at the app delivering on its promise of a higher calibre of date. He told me he had to travel to the US for work in the next week or so. I thought “here we go, the other shoe had to drop sometime” and awaited the kiss off. I was pleasantly surprised when he said he was keen to keep in touch during his time away and gave me his mobile number. For once, I couldn’t have gotten it more wrong. True to his word he sent texts back and forth which were all standard and getting to know me type questions. It was so unusual as my experience so far had been guys sending unsolicited photos of body parts and asking me what I would do to them. This guy just wanted to chat and from the sounds of things take me on a date. The cynic in me wouldn’t allow myself to believe that this picture was entirely reflective of reality. He seemed too good to be true. (I wished I had known about the duck test then!) The day before he was due to fly home, the tone of his texts changed. The double entendres were overt and graphic and for a moment I thought he had lost his phone somewhere and another person had picked it up and decided to have some fun. This was further bolstered when an unsolicited photo of a cocktail sausage arrived in my inbox. I felt disappointed (not because of the size of the sausage) because I realised in that moment he was just like the other guys. I didn’t reply. A week later I received a text. It contained one word - sorry. I still didn’t reply. A couple of days later he thought he’d try again and sent a message saying he would like to take me for dinner as a way of saying sorry. I must’ve been starving, or it was the end of the month and I was skint, I found myself agreeing to meet. We met at a Michelin star restaurant which I couldn’t help but be impressed by as I’m a foodie. If he wanted to apologise who was I to talk him out of a nice meal? I dressed to the nines and he turned up, straight from the hunt in his tweed suit and leather elbow pads. Luckily, he had some dapper shoes instead of wellies and, if I’m honest, he smelled great. We hadn’t even eaten, and I felt in the forgiving mood. The sight of the main dining room was something to behold with its high ceilings, chandeliers and waiters who wore white gloves to serve. I felt like an extra in a period drama. He was seated at the table, and he even pulled my chair out for me like I’d heard gentlemen used to do. We had a lovely meal and he apologised multiple times for his poor messaging etiquette until eventually he was reassured that his apology had been heard. He told me about his life, how he travelled with his family as a child, about the divorce he was in the middle of and how he was trying to find his own place. I raised an eyebrow at the fact he was still in the family home, but he tried to convince me there was nothing to worry about and it was temporary. I was still wary, but the wine was battling me to keep control of my wits. We had consumed two bottles by this point, and I felt a little tipsy. It felt classy to drink glasses which had been paired for each course. The coffee course came around as did nightfall. It was late autumn, and the nights drew in earlier and earlier but it brought a natural conclusion to a great date. As we sipped on our coffees, he explained that his mother continued to live in France and was feeling out of sorts. He thought perhaps he would need to visit her in the coming weeks, to remain the good son in her eyes. I could tell he was concerned about her too, or at least the drunk me wanted to believe that. He wiped his lips with his cloth napkin and excused himself to go to the little boy’s room. I sat back in the winged back chair and took in the splendour of the room. I couldn’t believe he had taken me to such a lovely place. He had said multiple times that it was his treat which I thought was very old-school but truly demonstrative of an apology. Everything had been great about the date: the food, the wine, and the company. Sure, I wasn’t impressed that he was at the beginning of a divorce, but he seemed to be in a good place with it. Why was I not feeling the same? Why was I concerned? When waiting for someone to return to the table, it is easy to feel like people are watching you or that the person is taking a very long time. I finished the last sip of the last wine offered and adjusted myself on the seat awaiting his return. People came, people went, and still I waited. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see our waiter talking to the Maitre d’. Our waiter delicately approached me at the table and said “Madam, your partner has settled the bill and said he has had to leave on urgent business. You are welcome to stay at the table until you feel ready to leave”. Well at that you thought the pistol had been fired to mark the start of a race. I gathered up my belongings and hightailed it out of the restaurant quicker than you could blink. I kept the speed up all the way to the train station until I sat down in my seat. What the f**k just happened?! The train pulled away from the station and my phone pinged. I opened the text which read “my mother has taken ill and I need to leave tonight for France.” The wine had dulled my senses and emotions. I dare say I could’ve mustered up some expletives for a return text or some kind of rebuttal. Instead, I put in my headphones and stared out of the window into the abyss. There is nothing but black to be seen at night in late autumn. A few days later my friends and their excellent detective skills had discovered he wasn’t in France and he wasn’t divorced. He was a professor though, a very naughty professor it seems. I thought I would never hear from him again, it’s not like we mingle in the same circles. However, about a month after being abandoned like Garbo in the late night grand hotel, he sent one final text which read simply “ I’m sorry”.