I was sitting on the sofa with my housemates when I received the message. A reply to an Instagram story of me at a friend’s wedding.
‘Weddings are always good. Weddings in wine country are even better. Weddings with you at them are the best of all three! Jealous!’ My heart skipped a beat.
‘Shall we get married on a vineyard, then?’ I ventured. His reply was near instant. ‘Sounds good to me! I can’t think of anywhere better for us to get married TBH. When are we doing it?’
Like me, he was being playful. But soon he was calling me, telling me that when he thought about the future, who his life partner would be, I had every characteristic he was looking for.
I had known Dylan for two years. I’d imagined our French wedding, I’d pictured him taking our children on long bike rides.
So far so normal for a couple in their late 20s (me) and early 40s (him). Except Dylan and I weren’t in a relationship.
Yes, in total, we saw each other on and off for three years but we never met each other’s friends or family.
We never went on holiday together, celebrated a birthday together, or even took a single photo together.
We never uttered the word ‘exclusive’ – I didn’t ask if he was dating anyone else, he didn’t ask me – let alone ‘I love you’.
Welcome to the situationship – where dating and sex are allowed, but feelings are definitely not. It’s intimacy without commitment, rapport without stability, in-jokes and pet names without sincere connection.
Among many of my peers, it’s now entirely acceptable to be dating for months – or, in my case, years – without commitment of any kind.
Looking back, our set-up was always on Dylan’s terms. I now realise a situationship is often code for one person having their cake and eating it… while the other feels unable to voice their real desires. In my case, it felt too vulnerable, too uncool, to say what I really wanted.
Some may wonder why a confident, sociable journalist and author like me would put up with such crumbs, particularly as I was nearing 30 and wanted kids. But many of my girlfriends have a similar story: men who say the wildest things – ‘Shall we have five kids? I want a whole pack with you . . .’ – then act surprised to hear you thought things were getting serious.
At the same time, the fact we weren’t a ‘proper couple’ meant I felt stupid for getting upset when he let me down.
When we finally went our separate ways, it was these grey areas that made it worse than a real break-up. As well as heartbroken, I felt foolish.
In short, Dylan was the Daniel Cleaver to my Bridget Jones. I’d never rooted for this kind of twerp in the films, so you might assume I’d spot one when he came along. Instead, I ended up letting him dominate my life.
Whenever I had my doubts about Dylan, just like Cleaver, he’d sweep me off my feet or allude to grand plans – and I held on to his words like treasure.
We met on a work trip abroad five years or so ago. I was drawn to his smile and impassioned gesticulating. On the final night he joined me in my hotel room, where we drank fizz and chatted until the early hours. A gentleman, he didn’t make a move; we didn’t even share a kiss.
I left for the airport with a full heart – and the promise of meeting up back home in London.
Within a day he’d texted but it took weeks to nail down our first date at a pub near me. Even then he said he had to leave after half an hour to finish some work.
I watched him whizz away in an Uber, deflated. But in less than an hour, he’d messaged me to ask whether I wanted to go to his when he was done with emails. Was this just an elaborate booty call? I declined.
On our next date the first kiss finally happened, quickly followed by a second and a third. But his flakiness continued.
Even when a date was set, there was a 50-50 chance it would end in disappointment. He’d suggest doing something then, as it got closer to the time, say work meant he needed to delay by 30 minutes, an hour, more.
I’d sit at home, dressed up with lipstick and eyeliner, waiting for the text to say he was on the Northern Line so I could head out the door. Sometimes he was so late, he’d order me an Uber to take me straight to his house, skipping the bar or restaurant altogether. Sometimes I went, sometimes I didn’t.
Then there was the morning when I left his, only to receive a text a few hours later asking me to return. We spent the rest of the weekend cooking, chatting and lying naked, intertwined. And the time I cried down the phone as the pandemic took hold, and he knew exactly what to say. I held on to these moments for far too long.
Then came the biggest blow of all – Dylan moved back to New Zealand. Without telling me. I found out via an Instagram post that the man I’d hoped to have a future with had emigrated without so much as a text. The move had happened during one of our ‘off’ periods.
It pains me to admit that even after this, following a short spell of trying to ignore him, I started talking to him again.
‘Doing a bit of reflection and thinking about you a bit. Sure you know that you’re amazing and should be told every day,’ his message said.
I don’t think this was a tactic, I think he had no idea how significant this sort of comment might be to a woman approaching 30 who wanted children.
Though he probably should have realised, considering he was in his mid-40s by this point. Once I replied, texts were followed by emotional phone calls.
Though I forced myself to go on the occasional date, I admit I was still holding out for Dylan.
Whenever I asked when we’d meet, he’d say, ‘Soon.’ I’d have jumped on a plane in an instant.
My friends grew tired of me talking about him: ‘No, do not let him manipulate you. ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS!’ one wrote.
So I didn’t tell them that when I flew to visit my sister in Australia, I also planned to visit Dylan in New Zealand. But then, before our planned meeting, he phoned to say he’d started seeing someone. I felt as if I’d been punched in the face – I threw up from the anxiety of it all – yet still met him for breakfast.
There I found out the woman was actually his girlfriend, and that they’d recently been on holiday together, along with his family. His phone background was a photo of them kissing. Why her – and not me?
I was also confused. Not long before, he’d phoned to say he hadn’t made any connections in New Zealand and what would I think about him moving back?
‘Why did you meet me today?’ I asked. He laughed: ‘I knew that if I didn’t, I would lose you. That this would be the end.’
Then I realised: even with a new partner, he was trying to maintain a hold over me. Back in my hotel room, I allowed myself to sob. And so began the process of mourning an imagined future, an imagined relationship. The fact it had never been real made it all the harder.
It took writing a memoir, Main Character, to understand why my own Daniel Cleaver had such a hold over me. I vowed never to let myself be treated like that again.
Three years on, I’m happy to say, I’m in a relationship with a man who’s thoughtful, kind, handsome, funny, driven – and turns up when he says he will.
- Name and some identifying details have been changed.
- Lizzie Frainier is author of dating memoir Main Character: Lessons from a Real-Life Romcom, out now.
