Swipe Right. A story about online dating, beautiful illusions, and desires unleashed

First Trip to London

October 2020

I’d never felt happier during take-off than I did that morning. For the first time in months, I felt nothing but hope. No fear. No anxiety. Only the certainty that something wonderful was waiting for me. That this trip would change my life.

Even the endless queue at Heathrow passport control couldn’t spoil my excitement. England had always been a happy place for me. As a schoolgirl at summer language camp. On business trips. Later, travelling with my husband. Every chapter of my life somehow seemed to lead back here.

When I finally stepped outside the terminal, I paused for a moment. A different light. A different smell. Even London’s faintly polluted air felt strangely comforting. I smiled to myself before heading for the Underground. It took about an hour to reach the City, where I’d booked a hotel for the next four nights.

The journey wasn’t at all what I’d imagined. Once I’d settled into my seat, I finally messaged Warren. I’ve arrived. Looking forward to seeing you tonight. His reply came almost immediately. He was spending Friday with his children. Perhaps we could meet on Saturday instead. Saturday. The one day I no longer had available. Mark had already claimed the morning. The Danish entrepreneur had dinner. Sunday and Monday were completely booked as well. Technically, I could have cancelled everyone. A week earlier I probably would have. Now I simply replied. No problem. Maybe next time.

To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. For a few minutes it genuinely felt as though the ground had disappeared beneath my feet. To Warren, I was simply another woman from Tinder. One more conversation. One more possibility. Being Russian. Being from Moscow. None of it made me particularly memorable. His priorities were simple. Mine were not. I’d crossed borders during a pandemic because I wanted to meet him. He hadn’t crossed an evening.

So, there I was. Alone in London. The person I’d come to see wasn’t coming. For weeks I’d imagined our first meeting. Replayed conversations. Invented scenes. Now they dissolved into nothing. Dragging my suitcase towards the hotel, I felt strangely empty. Halfway up the Underground stairs a man stopped and carried my suitcase without me even asking. It was such a small gesture. Yet somehow it made me smile. Maybe everything would be fine after all. Good people exist everywhere. And if all else failed… I’d simply enjoy London on my own.

My room was tiny but beautifully designed. Compact. Comfortable. Everything had its place. There was even a yoga mat tucked neatly into the wardrobe.

Downstairs I bought a salad with nuts and sprouts, carried it upstairs, ate it in silence, took a shower and climbed into bed.

Someone from Hinge offered to meet me for a drink in the hotel bar. I declined. I was exhausted. Emotionally drained. Besides, I had breakfast with Mark the following morning. Looking back, saying no that evening turned out to be one of the best decisions I made.

Only a couple of hours earlier I’d imagined waking up beside Warren on Saturday morning and texting Mark to cancel. Life had other plans.

Mark suggested meeting at the Grosvenor House Hotel. Elegant. Traditional. Unmistakably five-star. The sort of place that makes you instinctively straighten your back before walking through the door. It was only twenty minutes from my hotel. I could easily have walked. But arriving slightly out of breath in high heels with windswept hair somehow felt wrong. Places like that deserve an entrance. If not in a limousine… then at least in a black cab. I hailed one of London’s iconic taxis. The ride lasted barely seven minutes. Just long enough for my confidence to evaporate. Oddly enough, it wasn’t my outfit I doubted. That part was perfect. A Burberry trench. A fine black cashmere turtleneck. High-waisted flared jeans. Tod’s heeled ankle boots. An Hermès silk scarf. The clothes weren’t the problem. It was the disappointment from the night before. Part of me had stopped caring. Perhaps that showed. Perhaps it even suited me. As we approached the hotel, the driver caught my eye in the mirror.

“So…” he said with a grin.

“Off on a Tinder date?”

I almost choked.

Trying to sound completely professional, I answered far too quickly.

“No. It’s a work meeting.”

On a Saturday morning. Even to my own ears it sounded ridiculous. Fortunately, he let it go. The cab rolled through magnificent wrought-iron gates into the hotel’s courtyard. The driver stopped.

“There are several restaurants.” he said.

“Which one are you after?”

“I… honestly don’t know.”

I decided the safest option was to ask at reception where breakfast was being served.

He stepped out, opened the door for me, and I climbed out as gracefully as I could. Then he smiled.

“Good luck, miss.”

I felt my face instantly turn crimson.

“Thank you.”

As I crossed the courtyard, I couldn’t help imagining Mark watching from one of the restaurant windows. Perhaps he’d seen me arrive. The black cab. The hesitant search for the entrance. Oddly enough… I liked the picture it created.

The Meeting

At reception, I explained that I was meeting someone for breakfast. The receptionist pointed me towards one of the restaurants, and I tried to walk in as though I belonged there. Scanning the immaculate white tablecloths, I spotted Mark immediately. He was reading the morning paper. As soon as he saw me, he folded it, stood up and came over with an easy smile. We hugged like old friends.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“I have.”

“I’ve only managed one miserable teabag so far this morning.”

“Then you absolutely must order breakfast.”

I didn’t need persuading.

A waiter handed me the menu, and without thinking twice I ordered a cappuccino and a croissant.

I’ve never understood women who pretend not to eat on first dates. If I’m hungry, I’m hungry. A warm croissant always wins.

A few minutes later an enormous basket of pastries arrived with butter and several homemade jams. Perfect.

“Right,” I said, breaking off the first flaky piece.

“You talk while I eat.”

Mark laughed. He clearly regarded that as an invitation.

Fortunately, he was fascinating company. Once breakfast was over, he outlined his carefully planned itinerary. A walk through the City. Lunch at Borough Market. Then Tate Modern. We had three, perhaps four hours before I had to leave for dinner with the Danish entrepreneur. Mark looked exactly as he had on our video calls. Checked shirt. Jeans. A dark cashmere zip-up jumper. His trainers looked decidedly well worn. That detail bothered me more than it probably should have.

Outside, he pulled on a lightweight jacket and added a baseball cap. “In case it rains.” I hadn’t planned for rain. My trench coat could cope. My blow-dry couldn’t. His walking pace proved another challenge. He strode confidently over centuries-old cobblestones while I tried not to twist an ankle in heeled boots. Within minutes we’d disappeared into the narrow streets of the City. Listening to Mark was like walking through London with a living history book. Every alley. Every church. Every hidden courtyard. Every statue. He knew the story behind all of them. I’d visited London many times before. Yet somehow this felt like seeing the city for the first time. Every so often he glanced at his battered old iPhone. The screen was cracked. He was checking the time, recalculating the route, making sure we’d fit everything in. In little over an hour, I learned more about London’s history than I had throughout school and university combined. And hearing it from someone whose family had lived here for generations made all the difference. I couldn’t imagine the day getting any better. I was wrong. Eventually Mark realised we’d wandered much farther than he’d intended.

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