I cycle around town on a second-hand bike and I have 8-quid jeans in the wardrobe, yet my date is a millionaire. We met, Cinderella-style, on a London dance floor, second only to the trading one in the density of City boys. A hedgie working in a multi-million company, girls would fight to hang out with him. They would get lost in his blue eyes, dreaming of Tiffany boxes of the same colour. He qualifies as a very eligible bachelor, and girls consequently treat him as a walking ATM. My pride being bigger than their social ambitions, I grew proudly independent as it became obvious that the gap between our incomes was to be measured in the hundreds of thousands.
For our first date – drinks in a posh bar where I can only ever afford soft drinks - I sported a Guess skirt I borrowed for the night from a colleague, the closest approximation to a designer label I could access in my social circle. He turned up suited and booted, looking glam and successful. I started kissing him on the neck only to inspect his jacket. With the Dolce and Gabbana label looking menacing at me, I went pale at the thought of what to wear had there been a second date. An old-school gentleman, he walked me to the bus stop. Taxis are an eccentricity I do not indulge in: I had to beg him to leave as I stubbornly waited in the cold for a red chariot to spirit me away.
The first time you see your date’s place is a moment of truth. When I got to that stage with him, I was ready to be taken aback by a manor with a pool. As the door opened to reveal a messy flat in desperate need of being aired out, I was strangely relieved. It was full of travel memorabilia - African masks, Indian fabrics, Japanese robes - but desolately devoid of food. We ordered in dinner - to my astonishment he asked me to chip in – and ate on the floor from the carton: so much for dating Mr Big. The next morning, as my stomach rumbled in pain, I discovered there is not even a biscuit in his flat. Turns out millionaires only eat out, and walk in a supermarket less frequently than I go to a designer shop.
Over the past few months, not only have I had to give up on my breakfast cereals: I have also had to accept being seen as a time-slot in-between a business meeting and a conference call. He, on the other hand, has had to visit me in my South London house-share infested with flatmates and mice, to savour my four-quid wine on offer at the local corner shop, to sleep with the feel of Ikea sheets on his skin. Class difference is a healthy reminder of the fact that a relationship, much like international politics, is based on compromise.
