If I went on a date now, it would have to be booked two weeks in advance

Sandwiched in bed between her kids and the dog, Charlotte Cripps recalls a blissfully romantic moment with Alex long before the drought set in ...

(Amara May)

I couldn’t quite believe my eyes when Alex opened the front door in a fluffy white towelling bathrobe – the type you find in a five-star luxury hotel and then steal. He was very welcoming as he ushered me into my sister’s sitting room. The flat smelt exquisitely of... what was it… oh yes… amber. Perhaps he is about to have a bath, I thought. Where is the post? I hope he doesn’t rush me out.

There are candles lit by the fireplace with a roaring fire. How cosy! He texted me to say there was lots of post for my sister in the hallway, so it’s not like he didn’t know I was coming over. So, why this demonstrative, half-naked welcome? Could this romantic atmosphere possibly be a signal? Such was my disbelief that he wanted to be with me that I must have missed it, like being airlifted out of a rom-com just before the climax.

He waved his arms around in an animated way and told me about some big design and build deal he was hoping to clinch. Not once did I suspect he was about to make a move. But then, out of the blue, he pulled me gently down on the floor with him. Wow, it felt like I was sinking into an ocean with wonderfully coloured fish as all the candle flames shone around us.

It’s so much easier when you drink and can let the inhibitions melt away. Now I was too alert – I couldn’t just fall into his bed. We were both in recovery and stone-cold sober

I hardly had time to adapt to the change in my reality. I had been told I was mad so many times. What would this mean? I was scared he would run a mile if we were going to be a couple. We could hardly have a fling? But at least something was happening. I wanted to shout “I’m not mad” from all the rooftops.

I like to look back to those romantic days before I encountered the “drought’’. It’s been so long, I can barely remember it. Sandwiched between Lola and Liberty – with the giant, mud-ridden dog on the end of the bed – rules out any kind of action. Even if I went on a date, it would need to be booked two weeks in advance. And there is no way I would stay over – it would be too expensive at £12 an hour.

When I met Alex I was as free as a bird. But clearly it was complicated, especially when the other person is struggling with their demons.

Back in his passionate embrace, I was on cloud nine when the doorbell chimed. “It’s probably Simon,” he said, intending not to answer it. So why did he stop? Did I look like I was about to have a panic attack? He laughed and looked distracted, and said: “Oh well, I’ll try again in another year.”

It’s so much easier when you drink and can let the inhibitions melt away. Now I was too alert – I couldn’t just fall into his bed. We were both in recovery and stone-cold sober.

My heart was pounding as I left that night. He went off to have a bath and I let myself out. I felt a smile creep over my face: OK, it went pear-shaped but was it actually a gift in disguise? He had romantic feelings for me. It was reassurance. I was not making it all up. This was real. Everything felt rose-tinted until I called him the next day. He couldn’t talk, he said, because he was up a ladder. Oh God, would I really have to wait a year?