‘Love in a time of lockdown would have been impossible for Alex and me’

When Charlotte Cripps suggests she and the kids move into her dad’s house for lockdown, he opts for self-isolation without any hesitation. Who can blame him?

Love in a time of lockdown would never have happened for Alex and me. We weren’t living together, and therefore we’d never have seen each other. I wouldn’t have two kids and a dog – that’s the reality. Even if he had moved in, IVF would have gone out of the window – just as it must be for so many women right now. How could I have stockpiled his sperm if I couldn’t drive it to Harley Street to freeze it? My biological clock wouldn’t have waited.

These scenarios play out in my mind as we are stuck indoors. I can just imagine the conversations: “Are you moving in or not? We have to decide right this second before lockdown. Make up your mind!” He would have done a runner. Men don’t respond well to pressure: when I broached the subject of moving into my 87-year-old dad’s house – with the kids and the dog – he opted for self-isolation without a moment’s hesitation. I don’t blame him. I imagine that’s how most men might feel.

I’m glad I’m not dating. It would be like offering somebody an instant family – going from a simple cinema date to full-blast parenting duties overnight.

And if not that, then these days, it seems to be all about Zoom sex/dating during coronavirus, so my friends tell me – even photoshopping your background so it looks palatial to cover up the tawdry reality – or in my case, the piles of nappies and wet wipes. I mean, as long as the kids were asleep it could work, but I would have to do the dating in the bathroom, which is triggering because I lived in my parent’s bathroom during the depths of my addiction.

The bathroom is the only place left with an internet connection now that Roseanna, the nanny, is trapped at mine on lockdown in the spare room/office. I don’t fancy it though, even though it means not having to fork out £12 an hour for a babysitter. At least when I was trying to get it together with Alex no kids were involved. It was uncomplicated – other than his issues. They didn’t put me off though – it was more of a challenge. I had invested so much in Alex that even if Ryan Gosling begged me for a date, I would not have given him one. I would have rather died a spinster than be with another man – that’s why it was such a leap of faith.

***

Alex calls to say he’s arrived in Spain but they have taken his phone off him and I’m not going to hear from him for six weeks while he adjusts to life in the rehab/spa. I’m feeling really hopeful that he’s going to stick it out. But just as it gets to the third week, he calls me to say he’s back. Back? I thought he was out there for six weeks?

He returns with a few rehab mates he met there and is travelling in a pack. David and Valentina sense I am the long-suffering girlfriend and offer me their condolences. But he’s on such good form that when I spend time with him, I feel like I’m the luckiest person in the world. Valentina keeps telling him he looks just like Daniel Craig. “Get your hands off him,” I think. But it turns out she is the girlfriend of a Liverpudlian drug baron banged up in an Amsterdam jail. Nothing to worry about there then – one wrong look from Alex and he could get bumped off.

I’m spending the night in with him as he reads the NA blue book. Is this the honeymoon period – as good as it is going to get? It doesn’t take long before he disappears again. Is he busy with work or has he fallen off the wagon? I still love him whatever he’s doing. Having been there myself, I can separate the person from the illness.

It’s as if my dream is over. He’s in my flat but leaving and I’m moving in. Where is the sense in that? It’s like musical chairs

I go round and bang at the door and eventually he opens it, looking like a sexy Dracula: he’s obviously not seen sunlight for days. I want to confront him but he won’t talk. He isn’t very friendly and tells me don’t worry he is moving out. Moving out? It’s as if my dream is all over. He’s in my flat and he’s leaving and I’m moving in. Where is the sense in that? It’s like musical chairs.

The next day a friend of his from Birmingham is packing up the flat. He’s going to stay in Westbourne Grove somewhere. I don’t have the address. Is he ending it with me? I am the one who should be finishing it, not him. I try to reason with him but it’s not the time. He’s defensive and prickly.

I leave the flat, tears are streaming down my face. I’ve been a fool. I’m never going to have his kids. I have a quick flirtation with getting a sperm donor, even calling a clinic for the cost. But I play the tape forward; if the psychic is right and I get together with him, how would it work if I’m pregnant with another man’s child? I throw myself on my bed and weep. I know it’s only a matter of time before he calls me. I’m bound to see his shiny Toyota pick-up truck outside his new place anyway.

In all the darkness I can see some light; I can move into my new flat and make a home. I ring the physic who bangs on about staying calm. “How many times do I have to tell you… Just be patient.”

Patient? She obviously doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does. But I try not to react and drive her mad. Of course, I have to pretend to believe her.