This is a little departure from our timeline - I hope you don't mind. It's just that I had to write something - mainly because Caitlin and I have just said goodbye for the last time in a long while, and if I don't write something down I won't sleep a wink tonight. So here I am, in another hotel, in another bed, writing another article for our little blog.

Where to begin? I suppose quoting someone famous is always a good start. "The power of love is a curious thing, make a one man weep, make another man sing, change your heart to a little white dove, more than a feeling, that's the power of love." - Huey Lewis and the News.

Marriage is a wonderful thing, taken in its proper context and form, by two people who fully understand the commitment and are really and truly in love. I would venture that this rarely happens between two people below the age of about thirty. What I don’t think many people realise is just how long it’s supposed to last. I didn’t, but then I was married long before I ever got near thirty. I had a vague idea of the enormity of the commitment, but it wasn’t a real comprehension. I married a wonderful person – she was pretty, kind, loving, generous, humble, gracious – I won’t go on, but you get the general idea. There was only one snag, and that was that I didn’t love her.

In 1991, a girl I loved with all my heart - and hoped to spend the rest of my life with - dumped me with no explanation. I was utterly devastated, consumed by the thought that I would never find love like that again. Then along came the woman I was to marry – she was already a friend, but I hadn’t realised she was interested in me romantically. I was flattered, and saw no harm in dating her – indeed it was the perfect thing to get my mind off Julia. Alison was different from Julia, and hadn’t had the best relationship with her father. She used to write long letters to me about how she trusted me, but found it very hard to trust men in general. She sounded vulnerable, to be blunt, and I had the chance to make sure she was alright throughout life. So one thing led to another - we became engaged - and then ultimately, the wedding day arrived.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t thought about what I was getting myself into. It was just that I thought I could cope, and that everything would be alright. I knew that she loved me more than I loved her, but I expected that my love for her would grow, and if it didn’t, I would easily be able to bear it, for I could never love again like I’d loved Julia anyway. I didn't know it, but I didn’t understand love and maybe I still don't.

There are some obvious examples of the different types of love – romantic love, parental love, sibling love, platonic love - the love of a good friend. Whilst I realised that the love I had for Alison was platonic love, it seemed OK - I didn’t consider that any capacity for romantic love remained within me.

Romantic love is a special thing – a spark, a quickening of the heartbeat when the object of desire enters the room. I do know that feeling well – the seeming insanity of some of the thoughts it provokes. How, for example, when the apple of your eye opens a door, you wish you were the door handle. How you wish you could be the air that your loved one just walked through. How you wish that, at any given moment, you were the person on the other end of their current phone conversation. Absolute insanity; love is well known for banishing any sense of reason from a situation.

I’m not sure I believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in a spark at first sight, a gut feeling that there is something overwhelmingly special about this person. Sometimes, someone just hooks your heart as they go by, and there’s nothing you can do to get it back. I don’t think this happens very often – once, twice, three times maybe in a lifetime, but when it does, there’s no mistaking it. In the words of Freddie Mercury, “It’s a kind of magic.” You could find the most beautiful, the nicest, most compassionate, most intelligent person, and try and make a relationship work. But if there’s no spark, no hook, you're in trouble.

I remember falling in love with Caitlin - it happened in a couple of distinct stages. Firstly, there was the first time I saw her. The initial hook. She was different - special, unique.

Now, I know that attractive women are everywhere. Especially in London - one can hardly move for fear of stepping on the toes of a beautiful woman. But pleasant as it is to look at such a creature, it’s all too easy for the illusion to be shattered - a terrible voice or accent for example. Really horrible shoes, walking like a man, excessive scratching and black-painted fingernails are all things that can make the most attractive woman lose her appeal in an instant. Yes – we all know that women can be fussy when they look at a man, but it works the other way too. But it’s not just visible things that are at work here.

For years I've travelled the UK and Europe with my job, meeting all sorts of people, and women. I've been in orchestras full of gorgeous female string and woodwind players (the brass section seems to be reserved for the uglier ones). When I was 20, I played the piano in the band for a gospel choir touring the United States for a few weeks - there were about thirty girls between the ages of 16 and 30. I have a number of very attractive female friends, but none of them - none of them - has ever made me feel like Caitlin did that first time I saw her walk by. I literally couldn't take my eyes off her, and something inside turned to jelly while my heart leapt. It was an unmistakable feeling - the magic spark.

The second stage was a a big bump, a realisation of how I felt which will always stick in my mind clearly. It happened during a morning coffee in April 2007. We were in the Starbucks in Caitlin's building, and talking about job interviews - I was going for one that afternoon. I remember a single moment when she was joking about my taking ages to sign off changes to a document. I'd been looking out of the window, and as I turned back to face her, my eyes happened to focus on the corner of her mouth as she started to break into a grin. I remember thinking that it was the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen and it made me want her - to hold her, to take her home, to look after her. My heart raced. At that time, I had no idea whether or not she was interested in me, but my heart had simultaneously melted for her and steeled itself against everything else that could stand in my way. The feeling was amazing. I flew to the interview that afternoon, a hero. I was unassailable. and the job was mine.

The next stage was that night in Carluccio's. Such a beautiful night with such a beautiful lady - by the end I was completely hooked, and that explains why I felt such pain when a week later I thought I'd never see her again. A year has passed since then, and my love for her has grown with every email, text, phone call and minute together that we have shared. Words can't describe how wonderful she is. And hot - my god, she's hot.

Before Caitlin, I had completely forgotten what romance felt like. I was resigned to the thought that I'd never feel it again, and you know what? I didn't mind, because it meant I couldn't be hurt as much again. But I'm so glad to feel it now. Thinking back to before Caitlin, about how I felt then compared to how I feel now, it's as if I were dead inside back then. I feel so alive now, and it's all thanks to her - she's brought me back to life, and I'll never be able to thank her enough.

I know now, that romantic love doesn’t suddenly spring from any other kind of love. If it’s not there in the beginning, it’s never suddenly going to turn up. Some people say that it does, that it’s happened to them, and if it has and they’re happy then that’s marvellous for all concerned. But find it hard to believe. I don’t think that you suddenly realise that the love of your life has been sitting next to you for the last five years, unless you’ve had some life-changing experience together. Massive trauma, for instance, is known for bringing a sense of fate and belonging to survivors, and love relationships often spring from catastrophic events. But that’s not the norm.

My wife is fantastic, she still has all of those great attributes that I mentioned earlier and more besides, plus she’s a really great mum to our children. I love her dearly – I would never set out to hurt or embarrass her, ever. But the spark is absent. Never on a single occasion has my heart skipped a beat when she’s entered the room – not even on our wedding day. Initially, I thought I could live with that for ever, and that was my crucial mistake. I wasn't looking for love - I haven't looked for it since Julia. But I had no real idea of how long "for ever" was, or what would happen if that love found me.

Mine is an extremely complex situation. Or maybe extremely simple, whichever way you like to look at it. My wife and I have two lovely young children, who are growing up in a stable home with two loving parents. It’s the model family – we even had a dog until recently. I earn a good wage, my wife works part-time, we have two cars, no debt, a nice big house in a nice area, a beautiful garden and we all have good health. There are plenty of people in the UK alone who would love to be in that position. Who am I to spoil all of that just for my own selfish happiness? It would devastate my wife if I were to actually leave, it really would. It would have a serious effect on my children too, and would probably devastate me for a while. Plus, I have a responsibility to look after them, and surely the way to do that is to provide a stable and loving home for them in which they can flourish and feel safe.

There’s another argument that says that you only get one chance at life, and you have to make of it what you will. If I need love - romantic love - in order to be happy in life, then I should cut my losses and go and find it. It’s certainly more appealing than the thought of dying an angry and bitter man. I can still be there for my children, but they’ll still need to learn to deal with a big loss at an early age. Still, they’ll have to make of it what they will. It’s true in a sense, but it kills me to think about it. No loving parent willingly wants to inflict trauma upon a young child. In fact, no compassionate human being willingly wants to inflict trauma on an innocent party, period. How could I live with myself, hurting my wife, children, in-laws, my dad and grandparents? How can I live with myself feeling like someone who is alive and kicking, but living inside a dead person’s shoes? But deep down, I’m terrified that I’ll make this leap of faith, and come crashing down into destitution and despair, bringing innocent people with me. Is it worth it, for love?

I'm really not sure how I feel about all this. Soon, too soon, Caitlin is leaving the UK for ever, going to start a new life back home with her family and her boyfriend and the baby she's expecting. I'm not at all sure how we could ever be together now, and am starting to accept that maybe we won't. I'm not hurting like I was after Julia, but I do feel as though I've lost the love of my life again and that I'll never love another. And that doesn't make the idea of a divorce very appealing. It was 16 years between losing my first love and meeting my second. Maybe I'll get divorced in 15.

One thing I am sure about is that I love Caitlin unconditionally. She's going to have another man's baby and to build a life with him, and I don't mind at all because I know she's happy. I'm very sad to be losing her, but at the same time, knowing that she's happy makes me happy too. It's a weird feeling - one that I'm not used to, but it's liberating all the same. And it makes me feel saintly, which I haven't felt before but can tell you isn't altogether an objectionable feeling.

I'm no saint, but I'm over the moon that Caitlin will soon have the baby that I know she's wanted for some time now, and that she worried she might never have. She will make a fabulous mum. I only wish I could be there to see her.

A lot of detail about the week that followed is a bit of a blur. I remember the journey home on the train though, the next day. I couldn't get Caitlin out of my mind. I was listening to some swing music for one of my upcoming band gigs - Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. Those unbelievably cheesy love songs - suddenly they began to make sense. It sounds stupid, but it's true. I was imagining Caitlin in the seat opposite as the train shot through the countryside and Tony Bennett sang "The best is yet to come". A couple of times I caught myself smiling at the empty seat. I had to be careful in case they were waiting with a straitjacket at the next station. One thing I knew though was that I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt like this - it was amazing, and it made me ache inside.

I don't remember much else about that specific weekend, but it's probably safe to say that it was the same as every weekend that followed for months afterwards, with me being a bit distant and withdrawn from my family and thinking about Caitlin the whole time. I know it's not healthy, but I was a bit obsessed I think. I think love does that to one. There's no doubt I was in love, even then.

On Monday, I was in work doing expenses, and Caitlin popped up on MSN. She was going away for a few weeks the following Saturday, and I knew I'd miss her a lot. She was going to spend some of that time alone, and I was plagued with the thought that she'd spend the time thinking about her life and the future, and that she'd decide that she didn't want anything more to do with me. It made sense for her not to bother with me - being married with two children - it's a ton of trouble waiting to happen. If I was impartial, I would have warned her to keep well away, but I wasn't impartial, and hated the thought of not being able to see her. For some stupid, stupid reason, I typed into MSN that I didn't want her to rule out the possibility of being with me. I regretted it a bit as soon as I'd typed it, but the reply was a long time coming and by the time it came I thought that I'd blown it big time.

After that night in Carluccio's, I didn't know *what* to do - I couldn't sleep at night or concentrate on anything during the day, but at the same time I didn't want her to realise just how strongly I felt, in case she thought I was nuts or some weird stalker-type. I think it was also because I wasn't sure what was going on myself - whether I was just temporarily obsessed, or just over-excited because someone gorgeous had shown an interest in me. I didn't know, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing that feeling. Whenever I pictured myself with Caitlin, I was happy, that's all I knew, and at the time, that was almost all I cared about. So I typed the message.

After a long while she sent a reply that said that this was a conversation we should have over a table, and not over MSN. I asked if I'd blown it, and she said no, and not to worry. She told me a lovely saying that I won't repeat here, but it was so reassuring to hear at the time. She handled it really wisely, and it was just another thing that I admired about her. I felt a bit like a small boy in comparison to her wisdom.

I spent the next couple of days working from home. We were going to meet for lunch before the end of the week - a sort of 'goodbye' before she went away. I was back in Canary Wharf on the Wednesday, and we arranged lunch on the Thursday, at Cafe Rouge. Over lunch, we chatted a bit, and then she said simply, "I can't get involved with you while you're still married". We ate for a few seconds in silence - I just pushed my lettuce around with my fork - and I mumbled some apology and said "I know" and some other pointless things. The fact was, she was right, and we both knew it. I'd had this dream, but in reality it just couldn't happen. She'd already escaped one marriage to regain her freedom, and the last thing she needed was to get involved with a married man. She apologised and said that she hoped I didn't resent her. Oh my word. I didn't resent her. I wanted her more than ever.

We carried on with the lunch, chatting about her plans for the holiday, but when the end came, I felt so sad. It was the last time we'd be doing this, and I couldn't imagine how the days could pass without my being able to mail her, or text her, or meet her for coffee. When we were parting, I asked if I could kiss her on the cheek, and she said "of course". As we said goodbye and walked away, I was nearly in tears. She was so beautiful, in so many ways, and now I was losing her.

I got back to the office, and Dean asked me, "How did lunch go mate?" I pulled a face - part smile, part grimace and part pout. It was the closest I could manage to a smile. "She said she couldn't be involved with me while I'm married" I said flatly. "Oh", he replied. We didn't speak much more that afternoon - he could sense that I didn't want to say anything - I was deep in thought - and he didn't really know what to say anyway.

As the day wore on, I began to feel more and more miserable. I wasn't angry - I could completely understand why she'd said it, and I admired her for having the guts to tell me. Part of me wished she'd been a real bitch, so that I could be angry and have some feelings and insults to throw at her to help my healing process. But she'd been gentle and wonderful. Understanding why she'd said it didn't help me at all either. So by the time the clock inched around to a time when I could leave the office, I had formed a plan. It wasn't a good, long-term plan though. It was a short, sharp "get rid of the pain" plan - I was going to get well and truly hammered. I knew, while I was stone-cold sober, that it was an incredibly stuipd, childish and irresponsible plan. But I didn't care. If I didn't do something, I would lie awake all night in the awful, tortured state in which I'd spent the evening, and the afternoon before that. Besides, it was a feeling of responsibility that had landed me in this stupid position of being married in the first place. I'd had enough of being sensible - it was time to get twatted.

I started in the Henry Addington bar, with a double vodka and coke. The coke was just to stave off the hangover - if I could have survived drinking neat vodka without being ill, I would've done it. I followed it with another, and then another. I remember standing outside the pub watching some guy juggling. A crowd of foreign tourists had gathered around to watch, and I found myself in the crowd, surrounded by giggling, pointing people dressed in those funny clothes that mark Europeans as having a very liberal fashion sense - as if they've been dipped in glue and thrown into a jumble sale. A woman started smiling at me and jabbering away in some foreign language. I grinned back inanely. The vodka was setting in, and I didn't have the faintest idea what she was saying, and what's more, I didn't give a toss. I wasn't even listening to try and figure out which language she was speaking. I was feeling warm and fuzzy - not happy, but pleasantly detached, and just wanted to be left alone. She carried on, thinking that I understood, so I carried on too, grinning and nodding. It was getting ridiculous - whatever she said, I'd nod and smile. She must have seen in my eyes that I wasn't exactly mulling over her profound conversational threads; eventually she turned her attentions elsewhere, and I leaned on the railing overlooking Heron Quay. I thought about jumping in for a moment, and for some reason I thought about throwing my glass in so I could jump in after it. Not to drown myself, but just to do something spontaneous and different - to prove to myself that I could *be* spontaneous and take control of my own life. Jumping in would prove that if I wanted to do something ridiculous and have to buy some new clothes into the bargain, I could damn well do it. Surprise surprise, I didn't jump in. I just moved to All Bar One, and ordered more vodka, and some chips.

Have you ever been standing at a bar, drunk, depressed and without knowing a single person in the place? I'm not sure I had until that night. Still, I ate my chips and made small talk with some women who were eating their chips just along the bar from me. The small talk mostly consisted of my apologising for stealing their serviettes. I ate my chips, finished another vodka and coke, then left. I felt like such a loser - I've got everything that lots of people want, but I couldn't have the very thing I wanted most, and it made all the rest seem almost worthless. It wasn't a pleasant feeling at all.

I weaved my way over to Smollensky's, which was packed full, music pumping in full wannabe-nightclub mode. I ordered my drink (can't remember what it was), and leaned back against the bar. My eyes were looking in the direction of the Reuters ticker display around the corner of All Bar One and the Slug and Lettuce, but I wasn't actually reading it. The orange lettering washed over my cornea with hardly any acknowledgement from my brain. By now, I didn't have any plans; I didn't care what happened next. The thing was, my "get twatted" plan had been going well in the beginning, but at some point which had slipped my attention, it started to fail. I was getting more drunk, but the pain wasn't going away. In fact, by Smollensky's, it seemed to be getting worse again. I realised I was clutching my phone, hoping that Caitlin would suddenly ring, or appear in the bar beside me. I knew she wouldn't of course, but that didn't stop me hoping. I had no idea what would happen if we met - we'd still be friendly of course, but what would I say? Would I tell her about the pain, how I felt? I didn't think so, and couldn't see much use in hoping to meet really. So I surprised myself when I sent her a text which said something like "Don't find Cluney - find me - tonight. Just a hug. Please?" I sent it and ordered another drink.

Some time later - I think about three-quarters of an hour but I'm not sure - there came a reply! My heart raced as I read the text - "Where are you? I'm just at Canary Wharf tube - I'll come and find you." Wow. I wasn't expecting that. The next few minutes are a hazy memory, but I remember that we met outside Smollensky's - Caitlin rang to find out where I was, and saw me as she came around the corner of the building. I was looking the wrong way. "Ah - I can see you now!" she said. "What? Where?" said I, agog, looking all around. "Turn right, yep, more right, no, too much". This went on for a while, and she was pretty close by the time I actually saw her. I still remember what she was wearing. We didn't hug, or kiss - she carried on walking, and I joined her, feeling foolish and elated at the same time. We tried to decide where to go - everywhere was closing or full of people we knew. In reality, Caitlin was trying to decide where to go - my mind was free-wheeling in amazement that she was actually here. I think I probably just walked with a stupid smile on my face, I can't really remember.

We ended up in the grottiest bar in Canary Wharf. It looked rotten from the outside, and the clientelle were not the most inspiring-looking bunch. The bouncers on the door refused to let Caitlin in because she was wearing trainers. "I suppose they're afraid she might lower the tone of the place," I thought as I looked in through the window to see a fat, balding man in his late forties strutting his stuff on the dance floor, knocking drinks out of people's hands with his colossal, oscillating hips. The cheek of it. Luckily for us, Caitlin had proper shoes in her bag, so she changed into them outside the place in the freezing cold. We ordered some drinks and found a table on the upper level, away from the crowds. The paint was peeling from the wall next to the table, and the house sound system sounded as if it was living on borrowed time. The carpet was dark with a heavily patterned design, no doubt to conceal the alcohol and vomit that had been spilled on it over time. I didn't care a bit. An hour ago I had been in agony, and now Caitlin was sitting opposite me, as large as life, as gorgeous as ever. Neither of us was smiling much though, really. She was going back to Australia in a couple of days, and things were in a bit of a mess for both of us.

We talked, about life, marriage, love, the past and the future. We held hands and talked. We laughed at our ridiculous surroundings. For a while, I looked at pictures she had recently taken at a wedding, but mostly we talked. Then she ventured, "Maybe I should stop listening to my head so much and listen to my heart instead." "Yes, maybe," I agreed, and surprised myself for the second time that evening by saying, "Can I kiss you? I want to kiss you so much." She nodded her consent, and once again our lips touched. It was heavenly. We spent the next hour or so talking and kissing and laughing, but it was much more subdued than the previous week at Carluccio's.

I walked her home later that evening, and we enjoyed another lingering goodnight. We kissed until Caitlin's lips were sore. It was much more fun and the atmosphere so much lighter when we'd left the bar. Somehow we talked about something that started Caitlin curtseying, over and over again, laughing hysterically that she couldn't stop.

I floated back to the hotel on a cloud of happiness. I felt as though I had her back once more. The dreams ran through my imagination as I walked, and I couldn't keep the smile off my face.

About a minute after I closed the hotel room door behind me, the happy feeling left. It was as though I'd shut it out in the corridor when I closed the door. The old angst from earlier in the evening began gnawing again, and as I lay in bed in the darkness, the futility of my situation seemed enormous. I wondered how Caitlin was feeling. The hours went on, and as I counted the minutes off, my hope was that I'd eventually drift off to sleep. The pain was physical though, and kept me awake. I swear I have never felt anything like it. I'm not saying it was excruciating - it wasn't. It was just as though there was a hand around my heart, gently squeezing - as though the movements of my heart were constricted and it couldn't expand properly. It steadily got worse as time went on, progressing with the steady deepening of the sense that I would never be with Caitlin, and worst of all, that I would never see her again. It seemed ridiculous to be affected so much after such a short relationship, but that's the way it was. If I could have dismissed her from my mind and from my heart, I would have that night - to get rid of the pain. But I couldn't. I went over and over things in my mind - things we had said to each other, things we hadn't said to each other, things we'd done and hadn't done. Eventually, by about 5:30 AM I couldn't take it any more and I just wept and wept. I felt better after that, and managed to sleep from about 6 to 7 o'clock.

Our night out was on a Thursday - the last in April. We had made the final arrangements by email, as I was working from home in the days immediately preceding. I was travelling over to meet Caitlin from my hotel, and as usual was running slightly behind schedule. She was working late in the office, which was a shame as the sun was beginning to set, and it was a lovely, golden evening. I called her mobile phone from outside Smollensky's to work out where to meet, and wasn't aware that someone else had called her at the same time, on the desk phone. She was expecting a call, and had answered the other phone, but had somehow answered her mobile too. I could hear her talking to someone else in the distance, before hanging up on me. It wasn't a very auspicious start and I felt as though it was my fault, although there was no real reason I should have. A minute later, she called me back and explained what had happened. We laughed, and my nervousness abated somewhat. After some debate, we decided to go to the Reebok bar, and that I would meet her outside her building.

I arrived there before she did. The glass walkway was warm, but I had butterflies and felt little shivers of anticipation, so I closely scrutinised a scrap of paper that was fixed to the wall, as though I needed some reason to be there. To this day, I have no idea what the paper said, but any observer would have thought that I should know every grain of pulp and toner that made up the document. Eventually she came, walking out through the heavy glass doors with a smile on her face that bordered on shy. "What's that you were reading?", she asked, and I mumbled, "Oh, just some... thing", my voice trailing off and my hand waving dismissively. I don't know how I looked to her, but I felt that I looked like a bright-eyed and eager puppy, hoping for a biscuit. I tried to appear calm and nonchalant. I'm not sure if it worked, but it didn't need to for long, as with a flourish of a piece of paper, she took up the conversation. The paper was a fine that she had received for travelling on an overground train without a ticket. We talked as we walked. Caitlin had thought that Oyster cards were valid on normal railways, and had received the fine when the ticket inspector was less than impressed with her story. She handed me the fine to keep as a souvenir.

The bar was full of people attending a fund-raising event, so we moved towards a quieter part of the room and found a table which was tucked away in the corner. We sat down, and started to chat. Actually, she did most of the talking initially, which from my point of view was great as I could just listen without scratching around for ideas on how to make my life sound less boring. Caitlin was very open about what had happened in her life so far - what had happened with her marriage, what had happened with her previous relationships, what her life had been like. We talked about our backgrounds, families, of life, love, fate, music, films and also a little about work. That was the easiest and most enjoyable conversation I remembered having for a long long time. She had a gift of being able to express difficult feelings and emotions with insight and ease. She was easy-going, and so made me feel relaxed and happy and alive. It felt so good just to listen, but I didn't feel as though I had any great thoughts to offer. Just after we had sat down, I told her, "I thought tonight would never happen", and she looked surprised. "Why?", she asked, but I didn't really have a good answer. The simple truth was that I didn't believe that someone as beautiful and popular as she would put herself out, would go somewhere specific where she wouldn't otherwise have gone, for married, old me.

Later, she was talking about how she didn't want to have to wait for ever for "Mr Right". Then she said "You never know - he could be in this room". At this point, I wasn't looking at her - I was staring straight ahead, but I could sense her looking at me (I don't really know if she was). I bated my breath as I sensed what she meant, and she confirmed it by saying, "It could be you". I didn't trust myself to say what I really felt - it was still only the first time we'd met in the evening for a drink, and in reality, we didn't know each other that well. It felt as though we were made for each other though, and more than anything I wished that I could just leave my existing life and start a new one, with Caitlin. It was too early to say things like that, of course. All I could do was continue staring ahead and say "I know".

Something that surprised me initially was her sensitivity to how it may look, the two of us out together. I hadn't really thought about it, but Caitlin had and wanted to keep it low key - we went to the bar in turns discreetly, and when we were about to leave, she asked me if I was OK with us leaving together, or if I wanted to stagger our exits. I was touched that she was so considerate. I know she was protecting her own reputation too, but it still impressed me. There was a gang of people from work in the bar, and we were avoiding them like the plague. The project was a regular gossip mill, and the rumours would have spread like wildfire if the wrong people had noticed the two of us (and there were plenty of the 'wrong' people). That night, and on many occasions since that we have met, her prudence has saved us both from being the centre of rumours into which my thoughtlessness might otherwise have led. It's yet another reason for me to admire her.

We strolled through the Canada Square shopping centre towards Smollensky's and All Bar One. As we made our way out of the shopping centre below the painfully vivid Reuters news screen, we passed Carluccio's on our left. It looked very warm and inviting, and the smell was making my mouth water. I noticed quite suddenly that I was hungry and that a pizza should hit the spot nicely, but Caitlin was on the phone so I couldn't say anything to her. Instead, I nodded towards the restaurant, making wild knife and fork gestures. She grinned and nodded, and so we headed in and I asked for a table for two.

I smile whenever I think of the time that followed; I smile, and feel a warm glow inside. It was a slow meal, not in the frustrating, teeth-gnashing "hurry up with the bill" sense, but in a luxurious, intimate, comforting and dreamy kind of way. Our waitress could quite clearly see that we were enjoying ourselves, and was, I think, deliberately giving us some space. Our table was in a warm and cozy spot, in the heart of the restaurant near the kitchen (which I faced). The lighting was low, and the candle in the center of our table burned brightly. We'd had a couple of drinks each, and just relaxed into each other's company, our faces close as we leaned over the table. The candle made her eyes sparkle, and I don't think either of us stopped smiling the whole time. We talked, smiled and laughed the evening away and I don't even remember the food. I remember that it I enjoyed it, but that is all. At one point, Caitlin produced a piece of paper from somewhere (it might have been a menu), and being a budding journalist and always having a pen to hand, started to doodle on it. Then she wrote on it, "I think you're great!" and pushed it across the table to me with a smile. A few months previously she had told me how she had a boyfriend and that she thought he was "great". I wasn't sure how much "great" meant to her, but that was enough for me for now.

I took the pen and paper from her, and struggled to think of something to write that wouldn't seem contrived. I was highly aware of the stereotypical image of the married man trying to get one of the girls from work into bed, and that is not me at all. Getting to know her was good enough for me, basking in the warmth of her smile and simply existing in the the same place as her for as long as I possibly could. But saying any of that on paper would have just looked like a line to get her to sleep with me, so I said that I was so happy I didn't know what to write. I felt really lame for saying that. A few weeks before, I had sent her a message on MSN telling her which of her attributes I liked the most, so I wrote it again on the paper. Elegant, intelligent, articulate, feminine, sexy and sensitive were among the adjectives on the list. Caitlin seemed slightly disbelieving, because she went through the list and asked me how each word applied to her, particularly "sensitive", by which she thought I meant "fragile", when I really meant "empathetic". She skipped "sexy" though. I should have added 'tactful' to the list.

One thing I clearly remember about the contents of the meal is the dessert wine. Caitlin saw another couple who were having it - it came with little biscuits which intrigued me, and so Caitlin insisted that we have it too, as it was supposedly very nice. The wine and biscuits arrived, and the wine was truly horrible. I didn't want to be the one to say so as Caitlin was obviously so fond of it, but a couple of sips in she declared it 'like petrol', and we collapsed laughing again. She turned her attention to the promotional blackboard. "They do breakfasts here. I didn't know that. We'll have to come for breakfast one day." We talked about meeting for breakfast regularly, even when she moved away (she was moving apartments to another part of London). We gazed and smiled at each other over the candle. I badly wanted to kiss her, but the candle would probably have set my tie on fire, and I didn't want to spoil things with fires or haste.

We were among the last to leave the restaurant that night. I was happier than I remembered ever being. As we left the restaurant, a cover version of Robbie Williams' song "Angels" was playing in the restaurant. It was in a European language that certainly wasn't English - I'd take a guess that it was Italian. Either way, when we left, Caitlin had started to sing "Angels" on the top of her voice. We entered the shopping centre again, and as we were in an enclosed space with other people, I thought she'd stop. She didn't though. She carried on, loudly and with a big smile on her face. She certainly wasn't embarrassed, and looked so happy that I couldn't help but grin. There is no happier sound than when Caitlin sings - I love it. Her voice wraps itself around my heart and lifts it up into the sky, taking me with it; there is no hope of being miserable with it. We turned a corner into the main walkway, and still she sang, looking laughingly sideways towards me now and again in a mischievous kind of way - she probably thought that it would make me uncomfortable, but she didn't care - she was too happy. I happily walked by her side, thinking that my heart would burst, as I have so many times when I'm with, or thinking of, Caitlin. There was nothing I could do to stop myself. Nothing. I reached out my right arm, gently but firmly pulled her to me, and kissed her. If I had considered it beforehand, I would have over-analysed whether or not it was the right time to do it, how I should approach it. But I didn't think - it wasn't planned - it was just something from the heart that overruled my head before it could even begin to think.

I'm lying in bed at the moment, tucked up snugly, the bed surrounded by my freezing cold hotel room. The heater is on its warmest setting and is blowing out cold air. The only warmth is coming through the quilt, from the bottom of my laptop as I write this. Caitlin:- I cannot tell you how much I wish I was back there in Carluccio's with you, just the two of us discovering each other in the warmth of the candlelight. It really was the best night of my life. And I can still smell your perfume from our meeting tonight. There is no-one on this earth that makes me happier than you. How I wish we could be together, you, me, us - just us, wherever in the world you want to be. I miss you so much when we're apart. I love you. I should tell you when we're together, but it doesn't feel right somehow. I think I'm just conscious that you don't want to say it back, or that you may be embarrassed. Or that I might sound stupid saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you. You are so special.

We kissed for what must have been two minutes or so. Tender, experimental kisses which grew a little more daring with each touch of our lips. I remember stroking her cheek with my fingers and thinking that she had the softest skin I had ever known. It's not that I go around feeling people's skin, you understand. But I have two beautiful, small children, and I think that Caitlin's skin is even softer than theirs.

Eventually, we broke the kiss, and walked on through the mall, this time in silence. Caitlin reached out and took my hand and we walked hand-in-hand towards the escalators near Waitrose. We were both happy, and I don't think either of us wanted to spoil anything by talking about it. I couldn't believe it - I had to keep glancing sideways at her, looking down at our joined hands to make sure it was real.

Potted Marriage

I am not used to romance. If you asked my wife, she would tell you that I'm simply not romantic at all. I was brought up in quite a strict church-going family, and the church made it quite clear that it was a foolish sin to take a girlfriend who was not in the church - a rule which my parents obediently enforced, much to my frustration. It's not that I was after all the girls when I was in school - in fact, I was probably a bit too busy for girls, at least in the early years. I was into electronics, computers, the county youth orchestra, and going out on my bike with my friends. But the girls I did like - nothing ever came of those, either because they didn't fancy me back, or because my parents forbade my seeing them. In fact, it's probably only luck, and not good management on the part of my parents, that I'm not gay. But, happily, I'm not.

I had love once, when I was around seventeen. Her name was Julia, she was in my church and I worshipped her. She said she loved me too, but finished with me after six months or so, without giving a reason. I was devastated, utterly desolate, as only a jilted teenager can be. After a month or so, Julia's best friend phoned and asked me out. I didn't have anything better to do, and she was quite attractive and we got on well, so I agreed. She and Julia were inseparable, and I thought that if I was dating her, I'd see Julia regularly again. It was not to be - they didn't speak again after that.

After the date, we went back to my room, which was packed with computer and music equipment, and a reasonably uncomfortable sofa. We sat side by side on it, and talked. The day was getting on, my dad had brought us cups of tea, and biscuits, and pieces of toast and it was becoming clear to me that something had to be done, or the day might never end. I knew from the way that she'd started stroking my leg that she wanted me to kiss her, but bizarrely for a teenage boy, I didn't particularly want to. Still, there was so much tension in the air that I gave in and kissed her. That is a potted example of one of my greatest failings. I hate tension; I hate the thought of other people feeling awkward if there's something I can do about it. In the end, I married her, not really wanting to, but not having the courage to upset her and our families. It wasn't all about the lack of courage - there was selfishness too. After Julia, I'd given up all hope of ever finding someone that I would love again. I didn't think that I could love again, and so I might as well marry someone that I at least knew, liked and got on with. Because I was already resigned to it, I wasn't desperately unhappy in marriage, but it certainly wasn't the greatest marriage ever (and it still isn't). In the main, I think I was just glad that someone was willing to have me, which I know is a pathetic statement to make. Until that first kiss with Caitlin, I hadn't been unfaithful to my wife in over ten years of marriage. I only write this in an attempt to convey that I am not some serial seducer (as some readers might assume), but instead am someone who was hurt previously, made a mistake, was willing to pay the price and after more than ten years was lucky enough to meet someone who would gloriously fill his life with more happiness than any religious conversion could. That seems like something of an over-statement, but Caitlin was, and still is chiefly what my thoughts revolve around when I have any free time.

Back to the Story

When we finally got to the escalator, Caitlin turned, and being both one step up from me and one step shorter than me, was the perfect height to be kissed. I hesitated, not knowing if she'd want to kiss me again. But she gently moved forwards, closed her eyes and let our lips touch. I wanted to close my eyes and enjoy it too, but had to keep at least one eye open to watch for the top of the escalator. We had to stop kissing at the top, when I hissed "turn around" before she fell over backwards.

It was quite a distance to her apartment from the shopping centre. It was a clear night, and Caitlin was shivering with the cold, so I took off my suit jacket and wrapped it around her. I didn't really feel the cold - we'd had a bottle of wine and I'd had a couple of beers. We walked hand-in-hand past silent, empty places that by day were full of busy people leading stressful lives. It was beautiful. We missed the warmth of Carluccio's, but it was beautiful all the same. At one point, Caitlin burst into song again. In fact she burst into a number of songs, but only one sticks in my mind - "Islands in the stream". "Run away with me, to another world, and we'll rely on each other, a-ha", she sang happily. I was happy too - deliriously so - and I really hoped she meant what she was singing, and that somehow the planets would line up, and fate would somehow make it possible for this wonderful fantasy to come true. But between bursts of song, and bits of conversation, she'd turn to me with a sad and slightly quizzical look on her face. I was a bit drunk, and I dare say too stupid (a common theme in our story, you'll see) to ask her what she was thinking. I did ask her later - a week later - what had been going through her mind when she looked at me like that, and she said simply that she was sad that we could never be together. I hate the thought that we can never be together. It is almost too much to hope for, but nothing is impossible. We never know what's around the corner.

I love holding Caitlin's hand. Holding hands is a very special thing, a mutual tenderness and trust. We held hands all the way back to her apartment block. When it was time to say goodbye, we kissed again, and again. Standing outside, kissing, shivering and laughing, I thought I was in heaven. It lasted for about forty minutes or more, and was a lovely lingering goodnight, after which I caught the DLR and smiled all the way back to the hotel. Sleep wouldn't come near me that night. I was confused by a sea of emotions - incredible happiness with Caitlin, anger with myself for being so useless and getting myself into a position where I was married to the wrong woman, grief that I was in a situation from which I couldn't escape, excitement at what the future might bring, and guilt at having all these feelings while my wife innocently looked after the family and the children slept soundly in their beds. I wished Caitlin was there with me. The thoughts raced through my mind until I thought my brain would boil. But the overriding emotion was excited happiness.

February was replaced by March, which dutifully gave way to April. Spring was here, although the evenings were still cold enough to freeze anyone who wasn't wearing a full set of winter clothes. The month began uneventfully enough, until the day came along whose events would mark a change in my outlook on life.

That day, I went to the office as usual and carried on with my daily routines. I was logged into MSN Messenger and chatting to some friends. I was leaving a little earlier than usual that day because I needed to catch the train home. It was a good hour's travel to Paddington station and a further three hours from there, so I liked to leave at four o'clock on a Friday. At around half-past three that day I was starting to think about packing up, but I suddenly noticed that Caitlin had signed into MSN. I don't think I'd actually ever seen her log on to MSN before. I sent a quick "Hello", but didn't get a reply, so I carried on working for a few minutes longer. Soon, the time came for me to go, so I typed a quick goodbye, and then started packing my things into my laptop bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something moving on the laptop screen. It was Caitlin, replying to my message. "Hello! Are you still there?", she typed. I sat down, and confirmed that I was.

Caitlin wasn't feeling very happy. "I'm such a waste of space", she complained. "I've been working from home today, and haven't done a THING!". She went on to tell me how frustrated she was with her life - how she always ended up with the wrong men, how she always ate too much instead of working, how she didn't have anyone to go on holiday with; she summed it up with "life is shit". This wasn't like the Caitlin that I knew, and I tried to reassure her how great she was without telling her that I secretly worshipped her. "You could have anyone you want - honestly", I said. "Just pick the man you want and make it your mission to get him". Caitlin was glad to hear this I think, but didn't believe it. After a short spell telling me how difficult it was to meet new men, she typed "Couldn't you find me one?" I have to say I was a bit mortified at that. Did she think I had an 'eye' for men? Did she think I was gay? I didn't really think so, but I asked her anyway as I didn't know what else to say, and was relieved when she typed, "No, you misread me". I waited a while for the explanation, which soon came, and read, "I meant 'find me someone like you'". A line later: "who's not married!".

I was shocked. I could feel the blood running through my veins like electricity. I had no idea that she might really be attracted to me. My mind was a blur as I replied, although I can't honestly remember what I said to that. We continued chatting for a while, and during that time she said so many nice things to me that I was left in little doubt that she did actually like me in *that* way. I left the office two hours late. I didn't mind - I'd have stayed another four if she'd wanted me to. I grinned as I packed my laptop bag, picked up my case and left the building. I grinned all the way from the office to the tube station. While I was on the tube train I smiled, so as not to attract too much attention, although it was very hard not to break into a grin. In the train on the way home, I must have been one of the most infuriating travel companions with my smug, self-satisfied smirk. Now and again I couldn't resist a grin either, and I'm sure that several people wanted to either hit me or ask what was the secret of my happiness. I smiled right up the point where I put the key in the front door, when I stopped. If I came home from work very late and smiling, it was bound to look suspicious. And I suppose it was suspicious.

We chatted often on MSN after that, and each time I was a little worried that she'd suddenly find herself fed-up of me and wondering why she'd bothered talking to me in the first place. But we always made each other laugh and carried on chatting, meeting for the odd coffee and generally being good friends. One day, she was telling me that she'd been talking conspirationally to her mum, and when I asked what about, she said, "My going back to Australia". I think I tried to appear unsurprised, but I think I failed. My heart was racing - I thought she meant for good, so I was very glad to hear that it was just for a few weeks. We arranged to meet again for lunch shortly after that.

Lunch was great. It was a beautifully warm sunny day (in great contrast to the icy evenings) and Caitlin looked stunning. We sat outside, and had fun chatting and joking, and when I mentioned Australia, she said "Why don't you come with me?". My poor old heart raced again as I considered the possibility, but we both knew that it wouldn't happen. How could I explain a long trip to Australia to my wife? Still, I was very touched that she'd said it at all, and admired her all the more for being so forthright. We had a lovely lunch, and at the end when we'd walked up the steps away from the restaurant, we lingered over parting company. We were both trying to appear cool I think, but I was certainly struggling. As Caitlin waited to cross the road, I had to fight myself not to run over and hold her and kiss her. Something made me stop though, but looking back, I wish I had.

That afternoon, there was a very big meeting in Caitlin's building. We were all required to attend, and we crowded into a room which was really too small for the purpose. Caitlin was sitting in the row opposite mine - the other side of the aisle. We looked across at each other now and again, wanting to smile, but not wanting to attract attention. It was like being in school again, not wanting your friends to see who you fancied. Afterwards, we all gathered in the lift lobby, until one of the capacious lifts arrived. The nearest bunch of people squeezed in, and a few of my friends and I were left outside. Someone from inside the lift called, "There's room for one more - come on". Caitlin was already in the lift, and said to me cajolingly, "Come on - get in". I needed no third bidding. We stood very close in the lift, and I can honestly say that I had never had a greater urge to kiss someone in my life. As it was, I had to satisfy myself by whispering in her ear that I had lost my pass to get into the building. She smelled wonderful. I wanted to kiss her ear as I was whispering, but obviously couldn't in a lift full of people. We hadn't got to the kissing stage anyway - I didn't know if she would actually like me to kiss her.

Caitlin left the lift with a flood of other people - she was going back to her floor, and I back to my building. It wasn't long until she was off to Australia, and I was sad to see her go, but I still had something to be glad about and look forward to. We had arranged a night out.

The emails continued, but only a sporadic few a week at first, and even then, a number of those dealt with the necessary evil of work. And then, suddenly in the middle of December, they stopped. I was a bit worried, because we'd been discussing an upcoming birthday of Caitlin's, and the last mail I'd sent was quite an expose on my experience of turning 30. It wasn't that it was morbid, or dealt with particularly difficult issues - it was just that I wasn't sure how she was feeling about the whole thing - some people find the prospect of a new decade very stressful. Caitlin had been moved to another building, which was a fifteen minute walk away from where I was. I didn't get to go over there very often, and the prospect of 'accidentally' bumping into her was remote. (Knowing Caitlin as I do now, I don't think it was anything at all to do with my mail, and probably everything to do with her huge workload.) Consequently, I thought that our brief encounter was over, but as we'd hardly spoken face-to-face, I didn't feel too badly about it.

2007
Christmas came and went, and January smartly followed suit. Then, one happy day early in February found me walking down the stationary escalator leaving her building. I was deep in thought when someone called out to me from the other escalator, and if I remember correctly, actually reached out and poked me as she passed. I looked up, surprised - I still didn't seem to know that many people in the area. It was, of course Caitlin, with a big smile. Her escalator was crowded with people, and as it was actually operational, she was being drawn away, inexorably upwards, away from me. I stared, smiling helplessly, only to realise ten minutes later that as my escalator had been broken (and empty), I could easily have walked back up with her at the same pace. As it was, we exchanged a minimum of pleasantries, big smiles and (in my case at least) a surge in heart rate, before I smiled my way back to my regular old office. God, her smile was amazing.

When I got to the office, I sent her an email right away, and she replied saying that she'd thought I'd left. Kathy had left over the Christmas period, and Caitlin had assumed that I had gone too. This was the start of our emails proper - there was never really a long gap after that one.

It was a really cold time of year, and the day after the escalator incident, we met for lunch. This was a huge deal for me. Caitlin had a meeting in my building, which was scheduled to finish around lunchtime, so we'd tentatively arranged to meet for a coffee. Ever hopeful, I nonchalantly suggested that we grab some lunch if it wasn't being provided for her meeting. She didn't reply, and so I was very surprised (not to mention plain scared) when she walked up to my desk at lunchtime and asked if I wanted to get some lunch. She looked as scared as I felt, but I interpreted the look to mean that she didn't really want lunch with me, and was just being polite. So, being the suave gentleman that I am, I suggested that we get a sandwich takeout from Starbucks, thinking that this may solve a two-fold problem, where Caitlin wouldn't have to spend too long with me when she didn't want to, and I wouldn't have to talk for too long (thus minimising the chances of making an idiot of myself). Almost as soon as the word "Starbucks" had left my mouth, I regretted it. I was in a beautiful city with this gorgeous woman who was willing to have lunch with me. What kind of a man was I? What if she were to take me up on the Starbucks offer? What if she thought I was a cheapskate, or that I wasn't interested in her? I'd always regret not taking her out for a proper lunch. Fortunately, Caitlin didn't seem too impressed with the Starbucks idea, and so we decided on just walking into the local shopping centre to see what took our fancy in terms of a sit-down meal.

Slippery Customers
It had snowed the night before, and the streets were covered in a thin, slippery layer of snow and slush. As we left the building, the heel of Caitlin's shoe got stuck in the door threshold, and her shoe actually came off, tipping Caitlin neatly forward and out through the door. She grabbed the door for support, and in that instant, she looked so vulnerable and pretty that it made me want to gather her up in my arms and just hold her. Instead, I smiled and pretended to be impatient as she freed the shoe, putting it back on with an embarrassed smile. And so we embarked on our maiden voyage together, across the slush. Caitlin slipped almost immediately, and grabbed my hand for support. For a few glorious seconds, we were holding hands. To me, it seemed both a nanosecond, and an eternity - my heart pounded, and I was aware of every beat, yet time seemed to stand still. I felt the soft, delicate warmth of her hand against the cold all around us - my senses on overdrive, becoming more aware of the sensation with each heartbeat. I never wanted to let her go. And we hadn't even started lunch yet.

Waga Whose?
After five minutes of walking through the mall, with me feeling alternately like a little boy, and a King, we reached Wagamamas, where we had decided that lunch would take place. We were soon seated, nestled tightly amongst complete strangers, sharing their elbow room, and being close enough to eat their lunch with one slip of a chopstick. Wagamamas was new to me, and I liked it.

As we sat and talked, my nervousness melted away. I found that Caitlin is wonderfully easy to talk to. She laughed when I made silly attempts at humour, and didn't laugh when I wasn't trying to be funny. She was intelligent, articulate, well travelled and seemed to have learned a lot more from life than I had. I felt a bit as if I'd cruised through life without noticing anything, and all the while she'd noticed everything. It was humbling for me, and yet she had no air of superiority. The surprising thing was that Caitlin seemed to be enjoying herself too.

The time came when we could procrastinate no more, and had to leave. As we stood on the escalator, Caitlin turned to me to talk. It was only a simple thing, but I couldn't remember any time before when I'd been on an escalator and someone had actually turned around properly to talk to me. As I was to discover, Caitlin is one of the most thoughtful and considerate people I have ever met. At the bottom of the escalator, we had to go our separate ways - each to our own building. We both searched for something to say, and I got there first with "Well, keep in touch"! I couldn't believe it. It sounded exactly as if we'd been on a date and I was giving her the brush-off, which couldn't have been further from the truth. I was appalled at myself, and Caitlin didn't look too happy about it either. I quickly added something else along the lines of "That was great - we'll have to do it again soon!", but I worried about it as I returned to the office. I'd had the best time I could remember in ages, and blown it right at the very end.

When I got back to the office, the first thing I did was to write an email thanking her for lunch, telling her that I enjoyed it, and that I'd definitely like to meet her again - for lunch, or indeed, anything. The wait for her reply seemed to take forever, but eventually she did reply, later that afternoon. And the reply was good.

The Setting
"This building's just been refurbished" Dean told me as we climbed the stairs. The stairwell looked as though it hadn't seen any attention for years, and Dean added "not that you'd ever notice" under his breath as though he'd sensed my thoughts. I grimaced and said nothing, preferring to make sure I knew the route we were taking - a precaution in case I needed to re-trace my steps quickly, should the building show signs of imminent collapse. When we had reached our floor, we traversed a narrow corridor towards a swipe card access-controlled door. Dean waved his card, a light flashed green, and Dean pushed the door, holding it open so that I could make it into the office too. I didn't know it then, but this was the office that would change my life.

An hour or so later, I'd been shown the kitchen, the medical room and the all-important room for natural breaks. Hands had been shaken, names and roles had been heard and instantly forgotten, smiles had been flashed, politically correct jokes had been told, sarcastic comments had been made, documents had been thrust into my hands, I'd been given my very own access token so that I could swipe into the office myself, and by this point, I was actually starting to feel as though these people thought I was someone special. Almost as if she could sense this, Claire - my new manager - showed me to my desk. It felt as though the area was specifically designed to take away any sense of specialty felt by its occupant. To my fore, there was a beautifully unobstructed view of the rear quarters of the local extra-large Laser printer. About twelve feet to my left and three to my right were matching six-foot partitions. Behind me was a window, which looked out onto another building over the entrance to the car-park, far below. Any hope of at least getting some fresh air was dashed as I realised that the windows had all had their handles removed. From that point onwards, it felt a bit like prison.

I was relieved when Kathy, a colleague from my regular office turned up. At last, here was someone familiar, with whom I could moan about the conditions of our confinement without the need to spend three months getting to know her first. And so, before I knew it, several days had passed, and we were getting quite settled. I had known Dean from work previously, and so we used to go for our twice-daily caffeine fix with Kathy and a couple of other people from our new team.

First Sight
One cloudy autumn day in 2006 found me at my desk, having just returned from such a trip. I was reviewing some actual paper documents, as my new laptop and email account hadn't yet materialised. The location of our paradise meant that we had a view of about twenty feet of wall (should I have made the effort to look around, or over, the printer). We learned about the people around us by observing them as they passed through our twenty-foot field of vision, on their way from one part of the office to another. On the day in question, I was reclining in my chair at rather a jaunty angle that just happened to afford me a clear view past the printer. I became aware of footsteps approaching, and caught sight of a tall female form in my peripheral vision. She was walking briskly and confidently, and she quickly came into focus. As a matter of fact, she came into focus from the feet upwards - such was the angle of my recline - and I was impressed, strangely enough, by the shapeliness of her ankles and calves. I realise that this probably makes me sound like some kind of pervert, but frankly, I don't care. (In my defense, her ankles and calves were accentuated by the heels and the just-below-the-knee cropped trousers she was wearing). As she came fully into view, I let my eyes take her in.

She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. She walked tall and erect, with her head held high, chin up, looking straight ahead. Her arms swung gracefully by her sides, and her demeanour exuded confidence. Her hair was long, sumptuous and dark. Its natural curls screamed "passionate" - the sort of hair in which you want to entwine your hand, the better to kiss its owner. Her face was pretty and soft and noble, capable, confident, elegant and proud. Her eyes were gentle, bordered by long, soft lashes, and she wore an expression of slight sadness that made me want to make her laugh, even if only once. I knew I could never do it though - knew I could never make her laugh. She was far too gorgeous to even realise my existence. I could picture her in nightclubs, being photographed by the Metro's "Guilty Pleasures" correspondent, and featuring in Hello magazine. I dismissed her as unreachable, and went back to my document.

Who's that girl?
Work must have been busy for her at that time. She walked past a few times a day, and eventually I could contain my curiosity no longer. "Who's that girl that keeps walking past our desks?" I asked Dean. "What girl's that then?" he asked, quite reasonably, as she was nowhere near us when I asked my question, and all the more reasonably since Dean didn't sit anywhere near us, and so had no idea as to who were the players of the "intermittent guest" role in our twenty-foot wall slot. "The tall pretty one." I replied, a bit lost for words to describe her. "She's - you know - really tall, and pretty. Long curly brown hair. I think she sits over there" I said, waving my hand in a vague manner that covered half of London. "Ah", he said in a knowing voice. "That's Caitlin. She's cool. I sung with her and Sarah in a karaoke once. I was smashed - it was mental!"

"Caitlin", I repeated thoughtfully. "Cheers mate".

Now that I knew her name, it seemed more likely that I would be able to make some kind of contact with her, even though I was still convinced that she wouldn't want to know me. I supposed that she must be harassed by hopeful men on a constant basis, and that all of them would be significantly better looking than I - a tall thin bloke in Pavarotti's suit.

One morning, I was sitting reviewing more paperwork when I sensed that someone was standing at the printer. I looked up abruptly from my document, and met the gaze of Caitlin. I don't think she was already looking at me - I think that my sudden movement had attracted her attention. Either way, I was staring wide-eyed and helpless, my brain incapable of finding something suitable to say. It arranged various unhelpful phrases at a leisurely pace, while I flapped, looking more stupid by the millisecond. Eventually, relief came with the arrival of a suitably benign greeting. "Hi" I snapped, my smile coming and going with the speed of a camera shutter. I dropped my gaze back to the paperwork with a look of studied attention, and held it there, frozen and glassy-eyed, until I sensed that Caitlin had gone. I let my features relax, my jaw dropping open almost to the floor. "Oh. My. God." I mouthed, to nobody in particular. Kathy giggled, a little excessively I felt. She knew all about my fascination for Caitlin. I was convinced that the episode had shown Caitlin that I was a complete fool, and that she'd never talk to me now.

All Talk
My chance to actually have a conversation with Caitlin came when she requested some work to be done by my team, and I was assigned the task. A few queries arose from the work, and naturally enough, I needed to talk to Caitlin to sort them out. So I sent her an email asking if she had time to discuss the issues, and when she confirmed that she had, I plucked up the courage to actually walk over there and talk to her. I don't normally have problems with confidence, but with her, I just couldn't do the small talk. I launched nervously into my little set of prepared questions about the work, stumbling sometimes over my words as I went. Caitlin listened patiently, and answered perfectly calmly and professionally. In fact, she was more than just professional. She was nice. Really nice. My vision of her as unreachable began to waver for the first time.

Humble Beginnings
A few weeks later, someone organized a trip to the local cinema to watch Borat. Even though I couldn't go, I had an idea that Caitlin might be going. I decided that at the very next opportunity, I would mail Caitlin to innocently ask if she'd been. The mail itself was a masterpiece:

Hi Caitlin :-)

  Did you see Borat?

Can you imagine my surprise and delight when she replied? Not only did she reply, but she asked me a question too!

Hi Dan, yep, I did indeed. Did you?

That brief exchange was the start of a torrent of emails that cemented our friendship. It's how we got to know each other, and how we used to waste each other's time when we should have been working. (It's how we still waste each other's time when we should be working.) For me, there are few more welcome sights than the bold "unread mail" indicator in Outlook, on the special folder reserved just for Caitlin's mails.

I am not the sort of girl who lives her life with any sense of danger. I don't do drugs, haven't shoplifted since 1991, haven't bungy jumped or snow boarded or jumped out of a plane or taken the day off to lie in bed all day with a lover. I've been doing the same corporate routine for eight years, in various cities and for various companies (same shit, different set). I go in, take on far too much work because I lack the assertiveness to say no, drown in work, feel sorry for myself, and lap up all the accolades when my bosses thank me for sacrificing all the extra hours. (Last Christmas Eve I arrived in Sydney after 24 hours in the air, went home to my mum's place, logged on and worked til 4.30a.m. That's typical of me. I procrastinate for England but then I always pull out the stops and do the right thing, the safe thing, the conscientious thing.)

Then I met Daniel. Daniel told me I wouldn't lie on my death bed and wished I'd worked harder on the progamme, produced more documents, updated more spreadsheets. I'd lie there and wished I'd skived off to Hampstead Heath on sunny afternoons more often. He encouraged me to live in the moment, he sent me photos of himself posing as a mannequin in the window at Gap, he told me the weather was fine outside and we should eat in the sun down by the quay, and that it really was ok to take an hour off for lunch. Or three, for that matter.

So we did, although by the time I was ready to be reckless and give in to him, the sun had gone and London was misty and damp with late summer rain. We met by the National Portrait Gallery on a Friday morning. It wasn't open. That didn't matter. We ended up at the Trocadero, playing air hockey and taking photos of ourselves and having dance-offs like we were 15. It was one of the best mornings of my life.

Why we're blogging
I want to share this blog with Dan not just because I want to record the events of the past year, but because I want us to continue being part of each other's lives, to share something small together now that we are separated by our circumstances and our commitments.

Dan's married and has a life and a persona and a world I don't know a whole lot about, in Wales. It's not like it sounds (and I know how it sounds, because I made the mistake once of mentioning him to my girlfriends). We didn't sleep together, but our souls connected. I met him in the office, in a grotty old former warehouse down by West India Quay, in London's Docklands. In our wharf. He was my physical ideal (tall dark and gorgeous) so of course I noticed him, but I also noticed his wedding ring, and respected it, and dismissed him, even while I noticed him watching me and blushing around me and shaking when he sat down with me to run through some work.

Actually, I loved him for all of those things but it was an innocent and distant feeling - I would never go near another woman's husband. But it's impossible not to feel flattered when someone blushes in your presence.

Still, he emailed me once, and we got to writing. We wrote reams and reams of emails to each other, and that's how we got to know each other. He made me laugh out loud at my desk, he encouraged me to live in the moment for once in my life, and he liked me. He said something to me not so long ago that made me realise how important I was to him.

He said there had been three significant women in his life (other than blood relatives). His first lover, who'd broken his heart when she turned out to be a lesbian. His wife (of 12 years Dan?). And me. In 34 years, only three.

Knowing Dan has changed my life. It's reminded me that life is complicated, and that we have a lot of impossible choices to make. That it's crazy, and beautiful, and fragile, and is full of moments that you will remember forever but that these moments don't come along very often, and there really aren't that many people out there in the world with whom we truly, properly connect. There aren't many people you'll meet in your whole life who will adore you, not because they're supposed to but because they just do.

Tamed Hearts
When I was in my final year of high school, I watched a film called Untamed Heart. I haven't seen it in 14 years and I have a bad memory for films but I remembered this from the film: Marisa Tomei's character walks home every night after work and Christian Slater's character follows her from a safe distance every night, without her knowledge, just to make sure she gets home safely. One night she gets attacked by a gang of thugs and he is able to rescue her. As an awkward 16 year old girl growing up in small town Australia I remembered thinking that was the most romantic thing I'd ever seen and wondered if anyone would ever follow me home to make sure *I* made it home ok. Nobody ever did. Until last week, the last time I saw Dan. I had a knee injury and even though I shouldn't have been out socialising when I was struggling to get around on my crutches, I wasn't going to miss out on seeing Dan for what will be the last time in a long time. So we met up at a bar in Fulham, near where I live in south west London. We said goodbye out the front and I hugged him. Then I hobbled away, ungracefully, and he went towards the underground. By the I time I'd finally made it to the crosswalk, crossed the road and turned into my street, Dan called out from ten yards behind me. He told me later that he'd have walked me home but didn't think I'd want to be seen with him in my street (I now have a boyfriend who lives with me). He told me on the night that he'd followed from a safe distance to make sure I was ok, but hadn't wanted me to see him in case I'd thought he was stalking me. It was my Untamed Heart moment - that moment when you realise that someone adores you. Above and beyond circumstance and possibility, with full knowledge that you can't have somebody you want to be with and who wants to be with you, that feeling alone is so rare and special that the rest of it doesn't matter.

I told him too, when he caught me up, that I'd never feel unloved again because of him. And I won't. One of our earlier conversations on MSN was me having a self-indulgent moan about the fact that nobody would ever love me (just because I'd had my heart bruised by a waste of space that we'd both worked with). Part of me is still the 16 year old girl that thinks nobody will ever love her, and that only the beautiful people know that feeling. But it was a moment of clarity for me, realising that I had found someone who thought I *was* beautiful, even on crutches.

So even though I know I can never have him, I'll always carry him with me, in my heart and my thoughts, until I'm lying on my deathbed thinking about all those wasted afternoons where I should have skived off to Hampstead Heath. And we'll always have our blog, to remind us in years to come of how we got to where we are now.