To Russia, for Love?

I first met Husband around 13 years ago. I had recently come out of a 7 year on-again / off-again relationship with a guy I met at uni who really was no good for me (and, to be honest, nor was I for him), but who kept me on my toes and turned me into the stubborn madam I am today. (And, of course, he had a great bod. Don't they always?).


Anyway, the ending of this relationship with - let's call him Sporty Boy - really took it out of me. I wept, railed, stopped eating, and generally moaned incessantly about my lot. For about, oh, 3 whole days, actually. And then, to my shock and suprise, I started to feel better. (Which was pretty unexpected considering we had just moved in together before he unceremoniously dumped me from a great height). Frankly, the absence of worry and tension about the relationship was so liberating that rather than simply repeating my past mistake (i.e. wait until he saw the error of his ways and then take him back at the first opportunity), I started to enjoy myself - on my own.


Now, I won't bore you with the stories of my sowing of wild oats, or with how that was very much overdue at 27. Or with the tale of how, some months later, when Sporty Boy contacted me by e-mail to say he had made a big mistake and that his new squeeze didn't understand him like I did, I mailed him back to say; hope you're happy, you made your bed, now lie on it sweet-cheeks (God, that felt good). But suffice it to say that when one of my Best Friends offered to set me up on a blind date with a guy working with her then boyfriend, my first reaction was to say- no. The absolute last thing I needed at that time was to bother with such manufactured relationships - I was having a perfectly good time dodging commitment all on my own, thankyou very much.


But she persisted. And that is how, one rainy Sunday evening, I ended up on a blind date with a tall, skinny Dutch guy in a pub just off Leicester Square, drinking far too much red wine, eating much too large a chinese meal, and making my drunken way home - alone - on the train. (Then, not wanting the fun to end, I ended up falling asleep, missing my stop, and having to pay a fortune in taxi fare when I finally woke up in a deserted station at 2.00am on a Monday morning. That was a hangover to remember...)


Tall skinny Dutch guy (let's call him TSDG for the moment) was actually quite good looking, I realised the next morning when I tried to remember through the haze of shiraz and cigarette smoke (for yes, children, at that time we were allowed to smoke in public - not that I did, of course. Filthy habit...). So when he called to suggest another date, I said yes.


Oh, alright then. I called him. (You can take the girl out of the convent...)

Not quite knowing how to say no to such a forthright young lady, TSDG said yes. Hurrah! And after a whirlwind courtship, 6 years later we were married, dear reader, and TSDG became Husband.

Hang on.

6 YEARS?

What took us so long? You may well ask. 'Another' came between us. This seductress already had her claws into TSDG before I even met him; in fact, in a way, she is why we are together at all. He was in London only on his way to her; this mysterious Eastern temptress had in fact been in his thoughts and dreams for almost as long as he could remember.

Now, to be fair to my beloved, he was straight with me from the start. I knew from the time I met him that his London sojourn would not be for long. And frankly, I was OK with that. No strings, no commitment - in my post-Sporty Boy state, all I wanted was a bit of fling, actually. However, the fling got out of hand. We fell for each other. But she - she was always there, waiting in the wings to whisk him away, just when it was getting interesting.

You see, Husband was in London only to train for a paltry 4 months before heading off to her open arms for however long it took. This 'she' was, in fact, Russia.

I didn't try to compete. Didn't want to, actually. But somehow, once he had gone, we stayed in touch. He flew over to see me. I sorted out a visa and went to see him. And before we knew it, most of our disposable income was being spent on plane fares and telephone calls. Long distance relationships definitely have their down-sides, but at the time it was mostly one big adventure. Meeting at romantic cities across Europe for the weekend. Taking the night-train from Moscow to St Petersburg. The joy when he surprised me by turning up out of the blue.

And before we knew it, 4 years had passed, the economy in Russia had crashed (1998), shortly after that he decided to come to London, and we moved in together. The rest is history.

But she has always been there, hanging around, sending messages, reaching out, trying to suck him back in. And now that he is once again a free agent job-wise, she's knocking on our door again. (Note the 'our' this time. It has already been made clear that she won't get Husband without me and the Boys.)

I've visited her a few times over the years, and honestly, I don't mind her. She's 'alright', in her own way. Beautiful, I must admit. But cold. Changeable. Not to be trusted. And populated by people I'm never quite sure of. However, if this credit crunch continues to bite, it may be that our path lies in her direction, so I'd better start making friends with her. Learning her language, maybe (though not just yet).

Not that we're going, you understand. We're not. But just in case....


(And let's be honest, can you imagine the blog fodder? Outstanding...)