Many conservations... finally our first meeting

       Many conversations… finally our first meeting

I was free. My own master. Responsible for my own destiny.

Memories of school and university were slowly being lost in the mists of the past. But probably what I found most emotionally satisfying was that I was no longer under the influence and umbrella of my parents. This protection took on many subtle and interesting forms. As a baby, I relied on their love to feed and protect me. As a young adult, their teachings and life experience, always present, were a welcome influence. In my teenage years, I felt the pressure of filial duty, which required me to adapt to their lifestyle and ambitions for me. School, surrounded by friends, had a certain charm, but a disciplined environment smothered the feeling of being free. At university, I started plotting my future, but all the time I was conscious of my parents paying for the privilege I was enjoying. Then the day came: a graduation ceremony where the heavy yoke of duty and discipline was lifted from my shoulders.

One month later, I had found a job as a currency trader in a large bank situated in the state capital, about 100 miles from where my parents lived. I finally broke the bond of parental control by renting an apartment in the city. My life and my destiny started coming together. I was an occasional tennis player and golfer; consequently, I had several friends who were enthusiastically involved in these sports. Participating in their games from time to time, I often found myself in their company, whether for dinners or drinks. At the dinners, single young women were invited. They came in the hope of finding their soulmates; they generally left disappointed. The drinking sessions tended to be male affairs, revolving around sports and women. I soon discovered that most of my friends sought contact with the opposite sex through online dating sites. They claimed the local scene wasn't very exciting. They told me that before reaching out to anyone online, they were given a short sketch of her character, her likes and dislikes, and the type of partner she was looking to meet. Some of my friends' stories of these encounters were not only amusing, but quite extraordinary. I was determined to try.

I spent one rainy Saturday afternoon trawling the internet in search of female company. There was plenty of choice, with many nationalities represented. I felt quite overwhelmed. It was like entering a wonderland filled with young women from whom to choose a possible partner for life. I struck up conversations with a few, but soon found that their polished looks and gorgeous smiles hid a very different reality. The internet can be deceptive. The few I spoke with were simply presenting themselves in the best possible light, regardless of the underlying truth of their lives. After about two hours, I logged off and called the friend who had suggested internet dating in the first place.

“Hi, Peter, it’s Harold. I’ve just been trawling dating sites on the internet. I’m not very impressed. It’s like going to a cattle market, only instead of cattle, you’re faced with a kaleidoscope of young women. They’re all intent on proving they’re the one. Judging from my brief conversations, while the exterior holds some appeal, the interior is lacking any real depth.”

“Harold, I’m glad to see you’ve taken the plunge. Clearly, you haven't been on the right sites. I’ll send you a link to one where the members are professional people with either university degrees or professional qualifications. Knowing your taste, I think you’ll be far more impressed.”

“Thank you, Peter. I’ll give it a try.”

Three days later, I visited the site Peter had suggested. It was certainly an upgrade. I had two engaging conversations with two young women—one a lawyer, the other a nurse. I asked for their contact details and let them know they would be hearing from me soon. I did follow up, picking up where we had left off during my first visit, but I was slightly less impressed the second time around. Before logging off, I decided to browse the site once more and look at some new profiles. I was surprised to see a face that immediately caught my eye. She was a medical student in her final year, living at home with her parents in a village twenty miles from my apartment. I also learned her father was the local vicar. I noted down her profile details, fully intending to get in touch.

Ten days later, we had our first conversation. It was entirely unlike my previous experiences, where the exchange invariably ran: “Nice to meet you. What do you do for a living? How old are you? Have you ever been married? Do you have children?” Instead, she spoke straight away about a book she had just finished. Her name was Catherine.

Over the next eight months, our chats turned into weekly rituals. We never gossiped about friends—especially romantic partners—nor did we dwell on humdrum daily events. Our conversations, whether on the phone or over email, were about books, cinema, travel, art, and intriguing news stories. I did mention at one point that I was a currency trader, which made her laugh. She struggled to reconcile my day job with her impression of me as a cultured man of letters; she had assumed I worked in a museum. I told her that ever since childhood, I had been captivated by books—their power to weave stories, recount true adventures, or bring someone's life history alive. I also pointed out that, contrary to popular belief, currency traders spend long periods waiting for major news events to shift the markets. It made for pleasant reading time.

From afar, I celebrated her qualification as a doctor. She sent me a photograph showing a circle of joyful family and friends surrounding her. It was the first photograph we had ever exchanged. To both of us, the modern obsession with swapping photos felt superficial; in our eyes, what defines a person is who they are inside.

Her latest email explained that she intended to specialize in trauma care, treating victims of severe accidents. This would require further study, but in the meantime, she was working part-time at a local medical practice. I sensed that by sharing more of her future plans, she was gently opening the door to something deeper. Through our calls and letters, I had become utterly captivated by her personality, her charm, her sense of humour, and her outlook on life. It felt as though our long conversations had laid the foundation for a future together. I had to meet her in person.

Arranging a time and place over email proved slightly tricky, but we finally settled on meeting for tea in the lounge of one of the city's grand hotels. As it was a crisp, clear spring morning, I chose to walk. I was nervous; judging by all our correspondence, Catherine possessed every quality I admired and held dear. My hope for this meeting was to establish a lasting relationship.

I entered the hotel and walked straight into the tea room. Catherine was sitting in a wheelchair. She caught the brief look of surprise in my eyes at once.

“Does my condition make any difference to what you know about me?”

“Where there is no exaggeration there is no love, and where there is no love there is no understanding.”

— Oscar Wilde