This year, I took a leap of faith and married someone I’d only met three times
To understand how 2020 changed me, we first need to turn the clock back to June 2019. I had flown to Australia to take part in a fellowship programme. My friend (and Guardian columnist) Owen Jones was there for a conference that was happening at the same time, and on a chilly Friday night in Melbourne’s midwinter, we found ourselves in a bar overlooking the Yarra River. “There’s someone who works in Australian politics I want to talk to,” said Owen. We wandered around until we eventually found the guy, and a surprise: he had brought a friend.
I should say that during this period of my life, I had gone off the idea of having a long-term partner. I saw myself as living a life of liberty and adventure in which men would be nothing more than fabulous anecdotes I would share as an old lady. So when I saw this handsome man approaching, sipping gin and casually mentioning that he was a former naval officer, I thought: “Hello, anecdote.”
We spent a night together a few days later. We talked about life and heartbreak, politics and music. He told me that he wanted to move to Europe but there was something holding him back. “You should just do it,” I said, with the innocence of someone who has only ever lived in one country. I’m sure part of the reason we were so uncensored with each other was because we assumed we’d never see each other again. But there was also something different about the Australian: he was solid but also warm. He made me feel cocooned.
A few days after I returned to London, the Australian sent me a message: “What are you doing in November? Come with me to Italy.” Figuring this would be chapter two of the anecdote, I agreed. There was something faintly ridiculous about going on holiday with a relative stranger but honestly it was wonderful. We walked through central Milan, we visited Lake Como, we ended up in the Alps without a shred of knitwear. It was during the 2019 general election, so I spent much of the trip reading out tweets to him. He thought I was smart and forceful, and he liked that. I liked that he was calm.
By January 2020, we were talking every day. The time difference meant that we would always wake up to messages from one another. Then one day the Australian said he wanted to come to see me, and was booking flights to London in February. I was incredibly anxious about it and told him to stay in an Airbnb. I suppose I was aware that he was becoming somebody to me. With characteristic serenity, he didn’t object and found a cute little place to stay near my house. Of course, after he arrived he spent barely any time there. I introduced him to my parents and my friends. We said the L word to one another. He narrowed down his plans to move to Europe to a plan to move to London. I agreed to visit him in Melbourne.
Just three weeks after he left London, the coronavirus pandemic compelled Australia to close its borders. With these gigantic obstacles suddenly in our path, all of the conversations we’d had about taking a judicious and sensible approach to our relationship went out of the window. Now there was only one question: are we in this or not? Over Skype, the Australian said we should get a civil partnership, which you can do remotely in his home state. I said yes immediately. I wanted a piece of legal documentation to say that we were connected – that it was wrong to separate us. We submitted an application to the births, deaths and marriages registry, sent them a bundle of documents, and on 20 April I discovered that the Australian had become my legal spouse via an automated email. There was no ceremony, just paperwork, and a hug from my housemate when the news came through.
The Australian accelerated his timetable to move to London. In the middle of the biggest global recession of our lifetimes, he quit his job, moved out of his home and submitted an application to leave Australia. It was rejected, but he was unperturbed. The second application was rejected too. As the old adage goes, the third time’s a charm. And then on a rainy July morning (welcome to Britain), he knocked at my door.
I write this in our home with our cat sitting on my lap, and my husband a few feet away from me, working (he got a job). The word we most often hear people use about our story is “romantic”, and I suppose it is. But it doesn’t feel like romance for me, which suggests some unruly outburst of the passions. Being with my husband has taught me that love is careful. It is a form of investment in the other person. It is building something meaningful together. It is solidarity.
Good things happened in 2020. People had babies and fell in love. Life will always have new beginnings and surprises. There is room for the good.