We had a second date, and a third... and then he dropped the shocking bombshell

After creating a posher alter ego for a dating app, Stacey Duguid meets a guy with something to hide

This week I’m in Menorca, wearing a belly chain. I’m not the belly-chain type and think I look a bit wrong, but it was a gift from a friend, so I thought I’d give it a go. I’m clearly in an adventurous phase because a few weeks ago, I also thought I’d give a new dating app a try.

This time, I decided to join a more exclusive, upmarket agency. I like the idea of meeting a successful, confident man, ideally one who knows how to cook (I don’t really cook, so, you know, it makes sense to find a man who can).

But on reviewing some of the profiles – and here perhaps I should have seen a red flag – I decided I needed to tweak with my identity to fit in with the discreetly but indisputably posh people populating the site. Having added boarding school and an interest in wine (not untrue) to my personal description, I also decided to change my profile name to Arabella. Except, due to my interest in wine, I missed a couple of letters and accidentally wrote Arella instead. Which sounds a bit more Disney princess than Ascot polo set.

But given how many messages I then received, the missing “ab” clearly didn’t put anyone off. It was answering them that became the issue. “I’m not a brilliant cook,” I wrote back to one guy (understatement of the year). He didn’t write back. A “match” who looked 15 years too young made several attempts to contact me. I tried to disregard his messages, but he persisted until, eventually, I replied with a polite: “You are too young for me, thank you for your messages though.” Too young? Oh, the irony! As you know, I’ve been seeing a Frenchman who’s 13 years my junior. More on him later.

Turns out this one just looked young and was in fact a year older than me. On the hunt like a lion chasing an antelope, he continued to send daily messages for two weeks. Like the worn-out old antelope I am, I eventually caved in and agreed to meet him. Instantly regretting my name change, I needed a plan as to how to break the news. It’s quite a big lie; what if I liked him? Would I be able to live the rest of my life in a muddle? Also, when exactly would be a good time to tell him I’m not as posh as I had made myself out to be? Sending out the Smythson wedding invitations? Checking into the Claridge’s honeymoon suite or setting off on his private jet to Umbria? “Hey babe, sorry, forgot to mention that my name’s actually Stacey and I went to the local comp.”

The only way I could possibly go on a date with this poor man was if I outed my real self within moments of meeting. I gave him a window of two hours and told him he’d need to come to a pub near me. Not from the area, he got lost and turned up 30 minutes late, which, as we all know, is enough time to down a glass of wine and be on your second, so I was a drink ahead of him when he walked in looking flustered.

His outfit was, I’m sorry to say, bad, like really bad. Pastel golf jumper over a shirt with cuff links. Car shoes. He took off his wraparound shades (I have a serious issue with wraparound shades) to reveal what was in fact a rather lovely face. “My name’s not Arella, I’m not a real redhead – and I’m not posh,” I blurted, a bit tipsy, half expecting him to stand up and leave. “Oh, I’m not posh either,” he replied. Cue tumbleweed…

His excuse for being on this particular website was better than mine. Having grown up in a fairly humble household, as a boy he won a scholarship to one of our most famous boarding schools, which led to Oxbridge. Now a C-suite exec, he’s educated and eloquent; presenting entirely as the kind of man I could imagine becoming prime minister.

We had a second date and then a third, after which he told me he “really” liked me but we “needed to talk”. We met in a coffee shop in Notting Hill. Which is when I discovered he drove a petrolhead car, a brightly coloured thing that belonged on a racing track as opposed to the streets of London. Meanwhile, I pulled up in my electric Golf.

The conversation and exchanges between us had always been quick and engaging, and I was proud of the fact I was able to ignore his bad taste in cars, slacks, jackets, shoes and sunglasses. No one is perfect. Certainly not him, I discovered, when he dropped the bombshell. “Hey, listen,” he said. Uh-oh. Here we go. “I’ve been married, had the kids and I just don’t want to go down that ‘white picket fence life’ again.” No problem, I said,

I needed a plan as to how to break the news. It’s quite a big lie; what if I liked him?

neither do I. I’m too ancient to birth more children and I really can’t imagine living with anyone for a long, long time. “It’s a little more complex than that,” he elaborated. “I’d like to have a threesome with you and another woman.” My chin hit my flat white, then I stood up and ran. Gosh, there I was, totally embarrassed I’d told a big fat lie about my background on a dating app. I had nothing to worry about! Upmarket introduction agency? “You should try Killing Kittens for threesomes,” I messaged later in a heated exchange. Then I blocked him.

So back to the Frenchman. He is at such a different life stage that sometimes it feels as though we are in different boats on the same sea. How could he possibly fathom the strain of parenting children who live between two households? Packing for this, my first holiday alone with the kids, I lost my mind filling out the Covid-related paperwork, not to mention the incident involving a missing sandal. I could only find one as the other had mysteriously made its way out of my home and back to my ex’s. Perhaps it was a sign.

The Frenchman and I now find ourselves in a grey area. As in, when does a relationship become “exclusive”? Does it naturally happen or do you both have to agree to come off the dating apps? It’s been so long I can’t remember and, anyway, I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be. I’m not sure I should even be dating. Forget misplaced single sandals: the question mentioned in passing late one night that sent me over the proverbial edge was: “Do you see yourself having more kids?” I’m 47, not 37. It would be a miracle, non? Also, how would I fit into my belly chain?