We were laying in bed when my date told me about the woman he planned to marry

‘There’s a girl waiting for me back home.’

Frank* is curled around me in bed, one arm resting across my waist beneath the sheets. ‘She’s so beautiful,’ he continued.

I go still. Surely he’s not talking about another woman – while holding me in his arms?

‘When I return in six years, I’m marrying her.’

My face made expressions no amount of Botox could prevent. ‘Maybe there’s a missing piece of information,’ I thought, frantically.

But there wasn’t.

I’d met Frank seven hours earlier on a beach in Thailand.

I’m 5ft 2in and always stand in the shallow water. A metre away, Frank– all 6ft 6in of him – appeared to be standing in a puddle.

He caught sight of me and laughed. ‘I didn’t realise the waves were that big until I saw you.’

‘Years of compulsory school lessons and I still can’t swim,’ I replied. ‘I never go past where I can stand.’

‘Watch.’ He rolled onto his back and floated. ‘Stay near me.’

He started with the usual first-meeting conversation preliminaries: Where we were from, his travels. I liked that he was tall – just my type.

He told me he helps businesses grow money. I nodded, understanding nothing.

‘What about you?’, he asked.

I told him I’m a writer, and that I often write about sex and dating.

When I spoke, he waited for the whole answer. No interrupting, no looking for an opening. My answers clearly mattered to him.

He said he wanted a genuine connection; an endangered species among the travellers I’d met in Thailand. After a while, he scooped me up by the bum and carried me deeper into the ocean.

The waves crashed over us, but his body shielded me. The physical closeness came naturally, and we couldn’t stop talking. I told him about my anxiety and ADHD; he described his close family.

After about an hour, he ferried me back to shore and deposited me on my towel.

I lay there on my stomach, and then we were quiet, both of us watching the water.

‘I like you,’ he said, suddenly.

My head turned and I smiled – but his confidence disarmed me. I liked him too, but was less bold about saying it.

He took my hand. ‘Should we get dinner?’

We found a restaurant packed with diners, and he turned to the nearest table.

I finished a mango smoothie in 15 minutes and he immediately ordered me another. Once we’d eaten, he went to the counter and paid without a word.

I was running out of reasons not to like him.

After dinner, he walked me back to my hotel and steered us towards the beachfront route, saying it was ‘more romantic for a first date.’

As if he needed the sea and the sand to help him. For me, decisiveness in a man is as good as foreplay.

‘Do you have a goldfish in your room?’ he asked, when we reached my hotel. ‘No,’ I replied, baffled. ‘Why?’

‘Anything interesting upstairs?’

‘No.’

He grinned. ‘Let’s pretend there’s something fascinating. I have sand down my shorts and need to rinse off.’

Fair. We were both carrying half the beach in our underwear. But neither of us was really pretending this was about sand. I didn’t want the night to end either.

In the shower, I rehearsed saying: ‘I’m not having sex with you.’

I was definitely attracted to him, but I don’t sleep with men I’ve just met. Anyone can behave for a few hours – red flags take longer to surface.

But I didn’t end up having to say anything. When I got out of the shower, he immediately said, ‘We don’t have to do anything sexual’, and held his arms out. ‘Come here.’

I softened. Maybe all that talk about wanting intimacy wasn’t talk after all.

That’s how we came to be curled up in my bed together. The lack of pressure drew me in further. He’d already floated following me to my next travel destination, and I was starting to hope he would.

But an hour later, he told me about the woman he’s destined to marry.

‘She’s my high school girlfriend,’ he explained. ‘Our families are friends. We’ll date other people, experience crap, mature and be ready for each other when I’m back.’

I stared at the ceiling. ‘So, I’m the crap,’ I thought. ‘Good to know.’

‘You seem troubled,’ he said.

‘It’s an odd thing to say to the woman you’ve spent all day winning over,’ I replied, confused. ‘What are we doing here?’

‘I don’t see why any of that is strange. Are you expecting me to marry you?’

For a moment he had me. Was I the weird one? After all, he was single, owed me nothing and honest.

Then my brain returned. I’d rather not be a crash-test dummy, thanks. I’d asked a question, not for his hand. I didn’t even know his surname. 

Close to midnight, he said I had work the next day and he’d let me sleep. I suspected we’d had two very different conversations. His theory that women often fell in love with him and ‘went crazy’ did little to correct me.

As he left, he kissed the top of my head and stuck out his hand for a handshake. ‘I’ll be in touch’ – about what, I had no idea.

It became clear the next day, when he messaged me to say he’d had a great time. I concurred, but kept my misgivings to myself.

And that concluded our correspondence.

For years, I had swallowed questions I knew I should ask, in order to keep men I liked. Every time, I knew I wouldn’t want to hear the answer.

But I’m glad I asked Frank: ‘What are we doing here?’

The question may have cost me a second date. I’d still ask it again, every time.

*Name has been changed

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