by Sami Lukis
Of course he was.
Gusband and I laughed all the way home.
I wasn’t laughing the next morning, though, when I woke up with a dirty big blistery cold sore on my lip. I guess that’s what you get for sucking face with a kinda bisexual Dutch swinger. As hideously grotesque as the cold sore was, all I could think was, Thank god I didn’t sleep with him. Because who knows what I might have woken up with if I had.
After three decades of dating, scores of boyfriends and several serious long-term relationships, I’m kind of relieved to say that I have been proposed to a few times. I’d probably be a bit worried about my cred as a ‘girlfriend’ if not one guy I’d been with in thirty-plus years wanted to marry me.
Unfortunately my marriage proposals all came from boyfriends after a big night on the booze. The actual ‘will you marry me’ bit was usually slurred. And accompanied by a beer burp. I never felt remotely close to accepting any of their proposals.
No one has ever planned the whole spectacular proposal shebang for me. No shells on a beach spelling out ‘will you marry me’ in the sand, no skywriting, not even just a down-on-one-knee at a fancy restaurant. In fact, my most memorable marriage proposal happened in a nightclub in Monte Carlo, from a guy I’d only known for three hours. And, as far as I could tell, he wasn’t joking.
Monte Carlo is best known for its fancy casino, a Formula One race and the divine Grace Kelly, who famously became a princess when she married the Prince of Monaco. I was there with some girlfriends, sitting in a restaurant bar having a pre-dinner drink, when a smartly dressed, attractive young woman walked up to me, handed me her business card for a Wall Street finance firm and offered me a job. Completely out of the blue.
‘I’m actually not looking for a job,’ I told her. ‘But out of curiosity, why on earth would you offer a job to someone you’ve never met? I don’t even have any experience in the finance industry.’
She said the most important part of the job she wanted to offer me was dealing with people. And she could see that I had a suitably outgoing personality. I didn’t know what game she was playing at, but it all sounded pretty stupid to me.
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ I said.
I was still laughing about the absurdity of the situation when the woman returned, about five minutes later, and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but I have to fess up. I’m not here to offer you a job. I would like to set you up with my boss.’
Okay. Now you’re making some sense, pretty young banker lady.
The job offer was a ruse but the business card wasn’t a fake. She did work at a financial advisory firm based in New York and she was in Monaco with her two bosses attending a conference.
She said they were all just discussing the issue of dating and she’d asked her boss Eli to describe his perfect woman, just as they entered the restaurant. Which is when, by pure coincidence, he looked up, saw me sitting at the bar, and said to her, ‘There. That’s my perfect woman.’
(I need to point out here that I feel like a complete tosser even repeating this moment. But I swear, that’s what she told me. Plus, as you’ll soon discover, it actually is relevant to the story.)
Of course, I wondered if it was a set up. Telling a woman that a complete stranger thinks she’s his perfect woman is a surefire way to get her attention. I’d only ever made it to number thirty-one on the FHM Australia’s World’s Sexiest Women list back in the year 2000 – although that did rank me higher than Jennifer Aniston at the time (boom!).
Anyway, pretty young banker lady said her boss was too shy to approach me himself, so would I mind if she brought him over to meet me after we finished our dinner?
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’ I mean, who wouldn’t want to meet the guy who thinks you’re his perfect woman?
I sat through dinner, wondering what this mystery man would look like. He was probably old, short, fat and bald. (I apologise to any short, fat, bald men who may be reading this, but you’ve got to know that’s just not the description of the ‘perfect guy’ for most of us.)
Right on cue, as I finished my dessert, the lovely lady approached our table, accompanied by two men. One of the guys was short, fat and nudging sixty. With a combover. The other looked to be about thirty-five to forty. Tall, fit, clean cut, with a head of very thick dark hair. And he was kind of handsome, in a Jimmy Fallon way.
I stopped breathing. It’s gonna be the fat sixty-year-old with the fucking combover, I thought. I just know it.
But the Jimmy Fallon lookalike walked up to me, shook my hand and very politely said, ‘Hello, Samantha, I’m Eli. It’s lovely to meet you.’
Inside Voice: Bingo, bitchez!
And, to my complete surprise, we got along famously. Eli appeared to be a perfectly lovely, quietly confident, kind of shy gentleman. He was a nice Jewish boy from New York City. Never married. Recently set up the fund with the combover dude.
The guys invited us to join them at the iconic Jimmy’z nightclub, which happens to be one of the world’s most exclusive party spots. It’s where billionaires go for a boogie after they’ve parked their superyachts in the famous Monaco marina. Celebs love it too. You wouldn’t do a double take if P. Diddy or Naomi Campbell or Prince Albert walked past. Well, actually I would do a double take if Naomi Campbell walked past me. And I’d probably follow her into the ladies and eavesdrop from the stall next door and listen out for any ‘suspicious’ noises. You would too. You know you would.
Unrelated. Sorry.
So somehow, I’d managed to find myself in one of the world’s most exclusive nightclubs, flirting outrageously with a handsome Manhattan banker who thought I was his perfect woman. And I was loving every second! It was turning into one of the best nights of my life (and another one of those crazy ‘how the fuck did I end up here?’ encounters).
Suddenly we were on the dancefloor. And Eli was kissing me. And then he got down on one knee, looked up at me and mouthed the words, ‘Will you marry me’.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I screamed over the music. ‘We should totally get married! I mean, we’ve known each other for three whole hours now!’
Then he stood up and led me off the dancefloor to a quiet corner and said, ‘I know this sounds completely ridiculous, but I know you’re the one for me. I’m convinced that fate brought us together. So I’m asking you, seriously, will you marry me?’
‘Ummm. That’s completely insane,’ I told him. ‘I’m not Jewish, for a start.’
‘You can convert,’ he said.
‘And I live in Sydney,’ I said.
‘Move to New York!’
I said I’d think about it and awkwardly brushed it off (like he’d just asked me if I felt like going to the movies tomorrow) and I dragged him back onto the dancefloor. But I couldn’t stop wondering if his spontaneous marriage proposal was legit. He wasn’t a big drinker, so I couldn’t blame it on the booze. In fact, compared to my previous three marriage proposals, this was the most sober one yet.
I started to wonder if this was how it was going to happen for me. We’ve all heard those beautiful, romantic stories about love at first sight – people who just know from the moment they meet that they’re destined to be together.
I wasn’t 100 per cent convinced at that stage that Eli was my Mr Happily Ever After. Sure I was enjoying his company, but I felt like we had quite a lot of ground to cover before I committed to forever with the guy.
So I thought it best to get the ball rolling by having sex with him. Maybe that would help me decide.
We jumped in a cab and headed towards his hotel but I think the fresh air reconnected with my senses and sobered me back to reality because suddenly I thought, What the fuck am I doing here? I can’t sleep with this guy. This really is insane.
I’d been so wrapped up in the glamour and spontaneity of the situation and the pure joy I felt from thinking I was someone’s ‘perfect woman’, that I wasn’t able to see what was really going on. The whole �
�you’re the perfect woman, will you marry me’ schtick was just his way of getting me in the sack. And I almost fell for it. Like the complete putz that I am.
I reminded myself that I was a smart, sensible woman, who knows that shit like this actually doesn’t happen in real life. It only happens in fairy tales. And fantasies.
The cab pulled up outside his hotel and just as Eli stepped out of the taxi, I leaned forward to the driver and said, ‘Drive, please. Now.’
And I slammed the door and we drove away and I left Eli standing there with a look of total shock and confusion on his face.
At the time I felt like it was absolutely the right thing to do.
I wondered afterwards, if it was a massive error in judgement on my part. Was this another sliding door moment I chose to ignore? Was I too damn cynical for my own good? Had my heart been broken too many times to believe that some love stories actually can start out like this?
I thought I’d never find out. Until . . .
Three years later, I received a LinkedIn invitation from a man named Eli who lived in New York and worked in the finance industry. The guy in the profile pic looked a bit like Jimmy Fallon. I knew it was him! I accepted the invitation and sent him a message straight away that said, ‘Is this the same Eli I met on a crazy night out in Monte Carlo all those years ago . . . ?’
And he never, ever replied.
I guess what happens in Monte Carlo stays in Monte Carlo. Or maybe I just wasn’t his perfect woman after all.
I knew I loved him before I met him.
It’s not just a Savage Garden song.
I actually got that tingly feeling the moment I walked into the crowded bar and spotted the back of his head. And when he stood up and turned around and looked at me and smiled, I think I stopped breathing momentarily as my brain registered: ‘Oh. Wow. He’s . . . The One.’
Before that moment, I’d always wondered if the The One was just an idiotic myth. A pick-me-up fantasy for foolish romantics to cling to, in the depths of their darkest single days. I’d plead with my married friends to let me in on the big secret,
‘So, how will I know if I meet The One?’
‘You’ll just know,’ they’d say.
‘But that’s not an answer,’ I’d insist, ‘how will I actually know?’
‘YOU’LL. JUST. KNOW.’
And in that moment, when I locked eyes with him, it suddenly made perfect sense.
I. Just. Knew.
We’d been set up by my friend Megan who, a few weeks earlier, had screamed down the phone to me (like she’d just won the lotto), ‘I’ve met your future husband! Oh my god, he’s perfect for you. I’ve already started shopping for bridesmaids’ dress.’ Usually, when a friend tells me she’s found my ‘perfect’ guy, he turns out to be a complete dud. But this time, I decided pretty much instantaneously that Megs had picked a winner.
The invisible love current was stronger and more intense than I’d ever felt it before. And the guy was mucho handsome so there was an instant attraction on that level. But it was more than just lust at first sight. It was like a calm, cosy feeling that washed over me – a recognition that this was a person I’d been destined to meet.
We clicked immediately. Our conversation had the energy and enthusiasm of two people eagerly trying to cram their entire life stories into one very flirtatious discussion. It was the kind of conversation where you completely forget there’s anyone else in the room. Or on the planet. The attraction was so intense that a complete stranger approached us after a while and said, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been watching you for a while, and I just want to tell you that I can feel the electricity between you two from across the room. So if you’re not already together, you should be.’ Then she left.
Look, maybe I was completely sucked in by a sneaky ploy designed by his friends to help him close the deal. But in that moment, I chose to believe that a complete stranger could sense the power of our attraction from the other side of the room. Perhaps that invisible love current wasn’t so invisible after all.
When the bar closed and they kicked us out and he kissed me as we waited outside for our taxi, it was the most perfect first kiss of my life. I also remember thinking that it was quite possibly the last first kiss I’d ever have.
We fell madly, passionately, deeply in love, pretty much immediately, and we slipped into couple-mode effortlessly. I adored having a boyfriend again and doing all those cutesy coupley things. Saturday brunch. Sunday arvo museum visits. Squeezing the pimples on his back. It felt right. And it felt like this was what I’d been waiting my whole life to find.
So no prizes for guessing this love story doesn’t have ah happy ending. It was a rude shock for me to discover that meeting The One does not automatically come with a happily-ever-after lifetime guarantee.
My trusty Three Month Theory came into play, right on cue, as we spent more time together and it came to my attention that there was a third party in our relationship. Her name was Charli. And The One quite enjoyed putting Charli up his nostrils.
This was a huge problem for me. Because there is no place for drugs in my world. I’d seen how destructive recreational drug use could be. It ruins relationships. And destroys lives.
When I told him it was a deal breaker, he said that if it really bothered me, he’d just stop. Because he loved me. He promised.
But he didn’t stop.
I should have walked away the moment I found out he was so fond of Charli. But by that stage, I was already convinced that he was The One – The One I’d waited my whole friggin’ life to find. So I rationalised my decision not to break up with him, by telling myself that every relationship has ‘issues’. Nobody’s perfect. Maybe he was just going through a ‘phase’? He’d grow out of it.
My biological clock had also shifted into sixth gear when I wasn’t looking. And I certainly wasn’t getting any younger. Three of my friends had bought me those age defying wrinkle busting silk pillow cases for my last birthday. THREE of them!
But my fairytale refused to play out the way it was supposed to. Charli kept appearing in his life regularly and that party boy could not be tamed. We argued about it constantly. And I started to wonder how being with The One could feel so very, very wrong.
This went on for almost twelve months until, in a desperate effort to try and make some sense out of it all, I booked myself in for a reading with my trusty tarot card reader, Poppy. Maybe she could see if he really was The One for me.
Or if I was kidding myself.
Poppy works out of a dingy room in the back of an op shop, which smells like mothballs and mildew and wet dog. She has wild platinum-blonde hair that sticks out in all directions, like she’s just put her finger in the socket, and she draws on these giant wobbly oversized eyebrows that are a little, dramatic. She also has a reputation for being the best (if you can handle the ‘thrift whiff’), and I’m quite convinced that she does have some kind of connection to the other side. I’ve been to see her a few times over the years and she had correctly predicted a few major events in my life. Various job offers, my dad’s cancer, my grandmother’s death.
As soon as Poppy started reading the cards, she saw my fella. She described him perfectly and confirmed things about him that were very specific. She also seemed quite sure that he was The One for me. And then she said, ‘Wait. I see . . . Addiction. Oh no, darling. That’s not good.’
Now you try telling me those tarot card readers are scam artists! How on earth had Poppy (or the spirits, or the angels, or whoever it is that passes on the messages from the other side) been able to pinpoint the one issue that had been causing me so much stress in my relationship? How did she know?
I went to see a therapist next. An addiction specialist. And I asked her if it was my responsibility to stand by my man, come what may. I always thought one of the most important qualities of true love was supporting each other, through good and bad.
But she told me, quite bluntly, that there was absol
utely nothing I could do. My boyfriend wouldn’t quit Charli or his partying ways until he decided he’d had enough. She said it wasn’t my job to rescue him. And I should not feel guilty if I chose to walk away.
So I ended the relationship. And I walked away from the man I honestly thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.
*
It’s surprisingly easy to ignore those inconvenient little warning signals at the beginning of a relationship. It’s much more exciting to get swept up in the romance of believing you’ve met The One than it is to listen to those pesky inside voices, screaming, ‘Danger, danger, danger . . . abort!’
But in the end, it really didn’t matter that I thought he was The One. Or that Poppy and her angel posse thought he was The One. Or that my friend Megan or a complete stranger from across the room on the night we met thought he was The One for me. My boyfriend didn’t think I was The One for him. He chose the other woman, Charli.
After a massive amount of soul searching, I’ve decided that it really is impossible to fall in love with someone before you meet them (sorry Savage Garden, but that really is bullshit). I don’t even believe in love at first sight. Fact is, you can’t truly love someone until you know them, warts and all. That powerful reaction I thought I felt when I met ‘The One’ wasn’t love at first sight. It was a cosy, comforting blend of attraction, hope and anticipation, sprinkled with a touch of loneliness.
Meeting The One is also heavily reliant on the very practical matter of timing. He quite possibly might have been the right person for me, but it wasn’t the right time. I realise now that I’ve probably met a few different Ones throughout my lifetime. The trick is meeting the right One at the right time. That’s when the stars align and the universe gets it right. And that’s when you get your happily ever after.