Courtly Love

As part of my new life in Edinburgh, it appears that my Relocation Relocation fairy godmothers, Phil 'n' Kirstie, have also granted me a MAN. Yes, in exciting news from Purple Towers, it appears I have a Pseudo Boyfriend. Crikey! Wasn't expecting that.

I met him at a dinner party, which I'd been invited to via some string-pulling by my parents. (The hostess was the sister of an old friend of theirs). Hearing on the grapevine that I was friendless and alone, the call came through: 'We're having a dinner party! Would you like to come?' Well of course I would! The chance for free food and a good nose round someone else's house is rarely refused. I put on a frock, I bought a proper bottle of wine and teetered over rainy cobbles in unsuitable heels (anything other than trainers are, it turns out, classed as 'unsuitable heels' in Edinburgh, unless you're going everywhere by taxi). I arrived at what I presumed was the correct address. The house was vast. The building's entrance hall was akin to the foyer of the Natural History Museum, just minus a dinosaur skeleton. The flat's foyer (is it still a flat if it's 'over three floors'?!) had loads of glass cabinets in it full of china, like the V&A. I proferred my plastic bag with the bottle of wine in it, and slightly regretted the fact I was wearing a denim jacket and a backpack. I instantly felt like someone on a gap year who's been sent round to one of their parents' friends' houses for a decent dinner.

This wasn't really helped by the host (who's 20 years older than his wife), announcing to everyone when he introduced me that, 'We don't know her at all!' Umm, that's not helping with the impression that I just passed your house, saw you had people round and banged on the door hoping for some upmarket charity.

Anyway, everyone was very civil to me. I got told I was 'brave' a lot. People do this, I've found, when you tell them you've moved cities and jobs and you don't know anyone. I find it a bit odd - it's not like I'm a doctor in a war zone, or Tony Blair's security guard at a book signing - but I just nod and smile and put on my cheerful, 'Well, you know, I'm doing my best!' face.

It was a bit of an odd fact that everyone (out of about 12 people) seemed to be on at least their second marriage. One such couple, Hamish and Plum (!) had recently got married. For Hamish, it was marriage no. 3, for Plum, marriage no. 2. Both had several children. Hamish looked to be at least mid-50s and Plum looked like a well-preserved late 40s (she was the sort of woman who does a lot of aerobics and wears floaty chiffon tops with large 'statement' necklaces for dinner parties and has expensive blonde hair). 'How did you meet?' I asked. Hamish then told an extraordinary story about how they'd met through the Telegraph's internet dating service. Their first date was over lunch, after which they were so mutually blown away that a flurry of texts, phone calls and emails ensued before Hamish had to go on a business trip a week later, to New York. From New York, he decided he simply couldn't bear to be without Plum for a moment longer. He phoned her and asked her to marry him. She said yes. AFTER A WEEK. They hadn't even had a snog! It was like wandering into a copy of OK!

The chap sitting next to me, who I'd been having quite a good chat with, looked at me, his jaw agape. 'Well, d'you want to get married?' he asked. 'Yes, are you free on Tuesday?' I replied. He emailed the next day to apologise, saying he thought a proposal was the only option, and asked me out for a walk with his dog. So Jane Austen! He came and picked me up in his car and everything. Having had many jokes about how his car was massively uncool, second hand, etc, I was expecting him to turn up in a Fiat Punto. In fact, he drives a BMW. In what world is a BMW the height of uncool? Very odd.

Anyway, we had a very pleasant day together, and I seem to have seen more of him over the last few weeks than I normally would of my best friends (the hazard, perhaps, of not knowing many people here). As he runs his own business (a management consultancy) and only reads wanky business books, he thinks my entire life is glamorous and fascinating. Which, of course, is fine by me. I've decided that my role is that of his Cultural Advisor, and have been supplying books (which he emails to tell me he's started; I'm slightly worried he thinks of this as 'homework'), trips to the Festival and a film. (The Illusionist, if you're interested - it's set in Edinburgh, it's really beautiful and unbearably sad. It's not a great 'date movie', but I wanted to see it. And I was adamant, if only in my own head, that this was not a date).

Yes, for there is the great tragedy of the man who has come to be known in my office as The Mild Mannered Management Consultant. (A moniker that makes him sound like he has a superheroic alter-ego, who of course I would fancy MADLY). I just don't fancy him. File under 'gift horse, looking in the mouth of': he is nice, he is kind, he pays for everything (despite me begging him not to), he picks me up and he drives me home (he lives totally the other side of town). He emails, he texts (he even sent me a long text in French, when I was in France the other week), he thinks I'm great company. But he doesn't make me laugh, and that's a deal-breaker for me.

However, he hasn't yet made any moves in the 'passionate embrace' department. Which leaves me with a conundrum. Is he A/ playing a very long game, akin to a Chaucerian demonstration of courtly love? B/ just the kind of man who likes driving women around and paying for things, entirely platonically or C/ actually entirely friendless apart from me? It's all rather confusing. And no-one wants to be the person who embarks upon the 'Just Good Friends' chat whilst the other person is thinking, 'Ooh, get you! I wasn't aiming for anything other than Just Good Friends, actually'.

The unfortunate effect of having a love life that's akin to the Kalahari Desert, however, is that all my friends and family have decided that as someone's finally asked me out (more than once), he's The One, and I must marry him. I spoke to my mum and sister after our first 'date', who cackled like a pair of witches and immediately started planning the commissioning of special marital tartans (the MMMC is Scottish). 'Can't you force yourself to fancy him?' everyone keeps asking, as though I am actually a Jane Austen heroine, who needs urgent saving from a life of penury by a well-meaning, well-off but horribly dull vicar. No! No, I can't. That's kind of the point of a boyfriend: it's someone you fancy. Otherwise, they are just a friend.

I might have to start internet dating to take the pressure off.