The moment I knew: I’d lost his number and was about to switch off my old phone for good – then a text pinged
When Karen Bleakley locked eyes with Matt on the dancefloor, it was a sign of a new beginning. But when she lost his number, she thought she’d never see him again
In 2002 I was in the midst of a messy breakup, so my friend Clare did what friends do – she took me out, fed me shots and showed me a good time.
We were at Route 66, a cheesy nightclub in Portsmouth on the southern coast of the UK, that was blasting 80s tunes. Then on the dancefloor I saw him: a young, hunky Ryan Phillippe lookalike, if Ryan Phillippe had spent the summer windsurfing. Matt, a Portsmouth local, was all blond curls, tanned skin and bright blue eyes that caught mine as I stared at him.
Within minutes we were dancing, and we barely left each other’s sides for the rest of the night.
A group of us ended up at my friend’s flat, where Matt passed an important test: sharing a piece of toast and Marmite with me as we all partied through the night. I’d never dated anyone who could stand Marmite before, so this seemed promising.
Eventually, a bunch of us crashed wherever we could, scattered across the floor of the flat among empty bottles and glasses, somehow managing to get a couple of hours of sleep in the way only twentysomethings can.
The next morning, bleary-eyed and in need of a fry-up, we all headed to a greasy spoon cafe and Matt and I swapped numbers. I told him about my plans to go back home to Sheffield, five hours’ north, resign from my job and relocate to the south coast once I’d tied things up with my ex.
The weekend had been a bit of a scoping exercise: I knew the sea air and a fresh start would do me good, and the fun I’d had only reinforced that moving somewhere completely new was the right decision. I wasn’t sure exactly where I’d end up, but I knew I was destined to live by the beach after living in the middle of the country my whole life.
He said he’d wait for me to get in touch because he knew I had a lot going on. We kissed goodbye, and I went home feeling flutters of anticipation.
Later that day, I went to text him – only to discover his number hadn’t saved in my phone. My heart sank.
I was furious with myself. I visited my friend a few more times over the following weekends. We kept looking for him in the clubs and bars, but eventually I had to accept I’d never see him again.
Meanwhile, things back home changed. I resigned and was planning my relocation when a manager walked out, so my employer offered me a promotion and pay rise to stay. I agreed and moved out of the house I shared with my ex, and into a share house.
As part of my new beginning, I ordered a phone with a new number. When it arrived, I sat down to transfer everything across – photos, messages, contacts. All looked in order, and I was about to switch off my old phone for the very final time, when a text pinged.
“Hi Karen, I just wondered if you ever moved down in the end? If so, would love to meet up. Matt. x”
My heart did somersaults and I texted back immediately. A second later, he called and we made plans to meet for a day trip to Brighton.
What followed was a whirlwind of texts, long phone calls and weekend commutes across the country to see each other.
Looking back, losing Matt’s number seems perfectly timed. Accepting the promotion gave me the chance to stand on my own two feet and really deal with the fallout from the breakup.
If Matt’s text had arrived five minutes later, I would have switched off my old phone and missed it. It was perfectly timed too.
Matt and I spent a year in a long-distance relationship before I finally moved south. By this time, relocating didn’t feel like running away from my old life; it felt like running towards a new one.
Twenty-four years later, we’ve had a wedding, a round-the-world backpacking adventure, three children (including twins!) and a move across the world to make Australia our permanent home. The young Ryan Phillippe look has evolved into a pretty convincing Travis Fimmel. I’ll take credit for choosing his new glasses, which are very similar to the ones Travis wears in Black Snow.
I don’t drink vodka or eat Marmite these days, and I haven’t set foot in a nightclub in years. But I’m happy to say I’d still choose Matt if I saw him across a dancefloor.
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Originally published by theguardian.com. Syndicated material does not necessarily reflect the views of GQ British Lifestyle.
