Martin turned out to be an adept player of Q and A, the text message game. He answered with verve and asked his own good questions. Should trifle have jelly in it?. That was one of his, and it’s a seriously good one, worthy of debate. Did I believe in sea monsters? Were there books I was embarrassed about loving? Were there words that offended me? What country that I hadn’t yet visited did I imagine I might want to live in? Did I still have any of my childhood ambitions?

The emails, meanwhile, became longer, other than at night when we had on-screen conversations that had the quality of a long phone call, like those in the days before the internet, sleepily pillow to pillow. We found we had similar likes and dislikes; we made lists for one another and found we had some of the same favourite books, music and films. We liked the same kind of travel, the same kind of art, the same kind of whisky. He said he’d never encountered anyone to whom he felt so immediately attracted. I said I felt the same; we must meet soon. “We must,” he said. “Let’s meet this weekend,” he said the next morning. “I’ll be quiet tonight, on the email front, as I have to go to a birthday party, and the likelihood is that it will turn into an epic.”

Then there was a text message. It said: “Before I go, I have a last question for today: what’s the most unexpected sex you’ve ever had?”

Afterwards, I wished I hadn’t answered the question at all, or at least not honestly. Possibly my answer overstepped somehow; I don’t know if he’s a man who has fixed ideas about femininity. But why had he asked the question, if he didn’t want to read the answer? Was I supposed to respond: “I haven’t had unexpected sex. Not yet. Are you planning on surprising me?”

Instead I told him about an afternoon in a meadow with an old boyfriend. The question had, I thought, the beginnings of erotic possibility; he was sounding out a sexual component to our friendship, reminding us where this was going to lead. Or so I thought. Afterwards, I wondered about the use of the word unexpected. Perhaps I’d misinterpreted it. I’m still wondering.

So, he went off to his party, and just as he’d warned me, was not in touch that night. But then there wasn’t a message in the morning either, or at lunchtime, or the next evening.

Finally, I texted him. “Martin? I’m missing you. Missing our contact and conversation. Hope all is well. Is all well?” There was no response.

In the late evening, still not having heard back, I read my candid email a dozen times, becoming increasingly regretful about sending it. What I wanted to ask was: “Did you hook up with someone at the party? Why aren’t you talking?” Instead I asked, “Have you died of alcohol poisoning?” Texts are easier to answer if you haven’t time or can’t be bothered. They only require one line. “Sorry,” his reply said. “Still fighting massive hangover and backed up with work.”

The disingenuousness of this was crushing. It wasn’t really an apology at all; it was the cold shoulder. The open, affectionate penpal and prospective lover had become, overnight, a person who was neither open nor affectionate. After a sustained period of intense, near-hourly communications, after “I’m falling in love with you; caught up, caught up in this”, it’s all too likely that “backed up with work” is a form of obituary.

When a man tells you he is overwhelmed with admin and that’s why he isn’t talking, he isn’t interested in you any more. Work is never more important than love; not really. A five-minute pause can be found, inside most days, no matter how pressurised, for a loving, apologetic note, a quick phone call, an airborne kiss, a “missing you”. He hadn’t missed me or he would have said so. He would have added that he couldn’t wait to get home, to email, to call.

Determined to still meet, to ride over this unhappy blip, I wrote that I’d looked at trains for Saturday, and listed suggested timings. We can do this first date alcohol-free, I said, so as not to punish your liver further. I’m sure we’re up to that stark sobriety. We hadn’t spoken yet on the phone, and it seemed imperative, suddenly, that we did. I want to hear your voice, I told him. I’m ringing you now. The call went straight to message.