Did I ever tell you about the time I dated a supermodel?
Oops, clickbait. I know, my bad. But it did happen, and she was a supermodel. Maybe still is: I’m not sure how the nomenclature works. Isn’t it a bit like presidents—they always keep the title?
Anyway, it was a while back. Late one night, trying to relax, I went onto the League (consider it the Upper East Side of dating apps—it looks down contemptuously on Bumble and Tinder) and there she was.
I recognized the name. (No, I won’t tell you—as an Englishman I’m bred to be gallant.) My first thought was that it must be a scam, the product of some Putin troll farm, leading inexorably to demands for cash, or worse. Couldn’t possibly be real. Not an actual person. No sirree. And absolutely not that particular person. Definitely not. No way.
But what the hell. I clicked Like.
She had already liked me.
We met for dinner a week later. Instead of a man with a Russian accent, someone looking a lot like, well, her turned up. That was the first surprise.
It was not so much a meal as a job interview. She pummeled me with questions designed to expose me as the standard-issue dating-app Vapid Guy. You know, the “modelizers,” who like “stacking” (dating more than one woman a night), are interested only in making money, and seek reinforcement of their fragile egos through external validation—the kind of men who think their arm candy speaks to their net worth.
Her first question: “Do you read books?”
“I studied English at Oxford. Of course I read books.” She looked surprised.
“Really? No man in New York reads books. What’s your favorite novel?”
“Middlemarch.”
No! Hers too.
The wind changed. She gave me her number.
The next day, she changed her schedule and invited me to her place for tea. Then she said, “Love bombing is a red flag.” I had no idea what that meant, and I resolved to look it up. Before I had a chance, she kissed me. Surprise number two.
I thought it was all unreal, implausible, preposterous. There was no way she was really interested in me, still less that she could be, well, nice. Not after all she had been through (which, as a journalist, I had thoroughly researched). Even though it was starting to look like that.
My first thought was that it must be a scam, the product of some Putin troll farm, leading inexorably to demands for cash, or worse.
For a while, we spent a lot of time together. I had met a thoughtful woman who speaks four languages and plays the piano, a loving mother, and a caring, devoted friend. We laughed a lot. I found her fun, unpretentious, serious-minded, intelligent, and kind, anxious to do good things with the rest of her life. We talked about ambition, success, fear, and loneliness, and about family, friends, joy, music, films, and books. She opened up about some of her life traumas, particularly her treatment by men, things I shall never divulge to a living soul. I really liked her, attracted by the warmth of her personality and her desire to be accepted for her brain, not her face. It was a lovely face—still is. But, I discovered, there was a lot behind it.
It came down to this:
She had always been recognized—but she yearned for recognition. She had always been seen—but she wanted to be heard. Deserved it, too.
So I tried to help. We talked about the next stage in her career, and I came up with some ideas she liked, which, if implemented, would have made her the next Oprah. I wrote what was effectively a business plan for her next act, things that would celebrate and liberate the woman I was meeting over coffee, and dinner, and late-night Angel’s Envy—the thoughtful one, the one who reads books and cares about issues.
I introduced her to a female-owned production company, realizing that if she chose to go for it, to change perceptions, it had to be done right, with prudence, sensitivity, and respect. Not by me; I could help, and try to support her, but I should not get in the way. She had to be in control.
And then, one night, very late and extremely drunk, surprise number three. She said, “I think you are only interested in me because it could help your career.”
I told her the reasons I liked her, the stuff that was not skin deep, but she didn’t believe a word of it.
I understood why. She had once said glumly, “Two billionaires want to date me,” and another time, “It seems every man I meet is in love with me.” If you’ve spent a lifetime being desired by men who want to date you, only to aggrandize themselves, it must be really tough to adjust. It’s like the curse of the plutocrat: How can you know who is really your friend? So she defaulted to a habitual response—in most cases, probably the right one—assuming it was her fame I admired, not her brain or her spirit.
Her suggesting she was only interesting because of her fame (she’s not), and I’m so shallow I would be impressed by that (don’t think so), was profoundly insulting to both of us. The irony was extreme, the logic circular: Those who had helped her in the past had done so only to exploit her. I had tried to help her—so therefore I must be trying to exploit her.
Not long after, life smacked me in the face. I had an onslaught of very bad news about close friends and relatives. She was initially supportive, but when I collapsed under the emotion and really opened up to her for the first time, she bolted. She dumped me, by text, with my elderly mother in hospital and my oldest friend on his deathbed. There’s a headline for you. (But no, I’m really not telling you her name.)
We had one last meeting. She said, “I don’t trust you” and “I feel used by you.” I walked away, astounded. The next morning she posted a picture of herself on Instagram, wearing only a pair of knickers and a wan expression. The caption declared her “a strong, independent woman.”
I spoke to a psychologist friend and recounted her life history and experiences, but not what happened between us. “Here’s how someone who has been through that would behave,” said my friend. “She would run towards you at a million miles an hour, and if you show any feelings in response, she’ll run just as fast in the opposite direction.” Got it in one.
She dumped me, by text, with my elderly mother in hospital and my oldest friend on his deathbed.
This helped me to understand, but left me profoundly sad. Nobody deserves to suffer for their face. Not when they have a brain, and loving friends, and such spirit. And not when they like Middlemarch.
But then again …
By writing this, I must be trying to leverage her fame somehow, to make more people read my article. So perhaps I am totally shallow and she was correct all along. Right?
But if that were my game, I could just name her. This piece would go viral in an hour.
Hmm.
Tricky, this fame thing, isn’t it?
P.S.: Our favorite novel is not Middlemarch. Because she revealed her actual favorite in an interview once, to protect her privacy I’ve spread a little literary fog around. Middlemarch would be my second choice.
Paul Campbell is a British writer, musician, and entrepreneur
