Sunday 22 March, 2020

The list of what I don't know about Tom includes his second name. And yet today, we're moving in together. Two people who met for the first time three weeks ago.

Other questions that still need answered include:

· What does he take in his coffee? Does he even like coffee?

· Who did he vote for in the last election? Easy to guess, though.

· When did he come to Scotland?

· What is his romantic history like? A childhood sweetheart? A steady girlfriend until now? Serial monogamy? Sexual encounters too numerous to list?

· Does he have siblings and what is his position in the family? (As the youngest child in a family of high achievers, I place a lot of stock in older/younger sibling dynamics and how that shapes a person.)

· His second name.

The fast-forward button on a relationship well and truly activated thanks to what is going on in the world around us. As I wait for him to arrive, I'm a mixture of feverish excitement and gnawing worry, delightful scenarios interspersed with ones where he glares at me, horrified. "You did what?"

He will be here in an hour. More specifically, he will pack his bags into his car, drive the 35 minutes it takes to cross the city (less now that the UK's lockdown is about to start?) where I will welcome him with open arms. And try not to bleat, "Wipe your feet!" if he doesn't do it the second he enters my home.

Modern life, eh? That old Abba classic plays on a loop in my head, Take a Chance on Me. Friends and family queue up in a neat line, their expressions a mix of astonishment and concern. "Sophs! You're, like, the least impulsive person ever! Why are you doing this?"

Cal, my brother, nods his head fervently. My sister threatens a visitation. It takes place. One where we conduct a two metres apart conversation. I stand in the doorway and Josie yells at me from the patio, teenage daughter in tow, phone in hand. She glances up. "Yo, Aunt!" I sketch her a wave and hope it counts as cool in her world.

"Sophie!" Josie shrieks. "What do you know about this guy? He'll have Googled you, you idiot! I bet he's rubbing his hands together in glee."

Her words are nothing I haven't already considered. Yesterday, fingers shaking as they hovered above the keyboard, I typed the name 'Sophie Dalziel'. Nothing to find, except an Instagram account filled with innocuous pictures and a dull LinkedIn profile where a few years in my 20s are not accounted for.

My mother's face shimmers in front of me. Dark hair streaked with grey and wide-tipped glasses she pushes up her nose all the time. Her mouth twitches. "Well," she says, "this is a turn up for the books! Devil may care. I love it!"

In my head, she blows me a kiss. My eyes prickle. Sorry, Mum. Sorry, sorry.

I thank Josie for her concern. Darla winks at me. Sixteen-year-old approval. When her mother turns to point her key at the car, I wink back. Darla lifts her phone and mouths something. 'Tell me what happens, yeah?' my best guess.

The timing couldn't be better though. As Josie's ginormous, pristine Land Rover pulls away, a dusty black Ford Focus edges its way along the street. The driver peers down and up—the universal look of someone using his phone to find an address.

I take a deep breath and wave. The car stops.

"Tom!" The enthusiasm is double, treble, quadruple what it might have been. Blame it on Josie.

"Welcome to my humble abode."

He gets out of his car and swears—the f-word too loud in the now traffic-subdued streets. "Jesus!" he says, the Irish accent turning it into Jaysus. "I'd no idea you were this grand."

Things Tom doesn't know about me.

Everything.