Swipe Right. A story about online dating, beautiful illusions, and desires unleashed

Lera’s reply came almost instantly.

“He’s simply not wealthy. In Europe, an €800 restaurant bill on a first date isn’t unusual if you’re dating genuinely wealthy men. I’ve had plenty of dinners like that. At least you discovered this before ordering Dom Pérignon. “You always blame yourself. Don’t. You set a boundary. That’s exactly what you were supposed to do. Now he’s the one trying to justify himself. People are different. Think of it as passing the first test.”

“You still haven’t realised how limitless online dating really is. After the pandemic, everyone moved online. Just like in real life, you’ll meet every kind of person imaginable. I’ve dated billionaires, heirs, owners of clinics, architecture firms, famous companies — you name it. Half of them I’ve probably forgotten by now. Of course, it wasn’t all plain sailing.

“My very first online date was with a writer who also worked as a lawyer for the German government in Munich — I can’t even remember which department now. The only presents he ever bought me were perfumes. That wasn’t enough, so I sent him packing.

“Then there was the heir to a family estate outside Munich, complete with hotels and restaurants. He was a lovely, cheerful country boy, but I’d have had to wait for his entire family to die before he inherited anything. He had no cash of his own, although he was genuinely kind and hopelessly in love with me.

“After him came a millionaire — a major hotel developer in Kitzbühel and Kufstein, with properties in some of Europe’s most exclusive locations. Then there was a factory owner, whom I eventually introduced to a friend. We weren’t each other’s type, but he moved in the same circles as Trump, and his name regularly appeared in the German papers.

“And those are only the ones I still remember. There were plenty of others — rich, poor, generous, stingy, every kind imaginable. I once ended things with a man simply because I hated the hotel, he’d booked for us in Munich. Unfortunately for him, I happened to be seeing Oleg at the same time, and Oleg was putting me up in presidential suites. Compared with that, the Austrian never stood a chance.

“I still managed to get a few gifts out of him. For someone who claimed to be a millionaire, he wasn’t nearly generous enough. That’s the thing — truly generous men are much rarer than rich men. That’s why I always tell you: take what you can, then move on from the stingy ones. A generous man gives willingly. A stingy one takes work.”

She paused before adding, “Ironically, the most generous men I’ve ever met weren’t online at all. I met them in real life. It’s a pattern I’ve noticed.”

“But I wouldn’t exactly call it a free holiday,” I said. “You’re still paying with something.”

“At first I slept with them because I genuinely wanted to. I hadn’t had sex for ages. Later, I only did if there were presents involved.

“Every single man who’s ever given me something still messages me. They invite me out. They don’t forget. That’s how men work.

“If you want a man to become attached, let him invest in you first. Only then sleep with him. Do it the other way round, and the game’s usually over.”

“He texted me today,” I said. “Here’s what he wrote: ‘This is exactly why I didn’t want a long-distance relationship. I really like you, Ginny. I want us to be together because I’m sure we’d get on brilliantly. But I can’t promise you more than I can realistically give. My children come first, and they need me here. If you already lived in the UK, we’d probably spend every day together.’”

Lera’s answer came almost immediately.

“He’s a drama king.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s creating emotional tension instead of solving the problem. He enjoys the drama. Play along if you like — but don’t believe it.” She carried on.

“In America, a man wouldn’t dream of approaching a woman with speeches like that unless he’d turned up with a Cartier box in his pocket. That’s why American men are often so generous. They’re raised to understand that courting a woman costs money.

“Sometimes I simply tell them, ‘I know what men spend on women in America.’ There’s usually nothing they can say after that.”

“Lera, I don’t want to sound like a prostitute. I could never say something like that.”

“‘Prostitute’ is simply a profession. Everything comes down to an agreement between two adults. The only question is whether the arrangement suits you.

“But let’s be realistic. An Englishman with two children isn’t going to pay thirty thousand pounds a year for your son’s education unless he’s genuinely wealthy.”

“There’s something else, though. He keeps talking about a relationship. That’s different from just trying to hook up for the night.”

“In a real relationship, a man naturally wants to make a woman’s life better. That doesn’t mean the gifts stop.

“Once I had dinner with a Jewish man. Afterwards he assumed he’d be staying at my flat. I didn’t argue. I simply went to bed and fell asleep. The next time he came to Baden, he booked himself a hotel.”

She smiled. “Lesson learned. Now he’s trying to persuade me to go to Italy with him.”

“So, it’s all just strategy? And here I was thinking there was such a thing as romance.”

“That Jewish man thought it was romance too. It’s simply natural selection. Not every man can afford the life you want. That’s why you test them early. The sooner you understand who you’re dealing with, the less time you waste.

“By the way, there’s a much better dating app than Tinder in London. I’ll remember the name later.”

“I still hate thinking that maybe it all came down to money. Or that I scared him away by being too direct.”

“Zhenya, stop analysing him. Why waste your energy trying to understand someone you barely know? The only conclusion that matters is that he isn’t right for you. You decided much too quickly that he was.

“Men like him are everywhere. Every third man in Europe is like that. Set Tinder to Stockholm one evening — you’ll be amazed. When I was there, my biggest problem was figuring out how to squeeze five dates into one night.”

She laughed. “Stockholm left a huge impression on me. But Copenhagen… that’s my dream city. Whenever I really liked someone, I’d leave my number on a paper napkin in restaurants. Tinder in Copenhagen is incredible. Unfortunately, during Covid it was pointless. London, though…”

She paused. “…London is much easier.”

“I can’t stop thinking that maybe I ruined everything,” I admitted. “Maybe I offended him. If I’d handled it differently, perhaps it could have worked.”

Lera wasn’t convinced.

“I’ve already told you — you didn’t offend him. He enjoyed the fantasy while it lasted. Now it’s over. He’s a hero in a virtual romance, nothing more.”

She paused before adding, “And you’re making one very common mistake. You think you’ve fallen in love with him. You haven’t. Listen to a few good psychologists talking about relationships. Once you understand how men and women actually bond, all of this will start making sense.”

“Then why did he end it?” I asked. “I could have carried on sending him photos. There are plenty of men on Tinder looking for serious relationships.”

“Because he’d had enough.”

She shrugged, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “That’s all.”

Then she added, “Of course men are looking for relationships. But ask yourself one question. If he isn’t willing to invest in you now, what exactly are you hoping will change later?”

Lera had developed her own theory about relationships.

“I’ve realised there’s always a top position and a bottom position. If you want to feel secure with a man, you have to stay in the stronger position. That affects everything — how you behave, what you say, even how you think.”

She smiled. “If I decide to sleep with a man, I never think of it as him ‘getting’ me. I’m choosing him. And I’m getting something valuable in return. You can only think like that once you’ve stopped depending on him emotionally. All your love should be directed towards yourself. Everything else is theatre.”

She knew I wasn’t there yet.

“It’ll take time,” she said more gently. “You’ve spent years trusting men too quickly. That habit keeps knocking you off balance. Experience is the only thing that changes it.”

Then she became almost teacher-like.

“The biggest problem is expectation. Not just expectations of men — of anyone. Words don’t entitle us to expect anything. Only actions do. Serious people don’t make promises unless they’re prepared to keep them.”

She laughed. “Whenever someone talks too much, test them immediately. Tell them: ‘you said this would happen. I’ll give it three days. If nothing changes, I’ll know where I stand.’”

“And stop blaming yourself.” She sounded almost irritated. “Where did that habit even come from? Who convinced you that you’re always hurting people? We don’t offend anyone. People choose whether they’re offended. That’s their decision, not ours. If someone crosses your boundaries, the answer isn’t guilt. It’s stronger boundaries.”

I reminded her of something she’d once said. “You told me you have an avoidant attachment style.”

She nodded. “That’s the result of old trauma. It’s hardly a superpower. I’ve simply learned to use it. I tend to attract anxious men because they become emotionally invested very quickly. That only works during the honeymoon phase. After that, it stops. You can’t build a healthy relationship that way.”

She smiled to herself. “The funny thing is, I used to be anxiously attached too. Then I spent three months listening to the same psychologist every single day. Another three months putting it all into practice. Eventually my brain changed.”

She laughed. “Now, whenever I really like a man, my first instinct is to push him away. You need to send at least ten men packing before your brain starts building new neural pathways.”

Lera wasn’t finished.

“I have rules for myself too,” she said. “I won’t even consider meeting a man unless he’s already done something meaningful for me. I watch what he does, not what he says. Right from the start, I make it clear that I live in a five-star hotel.”

She smiled. “That way he understands the conversation starts somewhere around Prada. If he doesn’t want to buy gifts, then he’d better have something equally valuable to offer. A luxury holidays. Useful help. Access to something I couldn’t easily arrange for myself. Anything that genuinely adds value to my life.”

She leaned back. “The more a man invests in a woman, the more valuable she becomes to him. That’s simply how people work.”

She paused before telling me another story.

“Here’s an example. About two and a half years ago I met a man on Tinder. We had lunch once. He played polo. Owned a yacht. Had a hotel. Drove a Porsche.”

She shrugged. “Upper-middle class by German standards. Nothing extraordinary. During lunch I needed to stop at a pharmacy. The bill came to about a hundred and fifty euros. He paid without hesitation.”

She nodded approvingly. “That immediately told me something important. He was comfortable spending money on a woman.”

Her expression softened. “That same day my mother died. I flew home immediately.”

For a moment she fell silent. Then she continued.

“Afterwards we stayed in touch. One day I told him quite openly that if I came to visit him, I’d want to go shopping first. He kept sending me photos of himself enjoying life. I ignored most of them. Then lockdown happened. Everyone was bored. One day he wrote: ‘Do you still remember me?’ I waited until the next day before replying.”

She smiled. “People value attention more when they don’t receive it immediately. Not long ago I was planning a trip to Düsseldorf. I remembered he had a hotel nearby. So, I messaged him. He replied almost instantly. I asked him to send me a hotel booking confirmation because I needed it for the police during quarantine. He made the reservation straight away.”

“Then added that I was welcome to stay there if I wanted. I told him I’d think about it.”

A few days later he wrote again. “Have you decided? We need to know whether to keep the room reserved.”

She laughed. “It was obvious he wanted to see me. So, I agreed. The day we met was incredibly hot. He suggested going out on his yacht. It suited him.”

She grinned. “I needed some sunshine. And I hadn’t had sex for a while. So, I said yes. He collected me from the hotel with my suitcase. We had oysters for lunch. Then we headed out onto the river. The yacht was beautiful. Comfortable. Immaculately maintained. That evening we stayed at a lovely restaurant with rooms overlooking the water.”

She looked at me. “And yes. We slept together. The next morning, he was a completely different man.”

“Different how?” I asked.

“He said he’d take me back to the hotel. ‘You can stay there until Sunday,’ he told me. ‘I’m busy now, but if I have time, maybe we’ll meet again on Saturday.’”

She gave a small smile. “I wasn’t surprised.”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Do you think he didn’t enjoy the sex?”

Lera laughed. “It had nothing to do with the sex. Men are remarkably predictable. They climax, and that’s it.”

She shrugged. “For them, sex itself doesn’t change much from one woman to another. That’s just how they’re wired.”

She took another sip of coffee.

“Look at the situation from his point of view. He’s single. Comfortable. Used to living exactly as he pleases. So far, he’d spent, what… about a hundred and fifty euros on me? Seeing me again would almost certainly mean spending more.”

She smiled. “Simple maths. Once you understand the calculation, you stop taking it personally. Men commit when they’re ready to invest. Financially. Emotionally. Practically. Nothing else really matters. If they’re not ready, they’ll disappear after sex.”

She looked at me. “And that’s perfectly normal.”

“So, if a man walks away after sleeping with you, don’t make it about yourself. It doesn’t necessarily mean you did anything wrong. It simply means one of two things:”

She raised two fingers. “Either he wasn’t ready. Or you weren’t the right match.”

She paused before adding, “The real disaster isn’t when someone leaves. It’s when two people with completely different needs fall in love. That’s when the drama begins. Infatuation fades. Reality doesn’t. That’s why you’re responsible for your own emotions. No one else. If you choose to fall in love, understand what you’re risking. Every outcome is possible.”

She smiled gently. “These days a lot of psychologists describe infatuation as a kind of temporary illness. You develop powerful feelings for someone who’s essentially still a stranger. When you think about it like that… it sounds almost absurd.”

A few days later another message from Lera popped up on my phone. “I remembered the name of that British dating app.”

A second message followed immediately. “Hinge. Give it a try.”

The Introduction

September 2020

Of course, I quickly figured out how to use the new dating app, and I was amazed by the calibre of men on it.

One of Hinge’s biggest advantages was its filters. Unlike Tinder, it let you narrow your search by education, religion, ethnicity and a whole range of other criteria. The moment I switched my location to London, it felt as though an entirely different world had opened up before me. Successful, intelligent, upper-middle-class British men.

Thanks to Lera, I already knew one useful trick: always like the profiles without photos. More often than not, they turned out to be the most interesting. But even among the public profiles, there was no shortage of impressive candidates.

Within a couple of weeks, I’d narrowed it down to five men. A middle-aged Danish entrepreneur with an infectious smile and a villa in Spain. An absurdly handsome young chef from London. A wealthy investor who seemed to have all the time in the world. A doctor. And a financier.

I was chatting to all of them at once, swapping photos and getting to know them.

Only one suggested a video call almost immediately. I’d never done one before. His name was Mark. Ironically, he was probably the least attractive of the five. Yet something about him intrigued me. His photographs weren’t posed. One showed him stalking deer in the Scottish Highlands. Another was taken on a golf course. There were pictures from safari trips in Africa and weekends away with friends. No luxury cars. No designer watches. No attempts to prove how wealthy he was. Which, in my experience, usually meant the opposite.

I’ve always believed that genuinely successful, intelligent men don’t feel the need to advertise their status. People now call it quiet luxury. Those who belong to that world recognise it instantly. Those who don’t usually try far too hard. And it isn’t only about money.

In Europe, wealth often comes with education, manners and culture. The old class system still leaves its mark there, unlike in Russia, where the very idea of old money barely exists. But what attracted me wasn’t a bank account. It was something much harder to imitate. Curiosity. Good taste. Emotional intelligence. A certain generosity of spirit.

Those qualities reveal themselves almost immediately. Money doesn’t. I’ve always respected people who genuinely love what they do. A carpenter or a farmer can be just as fascinating as an investment banker if they have an original mind or an unusual way of seeing the world.

Whether we’d have enough in common to build a relationship is another question entirely.

The truth is, I wasn’t looking for some profound emotional connection. Not yet. I was simply trying to survive. It had only been a few months since I’d lost my husband. No words can adequately describe what grief like that feels like. There’s almost no point trying. Oddly enough, from the outside I probably looked calmer and more composed than ever.

Years later I finally understood why people contemplating suicide can seem perfectly cheerful. Sometimes the mind protects itself by functioning on autopilot.

I made decisions with startling speed. Almost immediately after the funeral I returned from maternity leave. I started going to the gym again. I kept moving because stopping wasn’t an option. I had a one-and-a-half-year-old son in my arms. He was my reason to keep living. At just eighteen months old, he’d already lost his father. I refused to let him grow up with a mother consumed by grief. He deserved the coolest mum in the world. The woman his father had fallen in love with. The woman I used to be.

For the time being, I was doing everything I could to fill the enormous emptiness inside me. Anything was better than falling into it. I knew it would take a long time before I could truly enjoy life again. Before happiness would feel natural. Before I’d be capable of loving someone new. That journey couldn’t be rushed. Perhaps it never really ends.

Even years later, the pain doesn’t disappear completely. You simply learn to carry it. I’ve often thought of athletes who lose a limb. Nothing can replace what they’ve lost. But with time they learn to walk again. To run. To compete. To discover strengths they never knew they possessed.

Perhaps grief works the same way. You never get your old life back. But you slowly build another one.

Sometimes I wonder whether that’s the purpose of suffering. Perhaps we’re given these impossible experiences because they’re meant to change us. To force us to become someone we could never have become otherwise. To open the door to another life while we’re still living this one. That’s the only explanation I’ve ever found that makes sense to me. And somehow… it helps.

⠀

___

⠀

I agreed to a video call with Mark.

I wasn’t attracted to him in the slightest, but curiosity got the better of me. I’d just come back from walking the dog and hadn’t even bothered to freshen up.

To my surprise, we ended up talking for more than an hour. More importantly, it was genuinely interesting. Unlike any conversation I’d had on a dating app before.

My first impression of Mark wasn’t exactly flattering. He looked like the quintessential academic — brilliant, slightly awkward, and completely unconcerned with his appearance. One newspaper had once compared him to a character from The Simpsons.

The resemblance was uncanny. His hair had receded dramatically, leaving only a stubborn tuft at the front. An egg-shaped head. Prominent eyes. A long, slightly hooked nose. Thin. And, unmistakably, an English smile — with teeth that had clearly never met an orthodontist. His grin was so broad it was almost unsettling. It took a little while to realise it was actually rather charming.

He was wearing an ordinary checked shirt with the top two buttons undone. The original wired Apple EarPods dangled from his ears. Nothing about him looked polished.

Yet somehow it all worked. He was lounging in a beautiful neoclassical armchair as though he’d owned it for generations, one leg casually crossed over the other, speaking in flawless, carefully articulated English while punctuating every sentence with elegant gestures. I wasn’t physically attracted to him. But I was becoming intrigued.

His education was exactly what you’d expect. Winchester College. Harvard. The University of Edinburgh. Everything about him suggested old British privilege worn lightly.

Behind him hung paintings in ornate gilt frames. During one of our first conversations, he proudly showed me his latest purchase — a nineteenth-century portrait of a young woman — and asked where I thought it should hang. It was the first time a man on a dating app had asked for my opinion on art.

Our conversations soon settled into a rhythm.

Roughly a third of them revolved around his family. There was Mark. His beloved mother. His younger brother, together with his wife and little daughter, who had inherited her mother’s Asian features. And an older brother who happened to be in hospital at the time.

Their father had died almost twenty years earlier. Yet he still dominated family conversations.

He had been a distinguished barrister and remained, in Mark’s eyes, the embodiment of everything admirable about England.

Much later, when I visited London, Mark took me walking through the quiet lanes of the City. He showed me where his father had lived and worked. Ancient legal chambers tucked away behind heavy gates. Victorian buildings with private entrances reserved for barristers. Stone memorials. Brass plaques. Centuries of tradition preserved in silence. It felt like stepping inside a world that few outsiders ever see.

At that stage, though, none of us had the faintest idea where any of this was heading.

During one of our calls, I mentioned — just as I had to the other four men — that I’d be flying to London the following week and staying from Friday until Monday. Every one of them immediately invited me out. Dinner. Coffee. Cocktails. Whatever I preferred.

The truth, however, was that my thoughts were still with Warren. Despite everything that had happened, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I bought my ticket anyway, navigating all the Covid restrictions, because I still believed he might be the one.

Out of everyone I’d met online, he felt the most natural. The easiest to talk to. Our conversations flowed effortlessly. Perhaps because he was also the least wealthy. In many ways, he reflected who I was at the time — and what I genuinely needed.