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He never talked about the future, beyond the next holiday.
He once took me to Selfridges and bought me a pair of skyscraper Prada heels, whispering in my ear as he got out his Gold Amex that he couldn’t wait to see me wearing them naked later.
But despite the relentless glamour that is undeniably there when you date a millionaire, dissatisfaction started to creep in after six months.
Matthew’s lateness was habitual – and quickly became intolerable.
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But once we were actually in bed, he was the one who was keen to be dominated, asking me to tie him up, tease him and generally make him suffer on the way to his orgasm.
It seemed that exerting such whip-tight control in all other areas of his life made the reversal of roles in the bedroom impossibly erotic.
On hearing I only liked red wine, he said, ‘We’re going to have to educate you, aren’t we?
’ and proceeded to order exorbitantly expensive bottles of white wine wherever we went.
Once the Louis Vuitton luggage and Lamborghinis become unremarkable, the real questions start to emerge: Am I happy? Do I even By now, we had been dating for nine months, almost solely on his agenda.
I had missed days at work, friend’s birthdays, and yet he had never once said he loved me, despite the fact I was desperate for him to say it.
Half a million search-results later, I realised this guy was A Big Deal.