Since I started swiping, I found myself constantly watching the guys around me, trying to recognise a Tinderboy.

Sometimes, I would just sit in a cafe swiping, and at each profile I’d turn my head around 360 degrees, to check that the person in the profile was not around me.

I have to admit, I was spying, but more so, I felt spied. But up until then, I’d never met my Tinderboys in reality before a proper date. I even tried Happn for a week, but the result remained the same.

Why did I not keep Happn? Only because I felt like it was an online cemetery. All the profiles died or were curiously resurrected on Tinder, and this was the case with Sami. I spotted Sami on Happn, but he was inactive for more than a month. Then I stumbled upon him on Tinder, and we started chatting soon after we'd been matched.

So, meet Sami. He lived in Croydon (where is this?) and worked in finance in London Bridge. Sami was quite direct, seemed to know what he was looking for and exuded confidence in his pictures and texts. He insisted we should exchange numbers, as he wanted to arrange a date ASAP.

Pre-date

Sami called me one Sunday morning. That Sunday followed a well-watered evening with the ladies where I had returned home at 4am in the morning feeling like my blood had been replaced with an Australian Shiraz. I had been properly pissed. My brain was not prepared to talk to him!

I introduced him to the most incomprehensible French accents he would ever know. I wondered why I had picked up the call half asleep on my bed.

I totally lost my cool: I stuttered, misunderstood most of his questions, forgot the questions he asked, laughed on inappropriate occasions. I did not know what to say; my brain was in stupid-talk mode and the more I talked, the more I sank deep into a silly ocean.

Plus, his voice totally distempered me. It was deep, sexy, and confident. I completely fell in love with his voice. But his accent, as I said, I was not prepared, only understanding one word out of two, trying to guess what he was saying. So embarrassing (for me), so awkward for us, surely.

I was pissed, but I could realise that we did not have much in common. In fact, I wondered if I really wanted to meet him. I could have slept on his call. Why was it that financiers were either boring or stupid? Up until now, through my online chats, I had spoken with two types: dickheads (literally) or sleeping tablets. Sami seemed to be my sedative that Sunday, as I slept right after the call, didn't recall hanging up, and, upon my awaking, I wondered if the call had been a dream.

It was not.

A little later that Sunday, Sami invited me on a date on the following Wednesday. Who would want to meet a French woman who stutters and laughs for nothing? This man had heard the worse of me and still wanted to meet, and for this reason, I decided to dig a bit further and meet the man behind this Barry-White-voice.

The date

We decided to meet at St Paul’s station. I recognised him straight away. Sami was kind of handsome, with beautiful dark brown eyes and I could tell the guy was hitting the gym on a regular basis.

We hugged very warmly, and his first words to me were, “Wow, you look absolutely gorgeous!” immediately followed by, “Do you mind the beard?”

His voice, full of doubts was soaked by a Cockney accent. Well, his beard was well trimmed, sleek, and clean. His mouth was findable if I wanted to kiss him, so I simply replied, “Not a problem at all. I like a beard; it’s very manly and sexy!” He smiled and responded, “You’re titanium!”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded positive.

Sami brought me to the very chic Madison. I really liked the atmosphere; it was completely my style. It gave a fantastic view of St. Paul's Cathedral along with the rest of the London skyline. A relaxed atmosphere, yet sophisticated, I didn't feel over dressed in my new Louis Vuitton dress.

We sat at a table and we started to talk about each other.

Let me introduce you to Sami again: he goes to the gym five to six times a week and was searching for a partner he could go with (that wouldn't be me), a trader from Kabyle in Algeria, 40-year-old and turning 41 at the end of the year. He celebrated his big birthday the year before in Barcelona with a few friends and his ex. I was surprised he mentioned her; that was clearly too much information for me. Especially when he started disparaging her. I interrupted him, asking more about his family and his life. Why did I do that?

Sami basically narrated the story of his life, with so much emotion in his voice; I didn't dare interrupting. I felt like he needed to confess to someone, and I let him monopolise the date. So, Sami mentioned that he had a big sister, a single mother of four, who lived an hour away from his place. Sami was paying her rent; she was not working and her former husband had stopped paying the maintenance allowance. So, with her being penniless, he felt obliged to help her financially and so he had had to make some sacrifices.

I also learned, to my dismay, that this situation was one of the sources of the dispute with his "gold-digger" of a former fiancée to use his own terms. She had not approved of Sami helping his sister to the detriment of the couple's activities and social life.

Then, when Sami found out that I was living in Knightsbridge, he exclaimed, “Wow, you're titanium; so up-market!” He added, ”Why don't you date locally? There are a lot of rich men in your area.”

I couldn't help but retort, “Why would you advise this to a date?”

“Because you're titanium, babe. Look at you: your posture, your manners, and your words. Plus, you're beautiful, successful; you know what you want to do and where you're going. You look like a million pounds, hun. You'd never marry someone like me. You're so titanium."

I don't think I replied. I'd never thought about the status of my boyfriends. The only thing I was sure of was that I didn't want another loser. I had had my fair bit of mothering my former husband.

But, I hadn’t known, and Sami made me realise, that my manners, my attitude and the way I spoke were sending a message. And therefore, I was probably filtering a certain category of men. Was it good or bad? It didn’t really matter, as through online dating, these things could not been seen. But it could upon a date and I supposed some of my former dates might have had an attitude because of this.

I just smiled at Sami’s response and he continued, “You know, Valérie. Life had never been easy for my family. I moved to England when I was six and my sister Nadiya was 12. I was born in a small little town in Algeria called Bouskene. My mom left Kabyle when she was 12, running away from an abusive father and nine abusive brothers that she had never seen since.

In fact, since my grandmother died, my grandfather was raping my mom from the age of nine. My mom arrived in Algiers and started begging for money and food in its streets, and that was when she met my father, 20 years older than her.

He was married but offered Mommy a shelter and job as a live-in maid. Not even a few months passed and she became his sex slave. Having nowhere else to go and developing the Stockholm Syndrome, she nonetheless decided to stay there, my dad being as abusive as he was generous. He could shower her with expensive clothes one day and beat her up the following day for no reason. She had five miscarriages, three dead babies and she admitted abandoning two kids, but for some reason she decided to keep my sister and myself.

“Whilst, my father never recognised me officially, being the only son, he really spoiled me. We were living a fairly good life until my dad died and his wife kicked us out. We had no money, no house, no future. My Mom begged for money again in the streets of Algiers, this time with two children.”

Sami kept on narrating, indefatigable with a voice full of tears, “At some point, we managed to live in a small studio in Birkhadem with six other people. It might shock you, but my mom was determined to sort things out. She dreamed and wanted a better future for us, so she prostituted herself, saved money and left Algeria without looking back.

She dedicated her life to us and never married nor had a relationship. We were a united family, helping each other and she gave us all the love we needed. Unfortunately, she passed away two years ago and I really do miss her. My sister does even more so, as she hasn’t been working since being on sick leave for depression. It wasn’t easy for her, as she divorced the same year. Mom was a fun and loveable person to be around. Life had been a bitch to her but at least she had our love.”

This time, Sami’s eyes were soaked with blood vessels and ready to water. I hugged him and the only thing I managed to say was: “I am sure your sister and you made your Mom’s life magical to an extent you would never imagine. You guys gave her the love she needed and I’m sure, that alone, made her happy.”

Sami wiped out the tears appearing on his depressed face and apologised.

”I don’t know why I told you all this. So sorry…”

“You probably needed to talk,” I smiled deeply touched by his emotional side.

Yet, it was getting late and we decided to leave the Madison. We kissed on the cheek silently and awkwardly, still oppressed by the morose ambiance set on the date. We looked at each other, knowing deep down that we would never meet again.

I grabbed a cab to mine, and for the first time, I left a date gloomy and almost depressed. It wasn’t a nice feeling. Sami had clearly given me too much information and the date had affected my spirits immensely. I went to bed feeling miserable. Thank God I had magnificent dreams. The following day, I was titanium again! Next!