I’ve made a new friend. But dare I show her the real me? | Polly Hudson

I’ve got a new friend. I’m well aware I sound like a five-year-old reporting that, and this is exactly the point: it turns out making friends as an adult is absolutely excruciating. I like this person so much, and have found the whole business of welcoming someone into my fold quite life-affirming, but it’s almost not worth it for the amount of anxiety it has provoked. This is the closest to dating that boring old smug marrieds like me get, and I have never questioned my every thought, action and WhatsApp message more. Thank God she has her blue ticks on, or I’d probably be having sleepless nights.

I met her, just like the romcoms promise, when I’d stopped looking. Like, stopped decades ago. My roster was full; I didn’t have time to hang out with the friends I already had, let alone complicating matters by adding another to the mix. It happened unexpectedly, accidentally, in a waiting room for a kids’ activity – a conversation started over my head about a celebrity, and she made an off-the-cuff, funny, sweary comment. It was love at first slight.

We began chatting, laughing, swapping stories, and had an astonishing amount in common. Our chemistry was undeniable – everyone there must have been thinking we should get a room. We’d even worked in the same building at the same time, 20 years before, had maybe passed each other on the way to the loo! This was fate, kismet, the movie Sliding Doors IRL. Perhaps in an alternate reality we’d been besties since then, and both had questionable pixie cuts.

Back in this timeline, miraculously, our children had hit it off, too, in direct contravention of sod’s law #462 of parenting: your offspring will always become close to the kids with the parents you like least. This was great, mostly because it gave us an excuse to swap numbers without having to admit the real reason we wanted to.

But then, when the initial contact high wore off, I plunged headfirst into a pit of neurosis and uncertainty (there’s no place like home). Should I send the first message, or wait for her to? I didn’t want to seem too keen, or play it so cool she thought I wasn’t interested. No balance had ever been as delicate, no line finer. In the end, she made the first move. This didn’t make her appear overkeen or uncool. Neither thought crossed my mind for a millisecond – which obviously I noticed, immediately brushed aside, and learned nothing from. I was far too busy working out how long to leave it before I replied.

I put more thought into my outfit for our first meet-up than I did into my wedding dress. At least on that day you don’t have to try to make it seem effortless, whereas for this I had to look as if there had been nothing painstaking about it.

But, oh, that initial dinner: the no way, me too!s, the belly laughs, the natural easiness of it. The joy of meeting someone of the same mindset, life stage, sense of humour and wine colour preference. Being forced to acknowledge that feeling seen, heard and understood truly is the greatest gift, even better than a scented candle. And although I knew that when I got home I would overthink, and worry that I’d talked too much or shouldn’t have made that joke, or had overshared, while it was happening, it was magic. Then, when I got home, I did overthink and worry, but decided we’d reached the level where I could message her that, and she replied reassuringly, requesting some back please, because she was overthinking and worrying about exactly the same stuff.

And, recently, when I went through a tricky time that I have banged on about here more than enough, she was incredibly supportive, and helpful both practically and emotionally.

This touching kindness has shifted us out of the honeymoon phase, and I’m pleased to announce she’s definitely a keeper. Let’s hope she feels the same when she discovers I’m at least 37% less fun than I’m currently pretending to be. What can I say? Old dating habits die hard.