I’ve had some time off this Christmas to process and think. (Always dangerous, never a good idea.) Looking back at the past two years, I’m beginning to think there must have been a better way to navigate divorce during a pandemic. And there certainly must have been a better way to navigate being newly single and dating again during a continued pandemic. Having royally screwed up both divorcing and dating, it feels as though I got it all wrong. If you’re in the same boat, I suggest you do the absolute opposite of everything I did.

It’s easy to make light of 2020 and 2021, but in reality, it was no joke. I’ve just recovered from Covid-19, my second encounter with the virus in just under two years. An early adopter ahead of the curve, I first caught the virus, unbeknown to me, back in February 2020, during Milan Fashion Week alongside many other journalists and fashion editors.

Hundreds of us seated in hot show venues, traipsing from show to show morning noon and night, squeezing in at least 10 shows a day plus meetings, appointments, drinks and dinner. Travelling from New York to London to Milan and Paris. That’s a lot of shows; that’s a lot of Covid-19 super-spreading. I travelled from Milan to London for 24 hours. Then, the following day, went to Paris on the Eurostar.

We were all clueless, spreading our germs across Europe. The C-word hadn’t yet made it to our everyday lexicon, as it is now. I remember shivering in my hotel room in Paris, a hard bed, rough-to-the-touch sheets, an uncontrollable air-con unit, waves of flu rushing up and down my body. The following morning, I could barely walk, my muscles were so fatigued. But I had a driver and, as life used to be back then, I put on a brave face and went to the shows. God forbid the show must go on, no?

No. The show wouldn’t go on now. Nor should it. I hadn’t quite fathomed the kerfuffle of a city shutting down. Leaving Milan was like leaving a dystopian nightmare. Babies in masks, streets emptying, airports overcrowded. I remember sipping a large glass of red wine wondering why I couldn’t taste it, thinking it was down to the cheap airport sandwich bar I’d retreated to. At the end of February, during Paris Fashion Week, the rumour mill cranked up, and we knew something huge was on the horizon.

Yet, still, we arrived back in London in early March 2020 and it was business as usual for two weeks. I’d taken two flights, two Eurostars. I then went to my office. I took the tube. A few weeks later, we were all locked down, just at the exact moment I was due to move out of the house I shared with my ex and two children.

The week before lockdown (not knowing there’d be a lockdown) we told our children we were separating; a day I will never forget. Their reactions were beyond upsetting. Something visceral inside me snapped and my heart has never felt whole since. Their innocent worlds were blown apart; it felt as though my words had murdered their childhood. Then there was the confusing conversation that, suddenly, I wasn’t moving out to a new home where they’d live for 50 per cent of their lives. I was staying put.

I did not move out because I was too frightened I’d lose my job, scared I wouldn’t be able to pay the rent on the three-bed rental across the road from the kids’ school. Even though I’d signed the contract, the estate agent understood, and allowed me to renege on the deal. I ended up not leaving, and my ex took on home-schooling while I continued to work. Work became tougher and tougher: looking back, I wonder why parents weren’t put on shifts or sensible rotas. I sat at my computer day in day out, glued to endless Zoom calls. Busier than if I’d ever been at the office, and what with the added distraction of being in a relationship that was combusting and parenting two young children who had just been told, “Mum is moving out”. It was nothing short of chaos those first few weeks. But we were warm and fed, and had a small garden to retreat to. We were the lucky ones.

In many ways, the period between March and July 2020 was the final chapter of my marriage, a plot twist that was never meant to happen. A pandemic blowing up the world, our freedoms curtailed, our emotions in a state of shock, we hunkered down together, somehow managing to function. During this period, couples were forced to talk to one another – asking questions about schooling, mealtimes, park trips. My ex and I had the best levels of communication in a long time.

At night I’d head to the spare room, a room painted dark blue, where I had space to be alone and to think. During this time, I joined a couple of dating apps. It was just the thrilling dopamine hit I needed. I remember staring at my phone on an endless scroll of men, reading their comments thinking, “Yes, I’ve still got it.” Pathetic, of course; it was all fake and meaningless, strangers reaching out to each other, hoping to alleviate boredom or loneliness. I remember meeting a man virtually and asking how long he’d been separated. “Two weeks,” came the reply. Who am I to judge, I thought – I’m living in the spare room. Then there was another, a man I ended up seeing a few times (socially distanced, obviously). I liked him, until his wife messaged on Instagram to tell me she’d found our WhatsApps. Turns out he was still married with four children at home.

After several phone calls with random strangers, I got bored. Dating in a pandemic is one thing, dating in a pandemic when you’re ensconced in the spare room of your family home is quite another. Due to financial constraints, I know of lots of couples who’ve had to live like that for years.

When I eventually moved out several months later, I started dating properly. I say properly – no one is capable of dating while they are heartbroken. But I tried. Armed with hand sanitiser, Covid-19 tests when pubs weren’t open, I walked around parks, carried coffees. I even had a cup of tea with a stranger on a park bench at 7pm. It felt as gloomy as it was hopeful.

What was I hoping for? A man to replace the one I’d just left because I was scared, a deep sense of fear rattling through my bones to the ends of my hair the moment I opened my eyes? What was I scared of? Finances? Yes. Being alone? Yes. Never feeling whole again? Yes. Scared I’d always feel like a total failure? Yes. Everyone told me it takes a year to recover from leaving a marriage. I’d suggest that’s a gross miscalculation. I still sometimes feel scared but it’s taken two years to feel OK.

According to pre-eminent law firm Stewarts, January 3 was predicted to be “Divorce Day”. I wonder if it came true. When I say I didn’t divorce “right”, looking back, I should never have left the family home during a pandemic. Nothing to do with the fact a woman leaving the family home is still taboo. Believe me, that doesn’t bother me. Society can judge away. I’ve never been particularly conformist. It just wasn’t the smart thing to do. I didn’t think it through. Nor was dating too soon afterwards. Attempting to heal a broken heart by meeting someone else was a waste of everyone’s time (sorry, Clapham Dad).