You'll find this hard to believe, looking at me now, but I used to be a feminist. I did. I was as strident as a bullfrog. I banged on about this right and that wrong, declined to walk through a door a man had opened for me, reclaimed the streets at midnight. I talked all the time, had a theory about everything; no one could get a word in edgeways. But that was before the fatal blow: the ambush that has weakened so many female hearts.

   I fell in love. I mean, really fell, as from the summit of Centrepoint. How could I not? I met the one - the man of my dreams. At last I could tick every box on my checklist: he was clever, witty, solvent, sexy, not a British can't-be-arsed but an American high-achiever with beauty to die for. Even more incredibly, he was unmarried, available and inviting me to live with him. We'd only known each other a few weeks, but it was one of those Dick Whittington turn-around moments: if I hesitated a second, some other woman would be in bed with him and I would lose everything. I didn't even pause.

   His flat was in Primrose Hill, split-level, on the first and second floors, with a huge skyscape over London. Downstairs there was an open lounge and narrow galley kitchen, with one double bedroom, en-suite and a spiral staircase which led to the upper floor, where he had his office. From the skylight here you could see the Post Office Tower, the Millennium Wheel, St Paul's, Big Ben, the whole panorama of the capital. Not that he wasted time gazing out of the window: it wasn't long before I realized his office was a kind of camera obscura where the world had shrunk to an image the size of his computer screen, life itself accessed (as I had been) through the World Wide Web.

   It was reckless, I admit, relinquishing the lease on my own flat and getting rid of most of my own possessions, but then what's love about, if not surrender? My two suitcases and a box of books had to be squeezed into a corner of the bedroom, and I'd had to leave my piano behind, but I didn't care. I was in love for the first time in my life. It was one of those once in a lifetime experiences: pure magic. I absolutely adored him. He was drop-dead gorgeous: Mediterranean blue eyes, full lips, clean shaven skin. Even when his back was turned - which I have to confess was most of the time, he worked such long hours - I would admire the broad shoulders, the thick dark hair curling over his collar. He'd be at his computer before I awoke, and I'd step lightly up the wrought iron staircase bearing a tray of his favourite coffee - Blue Mountain, freshly ground - clearing a space for the cup amongst his papers and planting a kiss on the delicious nape of his neck.

   I don't want to be misleading here: I was not at all dismayed by my new role. On the contrary, I revelled in it. Being a feminist hadn't worked, after all. It hadn't brought me the love. I found it a delightful novelty now, putting another person first; being quieter, relaxed, more feminine. I transformed the flat. I bought colourful kilims and gabbeh rugs, hung new pictures and curtains, found Italian ceramics for the kitchen. I transformed myself. I toned and depilated my body, bought new lingerie, wore softer, more diaphanous garments. Within the space of weeks I'd changed from harpy to nymph.

   Not that he had much time to notice these frivolities. He was a consultant, an entrepreneur, and the upstairs office was the hub of a business empire.

   `I've just landed a deal in Hong Kong,' he said.

   `Hong Kong?'

   `They think the proposal's superb.'

   `Superb,' I offered, before slipping quietly down to the galley to wash the previous night's dishes.

   Those first weeks, everything went extremely well. He worked all day and half the night, bashing away at his computer and logging on and off conference calls, while I stayed quiet and beautiful and floated up and down the spiral staircase. Mostly, he would be so engrossed, he didn't even notice when I was there, standing behind his swivel leather chair, watching him. He would stare into the monitor as intently as if it were a mirror and he were seeking himself in its glassy depths. Before the files came up, the screen would be blue, like a pool and he would crane forwards, closer and closer, as though about to dive into it.

   `This is the best document I've ever produced,' he announced, rattling away at the keyboard - he could type at the speed of light. `It'll knock their socks off, it's so damn good.'

   `Good.' I said.

   `I'm on such a winning streak, I won't stop for supper now. I'm on too much of a roll.'

   `Roll on,' I agreed.

   I knew this was the way to convince someone you were listening: acting as a kind of ghostly echo. I'd been in therapy once, trying to work out why I was still single and whenever I paused, the therapist repeated back to me my final words, which was all the reassurance I needed to set me off again. So I wasn't too anxious about the one-way process now. It wasn't quite the dream I'd expected, but I was confident that with enough love he would turn round to face me, would want to see who I was, want to listen to me, reciprocate, show a similar amount of devotion. That's how therapy works, after all. When you've been given enough attention, you become a normal human being. You remember you're not the only person in the world.

   Conflict loomed only when I tried to tempt him out for a walk or meal or swim, or simply to stroll up the path to Primrose Hill and stare at the stars.

   `Sorry, I need to get on,' he said. `It's quite safe out there, especially if you take your mobile. You'll be quite alright alone.'

   `Alone,' I confirmed, turning back down the stairs. He hadn't shared much about previous relationships, but I suspected there were quite a few broken hearts: women who had pushed too hard, wanted more of him than he could give. I wasn't about to join them. Even when our politics threatened to clash and it was clear he thought the case for climate change exaggerated - `It's absurd. They're calling it a bigger threat than terrorism,' - I bit my tongue. I'd done my share of disagreeing with men and it only drove them away. I wasn't going to lose this one, no sir. So I kept my comments to a minimum, mumbled my supportive chorus, and continued to siphon wine, drinks, and snacks throughout the day. If I hadn't fed him, I doubt he'd have eaten. He was as oblivious to food and drink as he was to sleep: he seemed to live on nothing.

   So the months went by. His work prospered as if a beneficent spell had been cast over it, and the computer continued to mirror back his glory. If I became a little heavy hearted at our social isolation, or the lack of dialogue in the flat, I reasoned it away by looking forward to the luxurious holiday he promised we would take next summer, the new clothes he encouraged me to buy, an unprecedented lack of material worries.

   But a certain depression refused to be pushed aside as I came to realize I was not the only living thing he was ignoring. So preoccupied was he with his multi-national corporations and massive business deals, nature had ceased to exist for him. It was as though the seasons themselves had vanished, wiped out by the Delete key on his computer. Neither a fall of snow nor an azure sky nor midnight stars nor soft white cumulus brushing the roof of the city held any charm for him. He cared neither for thrush nor blackbird, owl nor cuckoo song. He was indifferent to wind, sun, lightning, rain. One day replaced another as mechanically as the digital calendar in the bottom corner of his computer screen. He was so busy, nights were taken up as days and days were cursed for not stretching further. Even when the darkness started visibly shrinking and winter gave birth to spring, there was no change in his effective hibernation.

   I grew increasingly desperate, longing to graft some passion for life onto him. If he wouldn't be persuaded to go out into the natural world, then I would have to remind him of its beauty by bringing it back to him. I tramped along the canal to Camden market and bought profligate bunches of flowers: string-tied clusters of snowdrops, shy violets, armfuls of streaked tulips, mournful anemones, vibrant primroses, rampant cowslips, regal deep blue iris.

   He only noticed when he reached out for what he thought was fresh coffee and almost put a little posy in his mouth.

   `Flowers!' he exclaimed in dismay.

   `Flowers,' I confirmed.

   He paused only a second before announcing, `Tokyo's tendering a new contract for next month. Top rate.'

   `Top rate,' I tried to enthuse, but my voice was limp.

   `I could do with a slug of whiskey,' he said. `This is an uphill slog.'

   `Uphill slug,' I bantered.

   He didn't notice I'd confused my words. He was rushing through sites on the screen, one dissolving into another like ripples in water and all the time they were expanding outwards: Australia, Indonesia, Japan. It was after this initial verbal slip, almost as a game at first, that I started to experiment with my responses, deliberately letting them falter.

   `I got the deal, honey,' he grinned. `You'll be so proud of me. The world's my oyster.'

   `Oysters in honey,' I fumbled. ` Deal the pride. Get the me.'

   When he showed no obvious reaction, I was tempted to become more daring, even rebellious.

   `Something's not right here. I need to get back to my previous vein.'

   `Vain,' I pointed out.

   `It's a good job I know what I'm doing, with this financial crisis impending. They're fostering a real climate of fear.'

   `Real fear of climate,' I stressed.

   `I'm afraid things are only going to hot up further.'

   `I'm afraid things are only going to hot up further.'

   But the irony was lost on him. `I'm running out of time here, babe. Maybe you could put together my invoice?'

   `Maybe you could put my voice in?'

   There was never any sign of him noticing, not consciously. But little by little, as my words became increasingly jumbled, the more his confidence began to decline. Little errors at first, like hairline cracks in plaster: sending a document to the wrong company, mistaking time differences round the globe, missing critical deadlines. He hated being seen to make mistakes. The mouse would crash down on the desk and he would explode in rage. It was like living with touch-paper.

   `Don't they know the time in the UK for Chrissake? It's not difficult. Eight hours ahead.'

   `Difficult heads,' I ventured, `ours.'

   `If I'm not careful, I'm going to lose this company contract.'

   `If you're not careful, you're going to lose this contract company.'

   He'd been impeccable when I arrived. He couldn't put a finger wrong. Now, only a few months later, he was forgetting his own access codes, his password, his alibis.

   `Damn it!' he swore, smashing his hand into the keyboard. `They want too much. They're asking too many bloody questions.'

   `Too much want,' I nodded as I came over from the top of the stairs. `Blood asks questions.'

   `Enter your verification code,' he snarled. `To confirm your password, enter the make of your first car. For God's sake, how should I remember that? Peugeot? Ford? Accura?'

   `Accurate,' I said, leaning over his swivel chair.

   `The first car you owned,' he repeated. `I don't remember. I have no damn idea.'

   `Remember me first,' I said mildly. `You don't own me. Damn your idea.'

   That day, I'd found on the market an especially beautiful tall white narcissus. I'd placed it in a slender glass vase and now stretched over him to stand it by the side of the keyboard. A spring fragrance lingered in the air, I'd brought it in with me, but he paid no heed. He was sitting so close to the monitor, smashing the mouse around, I half expected him to make a hole in the screen and fall into it.

   `If I can't get into this account, we're lost.'

   `We're lost,' I agreed, resting a hand on his shoulder to try to reach him, but he shrugged it off.

   `I'm working,' he snapped. `Don't touch me.'

   `Touch me,' I repeated gently, but he plucked off my fingers as if I were a limpet.

   `Don't cling,' he said. `If you go down, I'll come on later. I need to sort this out.'

   `Out of sorts,' I sighed, but retired to the bedroom anyway. I lay on the bed, staring at my two battered suitcases, thinking how I missed my piano and pondering all the lies I'd come to believe about love.

   I must have dozed off, for when I awoke it was night and outside a full lemon moon hung like a Chinese lantern over the park. Everything was eerily quiet: no clatter of the keyboard, no smashing of the mouse, none of the vehement expletives I'd grown used to recently. Wary of his anger if I interrupted him, I trod gingerly up to the office.

   He lay there, my American beauty, in the ripe yellow moonlight, his body slumped over the keyboard. The narrow glass vase had been knocked over and the perfect narcissus rested in a pool of water close to his head, its white petals arching back like wings from the bright yellow centre. Above him, the computer screen was still flashing: `Enter your ID, enter your ID.'

   But he couldn't, could he? I wasn't behind him any more. And without me, his true love, his echo, helping him know who he was, how could his heart keep on beating?