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"Easygoing English Paediatrician 'Mark'" was his Tinder profile. A picture of him looking content on a sailing boat. He wasn't conventionally attractive but had a look about him. Like he wasn't your 'typical' kind of fellow. I was right. He wasn't.

I clicked and we started chatting. My mother is English, and I had spent large parts of my childhood there. I understood his formal language and humour. His quirks reminded me of the British schoolboy cousins I had been raised with. He told me what he looked for in a woman was "her brain". Finally, I may have matched with a man who didn't ask me for my profile picture in the first two minutes. He sent me sweet drawings and was responsive. He told me he was "moving to my city as he was training in neonatology". I was intrigued. What a calling. I was a single mother and a busy professional. He sounded lovely. My job was fast-paced but not so admirable. With his position, I assumed he had integrity and heart.

I met him on a bridge outside a pub. He didn't look much like his profile picture. He wasn't what I went for. He wasn't tall and dark-haired, but I loved his accent and his delight in showing me the magazine he had purchased. A "left of field" read. He was someone who had more to them than beer and football. We had a drink and they served us the best champagne by mistake. An omen. It was a rushed interlude as he had a plane to catch. He was here briefly scoping his new city. We shared a kiss. A definite spark. I wanted to see him again.

At 30, Sophie Cachia's life was turned upside down. Post continues below.

I dated Mark for two years and at the time I was committed to the idea that I had found my true partner in the world and even though he was odd, I thought I could help him navigate life. I had married very young and left my husband when my youngest was a newborn. My husband was besieged with addiction and mental health problems. I wanted him to seek treatment, but he always denied a problem. In the end, I had fled the marriage, taking the children with me.

I had always wondered how I had found it so difficult to find a new partner, when I was told I was smart and attractive. I felt that the usual fellow would not do. I wanted someone with intellect and culture. Men had always liked me but I was ‘picky’. Haunted by the mistakes of the past. I had found it increasingly lonely over the years as I failed to find what I thought I was looking for. For the most part, I hadn’t looked.

Very early on, I had decided Mark was potentially my person. A man with depth and integrity; integrity being by far the most important characteristic. He played the ‘saving babies’ card so that everyone could see what kind of man he was. He sent me pictures of his patients, all hooked up to machines. ‘My office’ he would text with babies surrounded by equipment and technology. He wanted to impress… and it worked. Upon reflection, he knew how attractive this looked to women. But very early on there were issues.

We made dates and I also bought tickets for events where he would show up late or not at all. The texts "I’m tired", "I fell asleep", "I needed to get a haircut" would pop up. He often didn’t respond to texts for hours, even days. Then when we did do things – Mark liked nice dinners – I found myself always paying.

However, he was strangely tender during sex. The sex was the same but warm. His blue eyes twinkled, and I hung to some of the kind things he said to me. "You are really very beautiful," he'd whisper. In those times I got closeness and connection and was left wanting more. It seemed every time I was close to calling it off, he would come through, always using his long working hours as an excuse for his failings. But suddenly I’d receive a night of attention and time. Simple things like cooking together. Nice wine. We watched left-of-field comedy. Time together. He seemed obsessed with Trump so we would discuss news. The good presidents of the past. He delighted in Trump’s failings. Conversation relating to world affairs. Books. Intellectual connection.

The first time I visited his small apartment he showed me his wine collection. I could not have missed it as it was all he had in his living room apart from a record player and some old armchairs. He clearly had immense pride in the bottles sitting there in his one room as he excitedly picked a number out to show me and explain their value. Collecting dust. 'What is he saving it all for?' I wondered.

As the relationship evolved, I started to notice small things. He would come to dinner and not bring anything. He asked me to pick up doughnuts as a magnanimous gesture for his workplace, after frequently complaining about $4 coffee shouts, but hadn't repaid me the $100 for the doughnuts. "He is generous with my money," I thought.

When we watched television, it was his choice. When we listened to songs, he would skip the songs I put on. I learned about his childhood, but he didn’t seem interested in mine. I was often happy to listen to his stories of his childhood even though they weren’t that remarkable. Thinking I was learning about him I took it all in.

We would sit outside as he smoked, and he would talk. I learned he didn’t seem to have any close friends and wasn’t really still in touch with those from his university days. He had a somewhat difficult relationship with his sister and mother, and no relationship with his father, but he loved sailing and would go to Europe to see his mother and stepfather. As a family, sailing had been a big part of his childhood. He felt connected to the experience. He seemed to go to Europe every year. He viewed all things European as far more sophisticated than anything in Australia. He presented himself as a cultured and refined fellow. However, I couldn’t ascertain when he actually did go to the galleries, the symphony, the opera, either in Australia or Europe.

He talked to me about one day sailing around the world together. "Would you do that?" he asked me. He showed me clips of million-dollar boats on YouTube. I thought he had a vision and a dream. I hadn’t realised that this was pure fantasy. He had no plan for how he could ever afford a two-million-dollar boat. I also realised through these conversations that he had a difficult relationship with women. The women he worked with, mainly nurses, he felt were on a "different planet".

He justified it by saying, "I can’t do small talk. I hate incompetence. They're toxic."

I justified it by saying, "He is peculiar, a bit short and abrupt in his manner, not a good conversationalist, misunderstood, private."

I got the sense he would be incredibly loyal if he just found his match. I thought I could teach him generosity of the heart, how to be more amenable to his fellow man – or woman, as the case may be.

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Because Mark was infrequent and the partial reinforcement became the norm, I craved more. He rarely paid compliments so when he did, I drank it in like I hadn’t been nourished for months. I often wonder now if I had actually spent a significant amount of time with him, whether I would’ve become bored of his shallow interests and self-focus. His vision of himself did not meet the reality. But the answer to that question is one I will never know. If this relationship was to work, I would have to adjust my expectations and accept him as is. Make allowances. One after the other.

He started making comments about my house. It was a family home in a new suburb. Bedrooms all together on the top floor. He would say, "I could never stay here with your children; you need a parents' retreat." He frequently referred to the location – "it is awful out here", of the new estate in which we lived. He lived in the nicest part of our town in a tiny apartment. To buy a house in that suburb you would need millions of dollars. He talked to me about buying houses together and showed me very luxurious homes. I felt like this was reaching for the stars. I wouldn’t commit.

He then raised the possibility of renting "a more suitable house and moving in together". He showed me pictures of expensive rentals, but it became clear he wasn’t going to do the legwork. I started meeting agents in my lunch hours and attending inspections but there was a niggle of doubt in that I was reluctant to be the only party on the lease. Also, my children barely knew Mark and despite his promises, he wasn’t facilitating a relationship with them. He never seemed to be able to manage his time. I wanted to please him but not at the expense of my children. Not a quick next step.

My home was a kids' home. It was clean but with lots of toys and shoes. "You need to de-clutter," he would say. "You need a cleaner." I didn’t mention that his apartment was frequently untidy, and he only had him to look after. It appeared to me he had no recognition of how hard I worked both in the home and at work. All I did in my life was work, cook, wash and fold clothes, clean, exercise and facilitate my children's activities. When I wasn’t at work, I was in the car. I was on my laptop working in the car park at ballet. Writing submissions on the sideline at football. Taking calls during swimming, trying to be present but trying harder to hear the person on the other end of the phone. I ensured the children had healthy food, access to me and life was so busy. I longed for a slower pace of reading, gardening and walking my dogs, with time for me. I longed for an extra pair of hands.

I’d frequently drop food to him at the hospital concerned for the long hours he worked. Initially he appeared appreciative. But then he would comment on my cooking. There were always offhanded remarks like "the potatoes are undercooked" or "can you bring me a burger?" The more he put down my cooking, the more I made mistakes when I cooked. This should have been telling. Around him I was nervous, because he was critical and this fed into my view that I needed to do better. My confidence and my sense of self were diminishing over time.

I did start to wonder about him. He had worked for 20 years and didn’t have a cent. No furniture, a $2,000 car, and a nice wine collection. I asked him about his lack of savings and life plan and he'd say "the last girlfriend took everything". The girlfriend stories emerged after a few wines. It appeared he’d only had a few girlfriends, but all the relationships ended very badly. The last girlfriend had gone through his phone and computer without permission and she had raged at him. She was jealous, suspicious and according to his version "crazy". He also talked of a girlfriend he had supported through cancer but even she didn’t like him anymore. I felt perhaps he had been hard done by or slightly taken advantage of. I thought, "I can take care of him."

It transpired he had moved every two years. He was bullied at every hospital. One night he talked to me about feeling like he suffered from ‘imposter syndrome’. At the time I found his raw vulnerability touching. He clearly knew he had difficulty in workplaces. I did not reflect at the time that he was the opposite to a sufferer of imposter syndrome. He was a white, middle-class, heterosexual male, with no attachments. He felt there was reverse discrimination at play. During this time, I realised he had never actually qualified as a paediatrician as he hadn’t finished his training. I decided that with a partner who really believed in him, his path could change, and he could achieve his goals. He was a little lost and I would be his compass. We could navigate life together. I was arrogant to think I knew him so completely differently to everyone else.

Throughout, his relationship with his phone was guarded, like he had a secret. I never saw it. If we were out and he needed to check something on the internet, he would always reach for mine. This gave me an unsettled feeling. The only two times I glimpsed his phone were at his apartment and he was receiving WhatsApp calls and messages from a woman named 'Claire G'.

I had asked him about Claire G the first time I saw her calling and he told me she was an "an old friend who lived in France".

"It’s the middle of the night in France?" I thought to myself. I had felt confused because Mark had no female friends. As time was marching on it was becoming apparent that he struggled with all women. He had some deeply conservative views and wasn't always respectful.

For a while, I took a break from seeing him, as I was scared and confused after surgery for a recent diagnosis of cancer. I had felt troubled that Mark hadn’t managed to see me in the 10 days after the surgery. There were no flowers or a card. I had actually dropped him food to the hospital two days after my surgery. My friends and family had done all the heavy-lifting and he hadn’t even made an appearance. We had had a deep talk. Mark told me the depth of his devotion to me with tears in his eyes, and how he wanted to look after me but I "didn’t let him". He continuously turned the tables. Gaslighting. He had desperately wanted to care for me. I was momentarily blinded by his sharing of emotions until "Claire G" started flashing on the coffee table.

As I left his apartment, I thought, "He has never lived in France so how does he have an old friend there? Why is she calling in the middle of the night?" I knew I didn’t have the complete story and it was likely that his ‘privacy’ may actually be secrecy. I got into my car, shaking my head.

The second time was similar. Six months later I was at his apartment. She called again. I saw the phone. "Who is Claire, Mark?" I had asked. "An on and off again relationship I had years ago," he said.

An admission of a sexual relationship and a different story to last time, I realised. Again, I was leaving his apartment.

I was starting to feel there were so many things about ‘Mark’ that did not add up and I could n