I’ve always thought that dating after fifty belongs to people with settled views, life experience and at least a basic sense of propriety. I no longer entertain fantasies about knights in shining armor.
I’m fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a quiet part of London and a reasonably harmonious life. Still, sometimes I crave simple human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee, a chat about a book Ive just finished.
With those thoughts in mind I sign up to a dating site. Amid a flood of odd messages and outright ridiculous offers, a profile called Edward stands out for its pleasant normality.
Hes fiftynine. His photos show a fit man in a tidy jacket, set against a summer park. In our messages he is polite, showers me with compliments, talks about his job as an engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of texting we arrange to meet in a café. Edward turns out exactly as he looks in the pictures: distinguished, with a touch of silver, and a smooth way of speaking. He pulls my chair back for me, orders two cappuccinos (declining the dessert, saying hes watching his sugar) and spends the whole evening explaining why, in todays world, traditional values matter.
Im of the old school, Claire, he says, looking into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, and a man must be a provider and protector. I cant stand the modern habit of keeping separate accounts. Courting should be done with style.
It sounds almost lyrical. We meet two more times, strolling along the Thames, talking at length. Then the weekend arrives and the weather finally turns nasty a dreary November rain drumming on the windows.
Claire, fancy me dropping by for dinner? Edwards velvety voice suggests over the phone. Well sit cosy, have a chat. Of course I never come emptyhanded Ill sort everything out. All I need from you is a warm home and a smile.
As a sensible Englishwoman I dont rely on just a smile. From early morning I launch a thorough cleanup, then head to the supermarket. I pick up good beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and a fairly pricey baguette. I spend about three hours in the kitchen.
I roast the beef with prunes my signature dish that never fails to impress. I whip up a light salad, set the table in the living room, bring out crystal glasses and light a few candles. I slip into an elegant house dress and apply a light touch of makeup.
By the appointed hour Im as nervous as a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rings exactly at seven. I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and open the door. Edward stands on the threshold, his coat damp from the rain, looking unusually proud.
Good evening, lovely hostess! he declares, stepping inside, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafts the intoxicating scent of the roasting beef. Edward inhales it with a satisfied grin. Ah, I can feel a proper feast waiting for me!
Come in, Ed. Hang your coat, I say, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt counting on a hundred roses or a vintage bottle of wine. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have been fine its the thought that counts.
Edward hangs his coat, adjusts his jacket, then reaches into an inner pocket with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat and says:
As I promised, Claire, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
With that, he slides me a packet of tea.
Instinctively I take it, eyes dropping to the cardboard. Its the cheapest black tea you can find on the bottom shelf of a discount aisle, the kind that comes in a torn wrapper with the flap haphazardly tucked inside. Theres no branding, just a plain brown box.
I freeze, trying to process whats happening.
Ed, is this halfused? I ask quietly, fearing a joke.
He isnt embarrassed at all. Instead his face lights up with a patronising smile, as if explaining a basic truth to a child.
Of course! I bought a couple of bags the other day, brewed them strong stuff, quick to make. Thought Id share. No point hauling a whole packet when well only sip a few cups. Youll have something to go with the tea, right? Youre the host after all.
I stand in the hallway of my clean, cosy home. Behind me the candles flicker, the beef with prunes cools on the table a meal Ive spent a good part of the day and a decent sum on.
In front of me stands a fiftynineyearold, welldressed, working man, preaching traditional values, who brings a halfopened packet of cheap tea to a romantic dinner. Not a single tea bag inside.
A hundred possible reactions flash through my mind. I could laugh in his face, launch into a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallow my annoyance, seat him at the table and feed him the meat, feeling like a servant.
Instead I choose a calmer route, a composure that surprises even me.
I set the crumpled box on the side table by the mirror, meet Edwards eyes and smile not a forced grin but a genuine one, feeling a huge relief that hes shown his true colours right at the doorstep rather than after months.
Edward, I say, my voice steady and soft, Im truly touched by your generosity. However, Im afraid we wont need this tea.
His eyebrows rise. Why not? Dont you like black tea? I could bring some green next time Ive got half a packet left at work
There wont be a next time, I reply evenly. You were right about a mans contribution, but yours is so underwhelming that I simply cant return the favour. My dinner is already beyond what youve offered.
I take his stilldamp coat from the rack and hand it back.
Whats this about, Claire? Too upset over a packet of tea? How mercenary! I came with all my heart after a rough week, and youre making a fuss over a trifle! Modern women only want money and restaurants!
I need respect, Edward. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put your coat back on its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, you might catch a chill and have nothing to treat yourself with.
I place the halfused packet in his hands, gently but firmly nudging him toward the door, then close it behind him.
The lock clicks. Silence settles in the flat, broken only by the ticking clock. I move to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of good red wine, cut a piece of the fragrant beef and sit at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner is wonderful. The meat melts in my mouth, the wine sings in the glass. I feel neither disappointment nor loneliness, only pride that I didnt let him trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, saying were after sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt about the price of a gift. Its about the sentiment. A man who brings a woman half a packet of tea isnt saving money; hes sparing his own feelings, his respect. He shows that she isnt worth the slightest effort. I am done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered similar displays of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given him a chance?
