Ive always thought that dating after fifty belongs to people who have settled views, a lifetime of experience and at least a basic sense of propriety. I no longer harbour any fantasies about knights in shining armour.
I am fiftyfive, I work fulltime, I have an adult daughter, a snug flat in a quiet London neighbourhood and a fairly harmonious life. Yet from time to time I crave a little human warmthgoing to the theatre, sharing a coffee, chatting about a book Ive just finished.
With those thoughts in mind, I sign up on a dating site. Amid a flood of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, Edwards profile stands out for its pleasant sensibility.
He is fiftynine. His photos show a trim man in a neat blazer, standing in a summer park. In our messages he is polite, showers me with compliments and talks about his work as a civil engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of chatting, we meet at a small café on the Southbank. Edward looks exactly like his pictures: dignified, with a hint of silver at his temples and a smooth, cultured voice. He pulls out my chair, orders two cappuccinos (declining dessert, saying hes watching his sugar) and spends the whole evening lecturing on why, in todays world, we still need to cling to traditional values.
Im an oldschool gentleman, Mabel, he says, looking straight into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, and a man should be a provider and protector. I cant stand this modern habit of splitting the bill. Courtship should be done in style.
It sounds like music to my ears. We meet two more times, stroll along the riverbank, talk endlessly. Then the weekend arrives and the weather turns soura dreary November rain pelts the city.
Darling, how about I drop by for dinner? Edward suggests over the phone, his voice velvety. Well stay cosy, have a chat. I never come emptyhandedIll bring everything. All I need from you is a welcoming smile.
Like any sensible Englishwoman, I wont base my evening on a smile alone. From the moment I wake, I launch a fullscale cleaning. Afterwards I pop to the supermarket, picking up a good cut of beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and an expensive baguette. I spend about three hours in the kitchen.
I roast the beef with prunesmy signature dish that never fails to impress. I toss together a light salad, set the dining table with crystal glasses, light a few candles and slip into a simple yet elegant dress, applying a light touch of makeup.
By the appointed hour Im as nervous as a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rings precisely at seven. I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and open it. Standing on the doorstep is my guest. His coat is damp from the rain, but he carries himself with unmistakable pride.
Good evening, lovely host! Edward steps inside, removes his hat and begins unbuttoning his coat. From the kitchen drift the intoxicating aromas of the roast. He inhales deeply, grins and says, Ah, I can smell a proper feast in the making!
Come in, Edward. Take off your coat. Let me hang it for you, I reply, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt looking for a bouquet of a hundred roses or a rare 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, smooths his blazer and, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and produces a small parcel, announcing:
As I said, Mabel, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
He hands me a packet of tea.
Instinctively I take it, eyes dropping to the cardboard. Its the cheapest black tea sold in the discount aisle of the local supermarket, a plain brown box with a torn flap and a crumpled label. No fancy branding, no ribbonsjust plain tea.
I stand there, trying to process the absurdity.
Edward, its opened? I ask quietly, fearing a joke.
He doesnt flush. Instead, his face lights up with a condescending smile, as if explaining a basic truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it the other day, brewed a couple of bagsstrong, quick to steep. Thought Id share it with you. No need to lug an entire packet; we wont finish it in one evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure you have something to go with it, being the hostess.
I am in my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me, the roast with pruneson which I have spent a good part of the day and a decent sum of moneycools on the table. In front of me stands a welldressed, fiftynineyearold professional, extolling traditional values, who offers me a halfempty packet of bargain tea for a romantic dinner.
A hundred reactions flash through my mind. I could laugh at him, launch into a tirade, or simply swallow my irritation, seat him at the table and feed him the meat while feeling like a humiliated servant.
Instead, a calm settles over me, surprising even myself.
I place the crumpled box gently on the sideboard near the mirror, look Edward straight in the eye and smilegenuinely, not forced, with a huge sense of relief that his true colours have been revealed right at the doorstep rather than after months of courtship.
Edward, I say, my voice steady and soft, Im touched by your generosity, but Im afraid we wont need that tea.
His eyebrows lift. Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next timeIve got half a packet left at work
There wont be a next time, I reply calmly. Youre rightmen should contribute. Yet your contribution is so spectacular that I simply cannot return the favour. My dinner doesnt measure up to it.
I take his stilldamp coat from the rack and hand it back.
Whats the matter, Mabel? Offended over a packet of tea? How petty! his velvety voice cracks, his cheeks flushing. I came with my whole heart after a tough week, and you throw a fit over a trifle! Modern women only care about 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, or youll catch a chill and have nothing to treat yourself with.
I place the opened packet in his hands, gently but firmly nudging him toward the door, then shut it behind him.
The lock clicks. Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, fills the flat. I walk to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of fine red wine, slice a piece of the fragrant roast and sit at the beautifully set tablealone.
And you know what? The dinner is superb. The beef melts in my mouth, the wine sings in the crystal. I feel neither disappointment nor loneliness, only pride that I didnt let anyone step on me.
Men often accuse women of being materialistic, saying were after sponsors. Lets be honest: its not about the price of the gift. Its about the intention. A man who brings a halfempty packet of cheap tea isnt being stingy with money; hes skimping on his feelings, on his respect, on his effort. He shows that Im not even worth a minimal gesture. I will no longer waste my time, energy or life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered this sort of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given the man a chance?
