You know, Ive always reckoned that romance after the big50 is a game for folks whove already set their bearings, gathered a heap of life lessons and, at the very least, understand the basics of good manners. The whole fairytale about a dashing prince on a white horse? I stopped buying tickets for that long ago.
Im fiftyfive, I have a fulltime job, an adult daughter named Sophie, a cosy flat in a leafy part of Battersea, and a life that runs as smoothly as a wellkept garden. Still, every now and then I crave a pinch of ordinary human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee over a good book, a chat that isnt about spreadsheets.
With that in mind I signed up on a dating site. Among the flood of odd messages and outright bizarre proposals, Grahams profile stood out for being refreshingly sensible.
He was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a tidy blazer, posed against a summer park in HydeHydePark. In our messages he was polite, peppered his replies with genuine compliments and talked about his work as a civil engineer and his love of Beethoven and the occasional jazz vinyl.
After a week of chatting we arranged to meet at a little café on the South Bank. Graham turned out to be exactly as his photos suggested dignified, with a faint dusting of silver at his temples and a voice that could have narrated a documentary on proper etiquette. He pulled out my chair, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry on the grounds that he was watching his sugar intake) and spent the whole evening extolling the importance of oldfashioned values in todays world.
Im a man of the old school, Eliza, he said, looking straight into my eyes as if I were a portrait in a gallery. To me a woman is a muse, and a man should be a provider and protector. I cant stand the modern habit of splitting the bill. Courtship should be done with a bit of flair.
It sounded like music. We met up a couple more times, strolled along the Thames, talked for hours. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather decided to turn on its November nastiness a relentless drizzle that made the city smell of wet stone.
Eliza, how about I pop round for dinner? Graham murmured over the phone, his voice as smooth as a wellaged Scotch. Well sit in the warmth, have a proper chat. I never come emptyhanded, of course Ill bring everything needed. All I ask is a cosy home and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I didnt rely on just a smile. From the moment I woke up I launched into a fullblown springclean. Afterwards I drifted to Waitrose, picked up a nice cut of beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and a crusty baguette imported from France. I spent about three hours in the kitchen.
I roared the beef with prunes my signature dish that never fails to win hearts. A light salad followed, and I set the dining room table with crystal glasses, flickering candles, and slipped into a smart, comfortable dress with a dab of makeup that said Im trying, not trying too hard.
By the appointed hour my nerves were doing the sort of jittery dance a teenager does before a first date.
At precisely seven the doorbell rang. I smoothed my hair, inhaled deeply, and opened the door. There stood my gentleman, coat damp from the rain but looking oddly proud.
Good evening, lovely host! Graham announced, stepping inside, tipping his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating scent of the roasting beef. He inhaled dramatically and grinned, Ah, I can already feel a feast awaiting me!
Come in, Graham. Hang up your coat, let me take it for you, I replied, halfexpecting him to produce the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt looking for a thousandrose bouquet or a vintage bottle of wine. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have done its the thought that counts.
Graham tossed his coat on the rack, straightened his blazer and, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into an inner pocket and declared:
As I told you, Eliza, I never come emptyhanded. A gentleman always contributes.
He extended his offering a packet of tea.
I took the cardboard box in my hands and glanced down. It was the cheapest black tea you can find on the bottom shelf of a supermarket, the sort thats on sale because the store is trying to get rid of it. The label was halftorn, the flap crumpled and shoved in without any care.
I froze, trying to process what had just happened.
Graham, is it opened? I whispered, halfexpecting a joke.
He didnt miss a beat. Instead his face broke into a patronising grin, the sort you see on a man explaining nurseryrhyme morals to a child.
Of course! I just bought it the other day, brewed a couple of bags, and thought youd like a taste. No need to lug a whole packet we wont finish it in one evening. Why waste good tea? Im sure youve got something else to pair it with, being the host.
I stood in the hallway of my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me the beef and prunes glistened, the result of a whole days labour and a modest sum of pounds. In front of me was a welldressed, hardworking, fiftynineyearold who preaches traditional values, presenting a halfused packet of bargain tea as his grand romantic gesture.
A hundred possible reactions flashed through my mind. I could have laughed in his face. I could have launched into a fullblown tirade about his pennypinching. I could have swallowed my irritation, seated him at the table and fed him the meat while feeling like a servant.
Instead I chose a different route. A calm that surprised even me settled over me.
I placed the crumpled box on the sideboard by the mirror, looked Graham straight in the eye and smiled not a forced grin, but a genuine, relieved one, as if Id just discovered that the universe had a sense of humour.
Graham, I said, my voice steady and warm, Im truly touched by your generosity. But Im afraid we wont be needing this tea.
His eyebrows rose. Why not? Not a fan of black? Next time I could bring green Ive got half a packet left at work
The next time wont be happening, I replied, matching his composure. You were right about men contributing. Unfortunately your contribution was spectacularly underwhelming. My dinner simply cant be matched by a halfused tea packet.
He shrugged off his damp coat, still dripping, and tried to salvage the situation. Whats this, Eliza? Youre upset over tea? How mercenary! I came all the way after a hard week, and you throw a fit over a trifle! Modern women only want money and restaurants!
I need respect, Graham. First and foremost, 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 handed him the unfinished packet, gave him a gentle nudge toward the door and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, filled the flat. I drifted to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of a decent red wine, sliced a piece of the aromatic beef and settled at the beautifully set table. Solo.
And you know what? The meal was magnificent. The meat melted in my mouth, the wine sang in the glass. I felt no disappointment, no loneliness only a quiet pride for not letting anyone trample over my dignity.
Men often accuse us of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt the price of the gift that matters. Its the sentiment. A man who brings a woman a halfused packet of tea isnt saving money; hes sparing his own feelings, his respect. Hes signalling that she isnt worth even the smallest effort. Im done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered this sort of male generosity? Or perhaps I overreacted and should have given the chap a chance?
