22November
Ive always thought that dating after fifty was a pastime for people who have settled into their ways, accumulated a bit of life experience, and at the very least understand basic decorum. The fairytale of knights on white horses long ago fell out of my imagination.
Im fiftyfive, employed, with a grownup daughter, a cosy flat in Notting Hill and a life that feels fairly balanced. Yet there are moments when I crave simple human warmtha night at the theatre, a coffee over a shared book, a genuine conversation.
With that in mind I signed up on a dating site. Amidst a flood of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, one profile stood out for its plainspoken honesty.
Thomas Hawthorne was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a smart jacket strolling through HydePark on a sunny day. In our messages he was courteous, peppered his replies with compliments, and spoke fondly of his work as a civil engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of chatting we arranged to meet at a little café on the South Bank. Thomas turned out exactly as his photos suggested: dignified, a touch of silver at his temples, and impeccably spoken. He pulled out my chair, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry, citing a watch on his sugar intake) and spent the evening extolling the importance of holding onto traditional values in todays world.
Im an oldschool gentleman, Agnes, he said, looking straight into my eyes. To me, a woman is a muse, a man must be a provider and protector. I cant abide the modern habit of splitting the bill. Courting should be done with style.
His words sounded almost musical. We met twice more, strolling along the Thames, talking at length. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather turned soura relentless November drizzle.
Agnes, perhaps I could pop round for dinner? Thomas suggested over the phone, his tone velvety. Well sit in the warmth, have a chat. I wont come emptyhanded, I promise! Youll just need to bring a cosy atmosphere and a smile.
Being a sensible English lady, I didnt rely on just a smile. From the moment I woke, I launched a fullscale cleanup. Afterwards I headed to the supermarket, bought good cuts of beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and a pricey baguette. I spent about three hours at the stove.
I baked beef with prunes a signature dish of mine that never fails to impress. A light salad followed, the dining room was set with crystal glasses, candles were lit, and I slipped into a simple yet elegant house dress with a touch of makeup.
By the appointed hour I felt as jittery as a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I brushed my hair back, inhaled deeply and opened the door. Thomas stood there, his coat damp from the rain but his bearing proudly upright.
Good evening, lovely host! he announced, stepping inside, removing his hat and beginning to unzip his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating aroma of the roast. He inhaled dramatically and smiled, Ah, I can already smell a feast!
Come in, Thomas. Shed your coat, let me hang it, I replied, expecting perhaps a bouquet of roses or a bottle of fine wine. Honestly, a box of chocolates, a modest cake, or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
He hung his coat, smoothed his jacket, then, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into an inner pocket and produced a packet of tea.
As I said, Agnes, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute, he declared, handing me the packet.
My fingers closed around a thin cardboard sleeve of the cheapest black tea I could find, the sort sold on the bottom shelves of the local supermarket on promotion. The wrapper bore no glossy branding; the little flap was torn and shoved haphazardly inside.
I froze, trying to process what I was seeing.
Thomas, is that open? I whispered, halfexpecting a prank.
He didnt blush. Instead his face broke into a patronising smile, the kind a father gives when explaining a simple truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it just the other day, brewed a couple of bags. Its strong, quick to steep, and I thought Id share it with you. No need to lug a whole tin; we wont finish it in one evening. A gentleman always makes do with what he has, right?
I stood in the hallway of my tidy flat, candles flickering behind me, the beef and prunes cooling on the tablea dish Id laboured over for half the day and spent a decent sum on.
Before me stood a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold man, preaching about traditional values, presenting a halfstarted packet of bargain tea as a token of generosity. Not a single tea bag remained inside.
My mind raced through a hundred possible reactions. I could have laughed in his face, launched into an angry tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my irritation, seated him at the table and served him the roast while feeling like a humbled servant.
Instead, a calm I hadnt expected settled over me.
I placed the crumpled packet on the side table near the mirror, met Thomass gaze and gave a genuine smile, the kind that comes from relief that the mask has finally slipped.
Thomas, my voice was even and soft Im truly touched by your thoughtfulness. Yet Im afraid we wont need that tea.
His eyebrows rose. Why not? Dont you like black tea? Next time I could bring some green, I have half a packet left at work
There wont be a next time, I replied, still calm. You were right about a man contributing. Your contribution, however, was impressive enough that I cannot return the favour. My dinner cant live up to it.
I took his stilldamp coat from the rack and handed it back.
Whats the matter? Youre upset over a packet of tea? How mercenary! his voice, now a little flustered, turned a shade pinker. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and youre making a fuss over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, Thomas. 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 placed the halfopened packet in his hands, nudged him toward the door and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence filled the flat, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, cut a piece of the fragrant roast, and sat down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was splendid. The meat melted on my tongue, the wine sang in the glass. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness, only a quiet pride that I hadnt let anyone trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being materialistic, of hunting for sponsors. But lets be honest: it isnt the price of the gift that matters. Its the attitude behind it. A man who brings a halfstarted packet of cheap tea isnt saving money; hes sparing his own feelings, his respect. Hes showing that Im not even worth a modest effort. Im done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered this sort of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given him another chance?
