Ive always thought that dating after fifty belongs to people who have settled views, life experience and at least a basic sense of propriety. I no longer entertain fantasies about princes on white horses.
Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in London and a fairly balanced life. Yet sometimes I crave simple human warmthgoing to the theatre, sharing a coffee, discussing a book Ive just finished.
With those thoughts in my head, I sign up on a dating website. Among a flood of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, Edwards profile stands out for its pleasant sensibility.
Hes fiftynine. His photos show a trim man in a crisp blazer, standing in a summer garden of HydePark. In our messages he is polite, showers me with compliments, talks about his job as a civilengineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of chatting we arrange to meet at a café. Edward appears exactly as his pictures suggested: dignified, with a touch of silver, and a smooth way of speaking. He pulls out my chair, orders two cappuccinos (he declines dessert, saying hes watching his sugar), and spends the evening explaining why, in these modern times, traditional values still matter.
I’m a man of the old school, Emma, he says, looking me straight in the eyes. To me a woman is a muse. A man should be a provider and protector. I cant stand the contemporary habit of separate bills. Courting should be done with style.
It sounds like music. We meet two more times, strolling along the Southbank, talking at length. Then the weekend arrives and the weather finally turns soura dreary November drizzle beats against the windows.
Emma, perhaps I could come over for dinner? Edward intones over the phone, his voice velvety. Well sit in warmth, chat. Of course I wont arrive emptyhanded; Ill bring something proper. All I need from you is a cosy home and a smile.
Like any sensible Englishwoman, I dont rely on just a smile. From early morning I embark on a thorough cleanup. Afterwards I pop into Tesco: I buy quality beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, an artisanal baguette. I spend about three hours in the kitchen.
I roast the beef with prunesmy signature dish that never fails to impress. I toss a light salad, set the dining table with care, pull out crystal goblets, light a few candles. I slip into an elegant housedress and apply a subtle makeup.
At 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 the door. Edward stands there, his coat damp from the rain, yet he looks unusually proud.
Good evening, lovely host! he declares, stepping inside, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafts the intoxicating aroma of the roasting meat. Edward takes a hearty sniff, smiles, and says, Ah, I can already sense a feast awaiting me!
Come in, Edward. Hang your coat, I reply, halfexpecting him to produce the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt hoping for a bouquet of a hundred roses or a vintage wine. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. Its the thought that counts.
Edward hangs his coat, straightens his jacket, then reaches into the inner pocket of his coat with the ceremonious flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and declares:
As I said, Emma, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
With those words he hands me a packet of tea.
Instinctively I take it, my gaze dropping. Its a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea, the sort that sits on the lower shelves of the supermarket on discount. The only oddity is that the cardboard flap is torn and haphazardly tucked back inside.
I freeze, trying to process whats happening.
Edward, is this opened? I whisper, fearing a prank.
He isnt embarrassed in the slightest. On the contrary, his face brightens with the patronising smile of someone explaining an obvious fact to a child.
Of course! I bought it a few days ago, brewed a couple of bags myself. Its a strong tea, quick to steep. I thought Id share it with you. No point carrying a whole boxwe wont finish it in one evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure youll have something else to brew, youre the hostess after all.
I stand in the hallway of my clean, cosy flat. Behind me the candles flicker, the beef with prunes cools on the tablea dish Ive spent half the day preparing and a decent amount of money on.
In front of me stands a respectable, working, welldressed fiftynineyearold man, lecturing about traditional values, who brings a halffinished packet of pennycheap tea to a romantic dinner. There are barely any tea bags inside.
Hundreds of possible reactions flash through my mind. I could laugh in his face. I could explode into a scene and voice every complaint about his stinginess. I could stay silent, swallow my irritation, seat him at the table and feed him meat while feeling like a humiliated servant.
Instead, a calm settles over me, surprising even myself.
I gently place the crumpled box on the side table near the mirror. I look Edward straight in the eye, smilenot a forced smile but a genuine one, feeling a huge relief that hes revealed his true self right at my doorstep, not after months of courtship.
Edward, I say, my voice even and soft, Im touched by your generosity. But Im afraid this tea wont be useful to us.
His eyebrows rise. Why not? Dont you like black tea? I could bring green next timeIve got half a packet left at work
The next time wont come, I reply, still calm. Youre right, a man should contribute. Your contribution, however, is so impressive that I simply cant return the favour. My dinner doesnt match it.
I take his still damp coat from the rack and hand it to him.
Whats this about, Emma? Offended by the tea? How mercenary! I came from a hard week, and she throws a tantrum over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, Edward. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put on your coat; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, lest you catch a chill with nothing to treat it.
I slip the halfused packet back into his hands, push him gently toward the door and close it behind him.
The lock clicks. The flat is silent, broken only by the ticking clock. I head to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of fine red wine, cut a piece of the fragrant beef and sit at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner is superb. The meat melts in my mouth, the wine sings in the glass. I feel neither disappointment nor lonelinessonly pride that I didnt let him trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being materialistic, saying we chase sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt about the price of the gift. Its about the gesture. A man who brings a woman a halffinished packet of tea isnt saving money; hes sparing his feelings, his respect. He shows that she isnt even worth minimal effort. I no longer intend to waste 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 the man deserved a second chance?
