You know, Ive always thought that dating after youre fiftysomething is something people with solid life experience and at least a basic sense of propriety get into. I stopped dreaming about princes on white horses ages ago.
Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in London and a fairly balanced life. Still, every now and then you just want a bit of genuine human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee, a chat about a book youve just finished.
With that in mind I signed up to a dating site. Among the flood of odd messages and outright ridiculous proposals, Arthurs profile stood out for its plainspoken decency.
He was fiftynine. His photos showed a trim bloke in a smart jacket, posed in a summer park. In our messages he was polite, peppered me with compliments, talked about his job as an engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of texting we met at a little café on Regent Street. Arthur turned out exactly as the pictures suggested: dignified, a touch of silver in his hair, a smooth way of speaking. He pulled my chair back, ordered two cappuccinos (declining dessert, saying he was watching his sugar), and spent the whole evening lecturing on how important it is to cling to traditional values these days.
Im an oldschool sort of man, Ethel, he said, looking right into my eyes. 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. Courting should be done with style.
It sounded almost poetic. We met a couple more times, strolled along the Thames, talked for hours. Then the weekend rolled around and the weather turned nasty a dreary November drizzle.
Ethel, how about I pop round for dinner? Arthurs velvety voice came over the phone. Well sit in the warmth, have a chat. I dont ever show up emptyhanded, I promise. You just bring the cosy atmosphere and a smile.
Being a sensible English woman, I didnt rely on just a smile. From the moment I woke up I started a fullon spring clean. Then I headed to Sainsburys: bought a nice ribeye, fresh veg, a few cheeses, a pricey baguette. Spent about three hours in the kitchen.
I roasted the meat with prunes my signature dish that never fails to impress. Whipped up a light salad, set the dining table with a touch of elegance, brought out crystal glasses and lit a couple of candles. Tossed on a simple yet elegant house dress and did a light bit of makeup.
By the appointed hour I was as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date.
The doorbell rang right at seven. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath and opened it. There stood my guest, coat a little damp from the rain, but looking remarkably proud.
Good evening, lovely host! Arthur stepped in, tipped his hat and began unbuttoning his coat. From the kitchen wafted the mouthwatering aroma of the roast. He inhaled deeply, grinned and said, Ah, I can already tell theres a feast waiting for me!
Come in, Arthur. Make yourself comfortable. Let me hang your coat, I replied, halfexpecting him to produce the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt holding out for a hundredrose bouquet or a vintage bottle; a box of chocolates, a simple cake, or even a modest bunch of chrysanthemums would have been fine. Its the thought that counts.
Arthur hung his coat, adjusted his jacket, then reached into his inner pocket with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and declared:
As I said, Ethel, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
With that, he handed me a packet of tea.
I automatically took it, eyes dropping. It was a plain cardboard box of the cheapest black tea you can find on the bottom shelf of the supermarket, on sale. The funny part wasnt the brand there was no fancy label. The cardboard flap was ripped and shoved haphazardly inside.
I froze, trying to process what was happening.
Arthur, is it unopened? I whispered, fearing some odd joke.
He didnt flinch. In fact, his face lit up with a patronising smile, the sort you give a child when youre explaining the obvious.
Of course! I just bought a couple of bags yesterday, brewed them, thought they were brilliant strong and quick. I figured Id share. No need to lug a whole packet; we wont finish it in one evening. Why waste good tea? And Im sure youve got something else to go with it, youre the hostess after all.
I stood in the hallway of my tidy, cosy flat. Behind me the candles flickered, the roast with prunes sat cooling a dish Id spent half the day preparing and a decent sum of money on.
In front of me was a fiftynineyearold, welldressed, working man spouting about traditional values, presenting a halfstarted packet of pennycheap tea as his token of generosity. Not a single tea bag inside.
A hundred possible reactions raced through my mind. I could have laughed in his face, thrown a fit and laid out every complaint about his stinginess, or I could have stayed silent, swallowed the insult, seated him at the table and fed him meat while feeling like a servant.
Instead, a calm I hadnt expected settled over me.
I gently placed the crumpled box on the side table near the mirror, met Arthurs gaze and smiled not a forced smile, but a genuine one, feeling a huge sense of relief that hed shown his true colours right at the door, not after months of courtship.
Arthur, my voice was steady and soft. Im truly touched by your generosity. But Im afraid we wont be needing this tea.
His eyebrows shot up: Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring some green next time, Ive still got half a packet at work
There wont be a next time, I replied, just as calmly. You were right about men contributing, but your contribution was so memorable that I simply cant return the favour. My dinner doesnt measure up to it.
I took his stilldamp coat off the rack and handed it back.
Whats the matter, Ethel? Youre upset over a packet of tea? How mercenary! his velvety voice turned into a theatrical growl, his face flushing. I came with all my heart after a tough week, and she throws a tantrum over a trifle! Modern women only want money and restaurants!
I need respect, Arthur. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put your coat back on, its chilly outside. And dont forget your tea, or youll catch a cold and have nothing to treat it with.
I slipped the halfused tea packet into his hands, nudged him toward the door and shut it behind him.
The lock clicked. The flat fell into a perfect hush, broken only by the ticking clock. I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast and sat down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? That dinner was brilliant. The meat melted in my mouth, the wine sang in the glass. I felt no disappointment, no loneliness just a quiet pride that I hadnt let anyone trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being materialistic, say were looking for sponsors. Truth be told, its not about the price of the gift. Its about the attitude. A man who brings a halfstarted packet of tea isnt saving money; hes sparing his feelings, his respect. Hes saying the woman isnt even worth a modest effort. Im done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear reader? Have you run into this kind of generosity from men? Or perhaps I was a bit harsh and should have given him a chance?
