Youre fifty already whos going to want you? Dave used to chuckle. But Alice decided to see for herself.
Alices husband, Dave Thompson, always had a handful of pet theories. Actually, more than a handful: he had at least twenty, and hed defend each one as gospel. Like how a proper roast can only be done with beef. Or how cats are far cleverer than dogs. Or, that the TV volume should always be set precisely to twenty-two no more, no less. But his favourite theory went like this: after fifty, a woman isnt interesting to men.
Hed say it in all sorts of ways, depending on his mood.
Sometimes, a touch of science: Thats just nature, Alice, nothing personal.
Other times, in an almost philosophical tone: Thats just life what can you do?
But most often, especially when Alice put on a new dress or a bit of lipstick, it was simple, almost homely: Youre fifty now whos going to want you?
No trace of doubt just stated as if it were fact.
Alice was fifty-two. She worked as an accountant for a construction company, did her stretches every morning, read novels in the evenings, and baked cakes at the weekend cakes Dave devoured without ever linking the delicious results to any idea of who might want their maker.
Theyd been together for twenty-six years. In that time, Dave had grown rounder, lost most of his hair, and carried on sharpening his little theories. Alice hadnt. Or not in the same way.
Her friend Sandra noticed it first.
Alice, Sandra said one afternoon, sipping her coffee and giving Alice that special squint which meant: Im about to say something important and a bit wild, so prepare yourself. Do you even realise youre beautiful?
Oh, shut up, Alice replied, rolling her eyes.
No, genuinely. Absolutely. Look, lets do something lets sign you up for a dating site. Just for fun. For the experiment.
Alice set her mug down on the kitchen table.
Youve lost the plot.
Well just make a profile. Find a lovely photo. See what happens.
Nothing will happen, Alice said. Im fifty, remember? Whos going to want me?
And as she spoke it, she caught herself she knew that phrase, that tone. Daves.
Sandra was a woman of action, not words. She never bothered much with lengthy persuasion it wasnt her style. Instead, shed just go ahead, making it almost awkward to refuse. That night, she turned up at Alices with her laptop under her arm, a bottle of wine, and a determined look in her eye as if everything was already settled.
Right then, she said, plonking down the wine. Were making your profile. Quick, easy, and no fuss.
Hang on, Alice protested, still wearing her apron. What profile?
Dating site I told you about it.
You did, and I said no.
You said whos going to want me. Thats not the same.
Alice stared at her. Sandra stared right back the look of someone whos completely certain shes right and is just waiting for the penny to drop for everyone else.
Sandra, Im fifty-two.
I know. Ive known you for thirty years.
Well?
And it doesnt matter. Sit down.
Alice sat not because she was giving in, but because her legs were genuinely tired. It had been a long day. Work reports, traffic jams, the lot. So she sat, just to rest.
Now show me a photo, Sandra said, opening her laptop.
What photo?
A nice one. Come on, you must have something?
Alice thought for a moment. The last photos were all from a work do. In the background, with a glass of wine, looking away from the camera mostly because Dave had called three times that night, asking when she was coming home.
Theres one from New Year, she offered hesitantly.
Lets have a look.
She showed her. Sandra studied it intently.
Thats a good one. No, seriously, you actually look confident. Why do you always hunch in real life but not in this photo?
No ones watching me in the photo, Alice replied and wasnt quite sure what she meant by it.
Sandra looked at her, lingering for a second, before opening the wine.
Filling out the profile took ages. To be precise, Sandra filled it, Alice objected. On every question.
What are you looking for? Alice, just put chatting.
I dont want to chat to anyone.
It doesnt matter. Write it.
About Me? Sandra, what am I supposed to say? Accountant, makes a good stew, married to a man with a theory about women over fifty?
Well write: Energetic, interesting, loves reading and exploring new places.
I never go anywhere.
Do you want to?
Alice thought for a moment.
Yes.
Well, then no lies.
They chose the very same photo the one from New Years. Alice in a deep red dress, hair up, and something alive in her eyes. Dave never saw that dress. He was already asleep by the time shed got home that night.
Thats it! Sandra said, snapping the laptop shut. All done.
And now?
Now, we wait.
What for?
Youll see.
Alice poured herself a glass of wine and gazed out the window. Outside it was just an ordinary evening: streetlights, bare branches, nothing special. Dave was in the next room watching telly volume exactly on twenty-two. The TV murmured away.
Oh well, thought Alice, this profile business nothing will come of it.
She finished her wine and started on the washing up.
The next morning, she didnt think about the profile. Not at all.
She commuted to work, slogged through a mountain of spreadsheets, managed a disappointing soup at lunch in the office canteen, and at three oclock she found herself staring out of the window, counting pigeons on the ledge.
Her phone was at the bottom of her bag.
At five, she finally fished it out just in case Dave had called. He hadnt. But there was a notification from the dating site: a neat red circle with a number on it.
The number was 11.
Eleven messages. In a day.
Alice stared at her phone. The phone, if it could, would have stared right back. She stuffed it away, sat for a moment, then pulled it out again.
Eleven.
Probably spam, she thought.
Opened the app. No spam. Eleven actual men photos, names, and proper messages. Some brief: Hi, liked your profile. Others a bit longer, more thoughtful. One chap, Simon, fifty-four, wrote three whole paragraphs about books, about how he hadnt seen a woman with such a spark in her photo in years, and how he adored travel.
She read that one twice.
I put travel on my profile, she remembered, and blushed but only a little.
That evening, she rang Sandra.
Theres eleven, Alice said instead of hello.
Already? See, I told you!
One wrote about books.
Write back!
Im not replying.
Alice!
What, Alice? Im fifty-two, Im married.
Sandra groaned. Reply!
Alice didnt. That evening she washed up and thought about Simon and his three paragraphs.
Lost the plot, she muttered to herself.
But the next morning, she opened the app anyway. The red circle no longer said eleven.
Twenty-eight.
Alice sat on the edge of the bed while Dave snored away.
Twenty-eight men had written overnight.
She scrolled through, gingerly, like she might break something. There was Peter, forty-eight, an engineer, with a funny selfie with his cat. James, fifty-six, looked serious in a tie: Youre a truly beautiful woman. Then, Jack and here Alice paused forty-one, with a photo in the hills somewhere, wrote simply: Hello. Tell me about yourself.
Forty-one. Eleven years younger.
She shut her phone. Then opened it again.
By the end of day two, the number had gone over fifty.
Fifty-three messages. No, fifty-four as she counted.
She sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, scrolling through them like someone who went out to buy bread and discovered buried treasure. There was Richard, fifty, a businessman, who sent a poem (not his, but nice anyway). Nick simply wrote: You caught my eye, Id love to get to know you. That Jack, with the hill photo, messaged again because she hadnt replied. He was gentle, not pushy: Maybe youre busy? Thats fine.
Alice stared at that for ages.
Dave, in the lounge, was talking back to the telly. The telly seemed quite happy to reply.
Whos going to want you? she remembered.
Fifty-four men in forty-eight hours. Some her own age, others younger. One wrote poetry, another messaged twice, politely, with no hint of annoyance.
Dave Thompsons favourite theory wasnt holding up very well. Not at all, really.
Alice finished her tea and put the mug in the sink. And for the first time in ages, she looked at herself in the dark window properly, not in passing, but really looking.
There, reflected in the glass, was a woman of fifty-two. Head high, shining eyes. Fifty-four complete strangers had written to her in two days.
Blimey, Alice whispered to her own reflection.
It looked right back, almost in agreement.
Her phone was on the bedside table.
Dave reached for his glasses and at just that moment, the screen lit up with a new notification. Dave picked up the phone, absentmindedly, not expecting anything. He looked. Eyebrows knitted.
He looked again.
The screen said: Jack: Good morning! Was thinking of you
Dave sat down heavily on the bed. Like someone whos just been told something big but cant yet tell if its good or bad.
Alice? he called.
Alice was in the kitchen making coffee. She heard him and didnt rush.
Alice!
Im coming.
She walked in, coffee in hand, calm as ever. Dave was holding the phone like hed caught something alive and wasnt sure whether to let it go.
Whats all this, then? he demanded.
Alice glanced at the screen, then at Dave. Took a sip.
A notification, she said.
I can see that. Whos Jack?
From the dating site.
Silence. A good, long pause.
What dating site? You signed up for one?
Yes.
Why?
Alice set down her mug. Looked at him steadily, no anger, almost curious. As if looking at a puzzle shed already solved.
I was testing your theory, she said.
What theory?
The one about women over fifty. You remember? Whos going to want you?
Dave gaped. Closed his mouth. Glanced at the phone again three more notifications had popped up while he stood there.
How many I mean, how many are there?
Fifty-four, Alice answered. In just two days.
Fifty-four, Dave echoed quietly, trying the number out. It didnt quite fit.
Some are even younger than me, Alice added, picking up her mug and heading back to the kitchen.
Dave Thompson was left standing in the middle of the room with the phone in his hand. Outside, it was an ordinary morning streetlight off, bare tree, sparrows arguing on the ledge. Nothing had changed.
Except Daves favourite theory that didnt seem to work any more.
Not at all.
