Youre fifty nowwhos going to want you? Michael would sometimes tease. But Brenda decided to find out for herself.
Brendas husband, Michael Porter, was a man of theories. Not just one, of coursehe had a good twenty, each as unyielding as the last. Like, proper stew could only be made with beef. Or, that cats are cleverer than dogs. Or, the televisions volume should always be set at exactly thirty-two, never a notch higher or lower. But his most cherished theory was this: after fifty, women simply dont interest men.
Sometimes hed say it academically: Thats just the way nature is, Brenda, dont take it personally.
Other times, with a philosophers shrug: Its lifeyou cant argue with it.
Mostly though, especially when Brenda dressed up in a new blouse or put on lipstick, hed declare, Youre fifty nownobodys interested.
No question mark. Just the cold, hard truth.
Brenda was fifty-two. She worked as an accountant at a construction firm, did stretching exercises in the morning, read novels in the evenings, and baked scones on weekendsMichael devoured them eagerly with no thought to whod made them.
Theyd been together twenty-six years. In that time, Michael had grown rounder and balder and doubled down on his theories. Brenda had changed toobut differently.
Her friend, Sharon, saw it first.
Bren, Sharon said one day over cappuccino, giving her that lookhalf mischief, half mischiefDo you realise youre actually really pretty?
Go on, Brenda answered, out of habit.
Im serious. Listen, why dont we set up a profile for you on that dating site? Just for a laugh. Call it an experiment.
Brenda set her mug down.
Are you bonkers?
Well just fill out the form. Pick a decent photo. See what happens.
Nothing will happen, said Brenda. Im fifty, remember? Whos going to care?
She heard herself say it and stoppedbecause the words sounded just like Michael Porters.
Sharon was action, not words. She never nagged, but somehow made refusing almost impossiblemorally, not physically. That evening she turned up at Brendas with her laptop, a bottle of Merlot, and a look that said it was all decided.
Right, she announced, dropping the wine on the table. Were setting you upquick, easy, no fuss.
Hang on, Brenda protested, still in her apron. What profile?
A dating site. You knowthe one I told you about.
You told me. I said no.
You said, Whos going to care? Thats different.
They stared at each other. Sharons gaze was steady, as if simply waiting for Brenda to catch up.
Shaz, Im fifty-two.
I know! Ive known you for thirty years.
So?
So nothing. Sit down.
Brenda satnot out of surrender, but because her legs ached from a long day of accounts, traffic, and tiredness. She just needed to rest.
Got a good photo? Sharon was already powering up the laptop.
A good one? The last were from the Christmas do… I was hiding in a corner with a glass of prosecco, looking away because Michael called three times asking when Id be home.
Theres the New Years one, Brenda added uncertainly.
Lets see.
Brenda fished it out. Sharon scrutinised it.
Its lovely, she said. You look…well, honestly, really lovely. Why are you always slouching in real life, but not in photos?
In photos, nobodys looking at me, Brenda replied, before fully realising what she meant.
Sharons eyes softened. She quietly opened the wine.
The form took agesnot because Sharon was slow, but because Brenda objected to every question.
Looking forjust put chat, Brenda said.
I dont want to chat with anyone.
No matter. Put it.
About youwhat should I say? Accountant, can cook a mean stew, married to a man who believes women over fifty are useless?
Sharon grinned. How about: Active, interesting, loves books and travel?
I dont travel anywhere.
Do you want to?
Brenda considered it.
Yes… I do.
Good. Not a lie, then.
They picked the Christmas photo: Brenda in a deep red dress, hair up, something lively in her gaze. Michael had never seen that dresshed been asleep before she got back that night.
Thats it, Sharon said, shutting the laptop. Done.
What now?
Now, we wait.
Wait for what exactly?
Youll see.
Brenda poured herself more wine, staring out at the evening, the streetlamp, the barren branches, nothing special at all. Michael was in the next room watching TVvolume set at precisely thirty-two. The familiar buzz went on.
Oh well, Brenda thought. A profiles a profile. Nothingll come of it anyway.
She finished the wine and did the washing up.
Next morning Brenda forgot all about it. She drove to work, fussed over the quarterly report, endured a bland bowl of soup in the canteen, and at three found herself absently counting pigeons on the window ledge.
Her phone was buried in her handbag.
At five, she pulled it out to check for messages from Michaelbut there were none. Instead, a red circle glowed on the dating app.
It said: 11.
Eleven messages in one day.
Brenda eyeballed the phone, the phone stared back. She stuffed it away. Three minutes later, she fished it out.
Eleven.
Probably spam, she thought.
She checked. No spamjust eleven men, each with real photos, names, and actual words. Some sent a simple, Hello, nice profile. Others were more thoughtful. One, Robert, aged fifty-four, wrote three proper paragraphsbooks, how he hadnt seen a look like hers in years, travel stories.
Brenda read it twice.
I did put travel, she recalled, feeling a twinge of guiltbut only a twinge.
That evening, she rang Sharon.
Eleven! she blurted.
Already?! Sharon was delighted. Told you so!
One writes about books.
Reply.
I wont reply.
Brenda.
What? Im fifty-two and Im a married woman.
Just reply.
Brenda didnt. She did the dishes, thinking about Robert and his three paragraphs.
Daft, she told herself.
But next morning, she opened the app anyway. This time, the number in red was not eleven.
Twenty-eight.
Brenda perched on the edge of her bed. Michael was still asleep.
Twenty-eight had messaged while she slept.
She scrolled with care, as if afraid to break something. Here was Andy, forty-eight, an engineer, holding a funny tabby cat. There was Charles, fifty-six, in a tie, You are a beautiful woman. And heres SimonBrenda pausedforty-one, a mountain backdrop in his photo, writing simply: Hello. Tell me about yourself.
Forty-one. Eleven years younger.
She shut the phone. Opened it again.
By day two, the number climbed past fifty.
By the third cuppa, fifty-three. Fifty-four as she counted.
She sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, scrolling with the soft astonishment of someone popping out for bread and finding gold. Theres Gordon, fifty, a business owner, sending her a poemborrowed, but sweet. Peter wrote, I like you, would love to get to know you. And Simon with the mountain snapped again, after she hadnt repliedthis time, Are you busy? Thats fine.
Brenda stared at the words.
Michael, in the sitting room, was chatting to the telly. It answered. They got on well together, she mused.
Whos going to want you, the phrase floated up.
Fifty-four strangers in less than forty-eight hours. Some her age, some younger. One sent poetry. Another waited and wrote againgently, with not a hint of complaint.
Michael Porters great theory was creaking at the seams. Like old floorboards, slowly but certainly.
Brenda finished her tea, left the mug in the sink, and for the first time in forever looked full-on at her own reflection in the dark kitchen windownot quickly or out of habit, but properly.
There she stood, aged fifty-two. Upright. Bright eyes. A woman contacted by fifty-four unfamiliar men in two days.
Well I never, Brenda whispered to the glass.
Her reflection agreed.
The phone lay on her bedside table.
Michael reached for his glasses, right beside it, just as the screen lit upanother alert had arrived. He picked it up, indifferent, sure it was nothing special. He glanced. Frowned.
He looked again.
There: Simon: Good morning! You crossed my mind…
Michael sat up slowly, as though hed just heard historic news and couldnt tell if it was good or bad.
Brenda, he called out.
Brenda was in the kitchen boiling the kettle. She heard, but didnt hurry.
Brenda!
Im coming!
She walked in, coffee in hand, composed. Michael was holding the phone as if it might bite.
Whats this? he demanded.
Brenda glanced at the screen, then at her husband. She sipped her coffee.
Notification, she said.
I can see its a notification. Whos Simon?
From the dating site.
Pause. A proper English one.
WHAT dating site?! Michael jumped up. You signed up?
Yes.
Why?
Brenda set her mug on the table, calmly meeting his eye, as if facing a puzzle whose answer she already knew.
I was testing your theory, she said.
What theory?
That one about women over fifty. Whos going to want you. Remember?
Michaels jaw opened, then closed. He checked the phone againanother three alerts had arrived since.
How many are there? he faltered.
Fifty-four, Brenda replied. In two days.
Fifty-four? Michael echoed slowly, as if trying it on for size. But the number didnt fit him.
Some are even younger than me, Brenda added, reclaimed her mug, and headed for the kitchen.
Michael Porter was left standing in the bedroom, phone in hand. Outside, it was a typical British morningthe streetlamp was out, bare trees, the sparrows causing a racket on the windowsill. Everything was ordinary. Only his theory didnt seem to hold true any longer.
Not at all.
