“I’m looking for someone lively and spiritednot my age, you know. At fifty, it’s just not the same,” George declared, his tone brimming with self-importance as he addressed his mate across the café table. “I want someone energetic, not my contemporary. Honestly, I wont go above forty-twoand even then, only if she looks thirty-five. I may not be Paul Newman, but inside Im still twenty-eight. Anyway, men become more valuable as they age. Women well, you get my point…”
Harriet and I were at the next table, having ducked into the café after Pilates, our chat on nutrition plans abruptly hijacked by Georges unsolicited soliloquy.
“Did you hear that?” Harriet whispered, barely able to contain her amusement. “His price is supposedly going up. More like a buy one, get one free on the bargain rack.”
“Shush,” I grinned. “Lets listen. Its like live theatre.”
Georges voice only grew louder: “I dont eat leftovers. Not on principle. My future wife must cook fresh meals dailycant stand yesterdays shepherds pie. Of course, I get by on beans on toast when Im alone, but in a relationship? I expect roast dinners, home-baked puddings. And she should be slim. I need contrasta substantial man, petite woman.”
“And children?” his friend inquired, sceptically eyeing Georges expansive form. “Yours are grown. Youll be a grandfather soon.”
“I dont need heirs, thank you. Need a companionsomeone for the soul and, well, for the body. Someone activewalks through Hyde Park, weekends in the Lake District or at the very least, a trip to the seaside.”
I nearly choked on my apple juice. Active? The only run hes done is to the local chippy.
“Bet you five quid he tries to chat me up,” I murmured to Harriet, my eyebrow arched mischievously.
“Really?” Harriet scoffed. “Victoria, youre not even forty!”
“Just watch,” I whispered, finger to lips. “This is a social experiment. I want to explore the depths of male self-deception.”
The introduction happened with remarkable ease. We exchanged numbers, and by evening we were messaging as if wed known each other for years.
He hid on the internet behind the username Macho48.
His profile picture was at least a decade oldgut sucked in, expensive car in the background, gaze brimming with confidence.
A few days later, George asked me out.
He arrived in his best suitjacket strained at the buttons, belly defiantly leading the way.
“Victoria,” he beamed, showcasing a less-than-perfect set of teeth, “you look absolutely stunning tonight.”
“Thank you, George,” I said, casting my gaze downward demurely. “And you look quite distinguished yourself.”
We met several more times.
It was pure acting practice for me. I sat through tales of his ‘business empire’ (a single market stall), the car he ‘almost bought’ (but chose to invest in his ‘enterprise’), and the importance of a cosy home for the ‘man of the house’.
Wed walk in the parkafter a hundred yards, he was breathless, insisting it was a special breathing technique.
Then, the pivotal moment arrived.
After eating, as George simmered in my compliments, he grew bold and tried to take my hand.
“Victoria,” he ventured, gazing earnestly, “youre perfectslim, domestic, youthful. By the way, I should confess Im not forty-eight.”
“Oh?” I lifted my brows in mock surprise. “How old then?”
“Fifty-five,” he exhaled, eyes searching for acceptance. “But Ive kept myself in remarkable shape, dont you think?”
“Absolutely, George!” I exclaimed, feigning admiration. “You could pass for fifty-four! I adore experienced menso much wisdom.”
His chest puffed with pride.
“Wonderful. I was worried. You see, Im principled: women over forty-two just wont do. Energy isnt the same. But youyoure fire, a proper young lady.”
“Thank you, darling,” I murmured, running my hand gently over his balding crown. “Incidentally, Ive a tiny confession myself.”
His demeanour shifted. “What sort of confession? Children? Debts?”
“No, nothing like that. My age.”
He stiffened.
“You mean youre not forty?”
“Not quite.”
“Thirty-eight, then?” he asked hopefully.
I fished out my passport from my bag and handed it over.
“Open it, George. See for yourself.”
With trembling hands, he did. His eyes narrowed at the date of birth, silently working out the sum.
1975.
“Fifty” he whispered, paling fast. “Youre fifty?”
“Exactly, George. Celebrated the milestone two months ago.”
The passport slid from his hands. He stared as if Id just transformed into some horrifying creature before his very eyes.
“But how? You look”
“Like a woman who takes care of herself, George. Instead of snacking on pork pies.”
“But its dishonest!” he yelped. “I told youforty-two is my max. I cant be with a woman my own age.”
“For the record, Im not your age. And, to be clear, you seemed just fine before, didnt you? Or did I turn to dust halfway through dessert?”
George flushed crimson.
“No, but the number Fifty. Thats practically the retirement home!”
“Old age, George, is when your mind loses touch with reality,” I replied evenly as I stood up. “Im a woman at her best. And, you know, Ive realised something too.”
“Whats that?” he asked, his faded eyes pleading.
“That what a fifty-year-old woman needs is a mannot a bundle of insecurities, a paunch, and a market stall. You wouldnt survive my ‘fire.’ You’d burn out at your very first attempt.”
I slipped my passport back into my handbag and walked calmly towards the door.
“Victoria!” he called after me. “Wait! What about us?”
“What about us?” I turned. “By your logic, were the same age. And you want someone young. So off you gomaybe youll find someone short-sighted enough to fall for it.”
I stepped out of his grandmotherly flat into the cool evening air, inhaling freedom.
Harriet was waiting for me in the car outside.
“Well?” she asked as I got in. “Did he come clean?”
“Oh, yes,” I laughed. “Especially after I showed him my passport. You shouldve seen his face. Like someone told him the Earth was round for the first time.”
“And? How did it end?”
“Well, hell keep hunting for ‘youth’and torture himself in the process. Meanwhile, were off to celebrate. I have a proper date tonightwith a real man. Hes forty-five and couldnt care less what my passport says.”
George, meanwhile, is still trawling dating sites. Hes changed his profile now: “Seeking a woman under forty. Honest ones only!” Pictures the same, of coursefrom a decade ago.
Why is it, dyou think, that some men are so afraid of women their own age? Is it ever worth hiding your age for a chance at romance, or is honesty always best from the start?
