The restaurant where Jonathan had invited me for our second date was the kind of place people whispered aboutopulence painted in gold and velvet, dim lighting, waiters gliding between tables like ghosts. Jonathan himself fit the backdrop perfectly: a tailored navy suit, a designer watch flashed beneath his cuff, and that unmistakable self-assured smirk of a man accustomed to being the sun in every sky.
Order whatever you fancy, he tossed out casually, not even glancing at the menu. I cant abide women who restrict themselves.
The line was delivered with the grandeur of a prince from some gleaming fairytale, but inside I felt a subtle flicker of unease. Perhaps it was the way he scrutinised me, or the cavalier way he described his previous partners, whoaccording to himhad seen him as nothing more than walking pound notes.
I chose the duck salad and a glass of Chablis. Jonathan, however, went all out: a fillet steak, beef tartare, a bottle of expensive Bordeaux, and a lavish dessert. He launched into stories about his business ventures, lamented the shallow state of society, and mused about values and true connections. I sat, nodding along, feeling as though Id stumbled not into a romantic evening, but an examinationat any moment, a trick question might be sprung.
A one-man performance
When the waiter placed the black leather bill folder on the table, Jonathan didnt miss a beat. He rambled on about societys moral decline as his hand drifted to his inside jacket pocket, then the other, before patting at his trousers. His expression shifted: confidence replaced by an exaggerated confusion.
Oh, blast, he muttered, locking eyes with me. Seems Ive left my wallet at the office. Or maybe its in my other car.
He shrugged, feigning helplessnessbut I saw no sign of real concern. He didnt ask the waiter to wait, didnt fiddle with his phone to sort a bank transfer. He simply stared at me, expectant.
What a ridiculous situation, he drawled, reclining in his chair. Mind lending a hand? You cover tonightIll transfer the cash straight after. Or next time its on me, plus interest.
It became painfully clear: this was no honest mistake. I was being subjected to a testone he himself had ranted about for half the evening.
Id read about such schemes online, seen them played out in cheap TV dramas, but Id never thought Id find myself herefacing a grown, seemingly successful man playing games with restaurant bills.
His logic was almost comically basic: if a woman pays for both, shes goodreliable, willing to carry the load. If she refuses, shes only in it for the money. In this moment, he was no businessman, but a petty manipulator, itching to see if Id dance to his tune.
He was certain hed already won. In his mind, the idea of dating such an eligible bachelor would surely make me fork over my card without protest.
Colder calculation
I opened my purse deliberately, keeping my voice measured and calm. Jonathan visibly relaxed, assuming his plan had worked.
Of course, no trouble, I said quietly, signalling the waiter.
Could we split the bill, please? I stated clearly. Ill be paying for mine. The steak, wine, and pudding are for the gentleman to deal with.
The smile slid off Jonathans face.
What do you mean? he hissed, leaning in. I havent got my wallet.
I understand, I nodded, tapping my phone against the card reader. But we barely know each other. Its perfectly normal to pay for myself. A man who invited me here and ordered the priciest things goingsorry, thats not my burden. Youre a grown man; Im sure youll figure it out.
The waiter hovered, glancing uncertainly between us. Jonathan started to flush, the veneer of charm peeling away to reveal nothing but boorishness.
Are you serious? he spat out. Over a bit of money? I told you, Id pay it back. I was just testing you.
And youve got your answer, I responded, rising from my seat. Im not someone to be manipulated.
I was already heading for the door, but something made me turn back for the final word. He sat there: furious, flustered, an unpaid bill before him, his wallet nowhere in sight.
I returned to the table and rummaged in my purse for some battered notes and a handful of loose changethe sort that always litter the bottom.
Oh, and by the way, I said, placing the coins next to his untouched glass. If your wallet really is in your other car, I suppose you havent got cab fare either.
This should get you on the tube. Think of it as my contribution to your little experiment on womens souls.
A few diners at neighbouring tables were openly staring now. Jonathan looked as if hed been slapped.
I swept into the street.
That evening cost me only a salad and a glass of winea small price, I realised, for glimpsing someones true nature in time to save myself years of regret. I hoped hed learned something, though men like him rarely do.
So what would you have done in my shoes: rescued the forgetful suitor, or taken the harder, but honest, path?
