I have always thought that dating after fifty belongs to people who have settled views, a lifetime of experience and at least a basic sense of propriety. I no longer entertain any fantasies about knights in shining armor.
I am fiftyfive, I work fulltime, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a leafy suburb of London and a fairly harmonious life. Yet sometimes I crave simple human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee in a quiet tearoom, a chat about the latest novel Im reading.
With those thoughts in mind I sign up on a dating site. Among a flood of odd messages and clearly absurd proposals, a profile catches my eye for its pleasant common sense.
He is fiftynine. His pictures show a trim man in a smart blazer, standing in a summer park. In our messages he is courteous, showers me with compliments, talks about his job as an engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of texting we arrange to meet at a café on the high street. He proves exactly as he looks in the photos: dignified, with a hint of silver at his temples, and a smooth way of speaking. He pulls out the chair for me, orders two cappuccinos (declining the dessert, saying he watches his sugar), and spends the whole evening explaining why, in todays world, traditional values are still important.
Im a man of the old school, Evelyn, he says, gazing deeply into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, and a man must be a provider and protector. I cannot abide the modern trend of separate bills. Courting should be done with style.
His words sound like music. We meet twice more, strolling along the riverbank, talking endlessly. Then the weekend arrives and the weather finally turns nasty a relentless November drizzle.
Evelyn, perhaps I could come over for dinner? Davids velvety voice suggests over the phone. Well sit in the warmth, chat a bit. Of course Im not coming emptyhanded Ill sort everything out. All I need from you is a cosy home and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I do not rely on just a smile. From the moment I wake, I launch a thorough cleaning. Afterwards I head to the supermarket, picking up topgrade beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and a pricey baguette. I spend about three hours over the hob.
I roast the meat with prunes my signature dish that never fails to impress. I toss together a light salad, set the dining table with crystal glasses, light a few candles and slip into a simple yet elegant dress, applying a touch of makeup.
By the appointed hour I feel as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date.
The doorbell rings precisely at seven. I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and open. Standing on the wet doorstep is my guest, coat damp from the rain but his bearing proud.
Good evening, lovely host! David steps inside, removes his hat and begins to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen drift the mouthwatering aromas of the roast. He inhales dramatically, smiles, and declares, Ah, I can already feel a feast waiting for me!
Come in, David. Hang your coat, I say warmly, expecting perhaps the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt hoping for a bouquet of a hundred roses or a rare vintage. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a simple sprig of chrysanthemums would have been fine. Its the thought that matters.
David hangs his coat, adjusts his jacket and, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, reaches into his inner pocket and pronounces the line I have heard before:
As I said, Evelyn, I never arrive emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
He hands me a packet of tea.
Instinctively I take it, eyes dropping. It is a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea, the kind you find on the lower shelves of a discount aisle. The only oddity is the torn little flap, carelessly tucked inside.
I stand frozen, trying to grasp what just happened.
David, its unopened? I whisper, fearing a prank.
He does not blush. Instead his face lights up with the patronising smile of someone lecturing a child on basic truths.
Of course! I just bought a couple of bags the other day. Its a strong tea, brews quickly. I thought to share it with you. No need to lug a whole packet we wont drink that much in an evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure youll have something else to go with it, being the host.
I am standing in the entry of my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me the candles flicker, the roast with prunes cools on the table a dish I spent half the day preparing and a decent sum of money on.
Before me stands a respectable, fiftynineyearold engineer, properly dressed, extolling traditional values, who brings a woman a halffilled packet of pennycheap tea for a romantic dinner.
My mind races through a hundred possible reactions. I could laugh at him, launch into a tirade about his stinginess, or stay silent, swallow my irritation, seat him at the table and feed him meat while feeling like a subservient servant.
Instead, a calm settles over me, surprising even myself.
I place the crumpled box on the side table near the mirror, look David straight in the eyes and smile not a forced grin but a genuine, relieved one, grateful that his true colours have shown up at my doorstep rather than after months of polite chatter.
David, I say, my voice even and soft, Im truly touched by your generosity. Unfortunately, I dont think well need this tea.
His eyebrows rise. Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next time Ive got half a packet left at work
The next time wont happen, I reply calmly. You were right that a man should contribute. Yet your contribution is so impressive that I simply cannot return the favour. My dinner is already beyond what youve offered.
I take his stilldamp coat from the rack and hand it back.
Whats the matter, Evelyn? Offended by a bit of tea? Such mercenary behaviour! his velvety tone cracks, his face reddening. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and she throws a tantrum over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, David, I say. First and foremost, to myself. Put your coat back on its cold outside and dont forget your tea, or youll catch a chill with nothing to treat it.
I place the halfused packet in his hands, gently but firmly usher him toward the door and close it behind him.
The lock clicks. The flat falls into a perfect hush, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I drift into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of fine red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast and sit at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner is splendid. The meat melts in my mouth, the wine sings in the glass. I feel no disappointment, no loneliness only pride that I didnt let anyone trample over me.
Men often accuse us of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt the price of the gift that matters. Its the attitude. A man who brings a woman a halffilled packet of cheap tea isnt saving money; hes saving his feelings, his respect. He shows that she isnt worth even minimal effort. I will no longer waste my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered a mans socalled generosity that felt more like an insult? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given him a chance?
