They often say that the promise of a celebration is sometimes sweeter than the event itself. Now, looking back, I see that in Margarets story, four months of anticipation stretched out like an endless serialone episode after another, each evening, unfolding in little digital notes.
She learned every preference Robert had: how he took his tea, his favourite authors, even the football teams his childhood friends supported. Margaret soon grew accustomed to his odd little quirk of ending every good morning text with precisely three dots.
Margaret was forty-five thenat that comfortable age where a date is met not with nervous knees, but the amused curiosity of a scientist embarking on a little fieldwork. Lets see what sort of specimen turns up this time, she would muse while choosing her shoes.
She belonged to that class of English women who could wear a simple woollen jumper with the authority of an evening gown and meet all awkwardnesses with self-deprecating humour.
Robert, recently turned fifty-two, came across in their messages as a steady, thoughtful man, dry-witted, andmost appealinga model of reliability.
In our age, Margaret, hed write her as midnight chimed, were not after fireworks, but warmth. I want to be with a woman who understands without words.
Margaret, applying a splash of mascara, would chuckle, Without words, thenso long as the ones spoken dont make me run for the door.
They arranged at last to meet in a quaint café on the edge of Richmond, the sort with old oak beams and a hint of cinnamon in the air. Margaret, calm and collected, turned up on time, looking immaculate and ready for a pleasant evening.
Robert arrived five minutes late, looking a touch shorter than in his photographs, bearing the air of a man whod just found an error in last quarters accounts.
He took the seat opposite. A brief nod. A tight smile. Not a hint of warmth or compliment.
Robert scanned Margaret over like an inspector ready to jot down faults, then suggested they order coffee and pud. She agreed.
Margaret, he began, as stern as a headmaster before the staff, Ive reflected long and hard on our correspondencefour whole months. And now, seeing you in person, I feel its only honest to start with five complaints I have.
Within, something quietly shatteredlike a teacup dropped on a stone floor. Margaret propped her chin and gave a wry nod.
Five complaints? Well, thats promising. Do tell.
Robert took her at her word, missing all irony, and ticked off the first number on his hand.
Complaint one: Photographs.
In one photo, that blue dressforgive me, but your figure appeared different to how it is today. A gentleman could be misled. At our age, women should be more truthful.
Margaret smirked inwardly. Well, ample is progress. He couldve gone full monumental, I suppose.
Complaint two: Response time.
Sometimes, you took far too long to replyonce, three weeks ago, I wrote at 2:15, and you answered at 4:40. Men despise waiting. It feels disrespectful.
I seem to recall I was in a meeting… she began, but Robert had already moved to complaint three.
Complaint three: Venue.
Why are we here? This place is rather posh. I suggested something more modest. Your choice shows a tendency towards showy consumption.
Margaret took in her latte, fighting the urge to toss it in his lap. Curiosity got the better of her.
Complaint four: Appearance.
Why wear such a dress just for coffee? Its rather much for afternoon. The jewellerys too much as well. A lady ought draw attention through depth, not shimmer. At my age, I seek substancenot a display.
Complaint five: Independence.
You chose the restaurant yourself, you say Ill do quite often. You dont let a man feel like a man. I want a woman who seeks counsel, not one forever showing how independent she is. If were to continue, youll need to reconsider this.
He finished, folding his arms as though expecting apology or gratitude for his candour.
Margaret looked at him and then, clear as day, saw through it all: Four months of messages had merely masked a fastidious manipulator. He wasnt seeking warmthonly a ready audience for his ego.
You know, Robert, she replied softly and with a hint of affection, Ive done some thinking myself. I needed only five minutes to see the truth.
And what truth is that? he asked, eyes narrowing.
Youre a remarkable type. Youve traipsed halfway across London to hand a bill to a woman youve never met for her taste, her style, and her right to simply be herself. Thats a rare brashness indeed.
Robert frowned.
Im merely being frank.
No, Margaret shook her head, not frankjust dissatisfied, measuring the world with a warped yardstick. Displeased with my photos? Visit a gallery; the portraits never change. Dont like my response time? Get yourself a Tamagotchi. Bothered by the dress? I put it on for me, not for you.
She stood, straightened her bag and regarded him calmly.
And one last thing: if your ego cant survive a woman saying Ill do it myself, you need not romance, but rehabilitation. At forty-five, my times far too precious for anyone who begins with an audit of my flaws.
Youre leaving? What about the coffee? Robert muttered.
Finish it yourselfyoull save a few quid. Besides, if you want someone hanging on your every word, best book yourself a dentist.
At home, Margarets first act was to block Robert from every messenger. At her age, comfort is not only a soft blanket and peace, but also a phone free from those determined to stuff you into their ill-fitting mould.
Looking back now, I still wonderwas that a failed flirtation or a carefully drilled performance? And is there truly any point in continuing with someone who tallies your faults from the first minute you meet?
