For two months, I found myself walking an odd, distorted path with a 56-year-old woman through a dreamland of English restaurants. Yet, the very instant I asked her to mine, her mask slipped away without a moment’s hesitation.
Five years prior, I had quietly untied the knot of my marriage, settling into the familiar rhythm of bachelorhood as if it were a comfortable old jumper. But lately, a peculiar gloom had crept in returning alone to my flat each night became oddly hollow, echoing in the corridors of my mind.
I’m 56, my health as steady as a red double-decker making its rounds, my energy hardly betraying the years. Spurred by a wistful ache, I registered on a British dating site, with the hopes of finding a woman to share liver and onions, walks in Hyde Park, perhaps a seaside break in Brighton. As fate would have it, I stumbled upon a curious sort of person right from the start.
Her profile was simplicity itself:
“Margaret, 56, widow, seeking a decent gentleman for a serious relationship.”
The photo showed a warm-faced woman, every bit the kind aunt with gentle eyes, no pretence or lacquer. We corresponded swiftly. I declared straight off: I wasnt after endless texting I longed for someone real, for shopping together at Sainsbury’s, rainy trips to the Lake District. She agreed, and we made plans to meet that very weekend in the heart of London.
Our first date was an oddly luminous affair. We wandered the city as if drifting through a familiar dream, the weather oddly perfect, like painted glass. She spoke of work and her grandchildren with a curious energy, while I nodded approval, the polite English gent. Most pleasing: she was calm, not a chatterbox. After our walk, I invited her to a little cafe, footing the bill as tradition demands in England, a man pays when he asks a lady out.
Our courtship became what my mother would call a box of roses and bouquets period. I bought the chocolates and flowers, but we both enjoyed the time. Every Friday and Saturday found us caught in a whirl of cultural evenings my wallet keeping quiet count. The expense for these two months of full English dating, if calculated in pounds, could make a man weak at the knees.
We found ourselves at the theatre, always followed by dinner a rhythm set to the pulse of the city. One week, a tour of gem carvings at the museum; the next, a concert or a jaunt to the countryside with a stew by the riverbank.
I played the gentleman, believing we were drawing closer. She smiled sweetly, taking my arm as we wandered the Strand, calling me:
Arthur, its such a joy to spend time with you. Youre like an old-fashioned romantic.
Of course, I puffed up with pride.
Telltale signs in the cinema
Looking back through the frosted glass of my memory, things seem oddly clear now.
First, she never once invited me to hers. Not for a cup of tea, nor a just because. Always an excuse: “It’s a mess,” “My granddaughters staying,” “I’m exhausted after work, lets just go to the pub.” I thought, perhaps, shyness a widow not used to men in her home. I didnt push; I simply waited for her to ask.
Second, her talk of age always struck a strange note. When it came to outings and holidays, she was as sprightly as a tweed-clad rambler. Eager for weekends away, suggesting the waterpark as if we were children. But when I tried to nudge things toward the personal, a mere touch, she transformed instantly into a cross old aunt.
At the cinema, sitting in the very last row, I laid my hand gently on her knee. Only my palm; nothing more. She shifted it promptly, politely yet firmly.
Arthur, everyone can see us, she said.
But Mags, its dark; no ones near, I replied.
Well, I dont care. Its not proper. We arent teenagers.
I put it down to an upbringing shaped in the shadow of the Queen. Maybe she was simply genteel, and boundaries are there to be respected. Yet a nagging discomfort crept in were not sixteen, life at nearly sixty isnt long enough for months of blushing games.
She adored describing her ailments in enthusiastic detail. Painful backs and blood pressure spikes fair enough for our years. But she seemed to bask in the telling, making an evening of lumbago and cholesterol pills.
I listened with genuine concern, even suggesting she see my NHS-recommended GP. But if I so much as mentioned my twice-weekly swims to keep in shape, her lip curled:
What do you need all that exertion for? Youll only do your heart in. At our age, we should be stretched on the sofa with a good novel, not splashing about in that chlorinated soup.
But I didnt want to fade on a sofa I wanted to live life to the very edges.
The turning point and lectures on shame
Yesterday, in the foggy haze of dinnertime, I decided enough was enough. After two months, surely wed know if we were a match.
We dined at a Georgian restaurant the Winchester one with wooden floors enjoying khinkali and a decent bottle of red. Her laughter rang out, tales of co-workers dancing in my ears, and I thought myself in good company, time ripe for honesty.
Afterwards, the rain began its drizzle. We sat in my car, the world a blurred watercolour beyond fogged-up glass, music trailing from the speakers. I gently took her hand, and this time, she did not pull away.
Mags, shall we go to mine? For tea, some music, a bit of a chat?
Her body stiffened; her smile fell away, her face became stone.
Arthur, what exactly do you mean by that?
Im not hinting, Im saying straight. I like you. Were both single. Weve dated for months. Its only natural to want to be close.
Then came a monologue about age, shame, and spiritual purity that left me bewildered.
Arthur, you realise what youre saying? Thats for youngsters, for making babies. Why should we bother? Imagine how wed look no clothes, folds, bellies ghastly! At our age, what matters is companionship, friendship. Not this crude business.
I sat, half-expecting an alarm clock to wake me. Was I a brute for simply wanting a woman after weeks of gentle courting?
Mags, hang on. What belly? I work out, Im in good nick. And you look smashing. Why bury yourself alive? Who writes these rules that at fifty-six, you must only talk about grandkids and your beans in the allotment?
Its accepted, she shot back. Proper English women my age mind the children and tend the garden. Id be mortified if my kids caught wind of anything else.
Thats when I couldnt hold back:
So what did you seek, then? Two months of dinner on my dime, rides in my car, theatre tickets? Werent you ashamed accepting gifts from this creature? But when I want normal intimacy, suddenly its ugh!
She flushed, hot with anger, not shame.
Do you think I owe you something because of dinners?
Dont twist my words, I replied, cold but boiling inside. Ive been proper. Any courtship must go somewhere. You wanted a friendly companion with cash and a ride, nothing more.
She shot from the car, slamming the door, leaving only the echo of her righteous boots on the wet pavement. I did not chase. It was all clear now. I watched her stride towards her block, feeling a mixture of offence and relief.
I treasure a good book, a chat about the Tudors, an evening with a clever debate. But I am a living man, with regular desires, uninterested in denying myself for the sake of some imagined rules about age and dignity.
I deleted her number and my dating profile. Now I need time, just time, to get over this farce.
From now on, Ill ask about attitudes toward closeness right on the first date. If I get a lecture on old age and grandkids are life, Ill split the bill and say my goodbyes.
And what do you all think? Am I wrong for wanting intimacy at 56? Is it really such a scandalous thing to suggest? Why, then, do women sign up for these sites, if theyve already locked the door and thrown away the key?
