I dated this woman for nearly a year her names Margaret and honestly, I never minded picking up the bill, not for her or her grandson. But the day I asked if I could take a few of her homemade pastries home, I suddenly saw my place in her world, clear as day.
The waiter set down a plastic container with that near-perfect slice of chocolate cake. Margaret, looking pretty pleased, scooted it close to her on our table. We were sat in a nice café just off Covent Garden, soft jazz playing in the background, but I could feel a slow irritation from inside me starting to bubble up.
Wed known each other nearly a year. Im fifty-eight, shes fifty-four both adults, you know, with our fair share of marriages, divorces, grown-up kids and of course, grandchildren. I have two, a boy and a girl. Margaret has her Jamie her apple of the eye, hes six the light of her life. Id only met him in passing, but I swear I knew more about Jamies swimming badges than my own medical history.
Margaret slipped the container into her bag and gave me that gentle smile of hers the very one that had me wrapped round her little finger ages ago.
Jamie loves anything chocolatey, she said. Im stuffed, honestly cant eat another bite. Would be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldnt it?
I just nodded and got the waiter to bring the bill, which of course included the cake, my coffee and her salad. I wasnt fussed about the money it wasnt about that. But it had become a pattern over the last six months. Whenever she could, especially if I was paying, Margaret would squirrel something away to treat Jamie.
The first warning bell went off three months ago, when we went to Leicester Square for a big film premiere. I bought the tickets, and when we got to the snack counter, Margaret asked for the biggest bucket of caramel popcorn and a Coke.
Surprised me a bit, to be honest. She usually cared about what she ate, rarely indulged. I figured she was letting her hair down for once. We took our seats, lights went down, and I reached for the popcorn, grabbing a handful. But Margaret kept the tub on her lap, lid on something shed specifically asked for and didnt touch a bit.
Not having any? I whispered. Its lovely.
Oh, Im not in the mood, she whispered back. Ill take it for Jamie tonight. Hes staying over, and he absolutely loves cinema popcorn his parents hardly ever buy it for him.
I nearly choked on my Coke. So Id bought the biggest tub, not for us, but for her grandson and she hadnt even thought to mention it. Shed just decided, thats how it would be. I spent the whole film feeling like I was sitting next to a security guard: popcorn under lock and key. On the way home, she hopped out of the car beaming with that bucket, and I felt like Id paid to be the delivery man as well.
You see, it wasnt that she was short of money. Margaret has a good job, nice clothes, drives herself. She hardly needed pinching pennies on Jamies behalf.
But the real sting came last Saturday. Margaret had invited me over for lunch, promising those legendary homemade pasties Id always heard about. I came bearing gifts: a nice bottle of wine, some fruit, and a little pack of smoked salmon just to make things a bit special. The flat smelled incredible when I walked in, that sort of warm, inviting scent youd expect from proper baking.
In the kitchen, there was a great big bowl, covered with a tea towel. Underneath it: a heaping pile of piping hot, golden-brown pasties, glistening with butter. We sat, Margaret poured the tea, and put a few on my plate.
Dig in, Andrew, while theyre hot, she said, all sweetness.
They were fantastic. I had three with beef, two with cabbage, and ended up absolutely stuffed and in a great mood. We had a natter, cracked open the wine, and I thought: this is what home feels like.
Margaret, those pasties are a dream, I said, leaning back contentedly. My grandkids are coming tonight my daughters dropping them off for the weekend. Could I take a few with me, let them have a taste? Its always supermarket stuff at home, my daughters never liked cooking.
And thats when the mood absolutely shifted.
The words barely left my mouth before her expression changed. Shed been all smiles a moment ago, warm and relaxed now, suddenly, the shutters were up: smile gone, eyes sharp, everything about her a little more tense.
Oh Andrew… she said, but her voice was that odd mix of apologetic and steely. I would, but I honestly cant spare much. Jamies popping in later, and I made them mainly for him, really.
She stood, walked over to the mountain of pasties and I swear, there were thirty in there. She shuffled a bit, took a clear bag and, right in front of me, put in… three. Two cabbage, one beef.
There you are, she said, handing me this sad, crinkly bag. A little taster. Dont want Jamie to miss out on his supper.
I just stared at those three little things, feeling my face burn with embarrassment. Id only just brought her wine good wine, nothing cheap with smoked salmon and fruit for the table. Id never stinted for her. Yet she really couldnt spare a few extra for my grandkids?
Margaret, youve got loads, I tried, keeping my cool even though I was feeling more and more agitated inside. Jamie wont eat all that. Let my two have a couple each, will you?
She pressed her lips, covered the bowl with the tea towel as if she was guarding a state secret and said, firm as anything:
Andrew, Ive budgeted for the ingredients. Promised Jamie. Dont be upset, but I really cant hand out everything I make. You had your fill, didnt you? And you enjoyed them? There it is. The rest are for my grandson.
She actually said hand out, as if I was some random person cadging leftovers, not the man shes been seeing, sat at her kitchen table, the one whod just brought food and wine for her.
Why was I suddenly lower than a six-year-old on her pecking order?
Half an hour later I made my excuses and left. Those three pasties lay on the seat beside me, and the smell that had felt so welcoming before now made me feel a bit sick like it wasnt warmth, but some kind of forced hospitality. I tried to figure out what was going on in her head, but the more I thought, the worse it seemed.
I just always imagined that in a proper relationship, the adults come first. Were meant to be each others main support. Of course, children and grandchildren matter massively, even but after us. With Margaret, it was clear: it all revolved around Jamie. He was centre of her universe, the priority. So what did that make me? The useful bankroller? The bloke who pays for meals and cinema popcorn to take away for someone else?
When it comes to her grandson, its were all family, you know if I pay for his cake or snacks even though, after a year, Im wondering, what family? But when its my grandkids: I cant just give my food away. In her eyes, her Jamie gets the royal treatment, while mine can split three sad little pasties between them. She didnt even notice how humiliating it was to make such a performative display, handing me that tiny bag and immediately covering up the leftovers.
By the time I got home, the grandkids were already there. My daughter, exhausted after work, was sorting out shopping.
Dad, it smells like pasties in here!
I handed her the bag, feeling a bit foolish.
Thats from Margaret, I mumbled, not quite able to meet her eyes. Try them.
Theyd gone in a flash no surprise, they were delicious.
Any more? my granddaughter asked, licking her fingers.
Sorry, sweetheart, thats the lot, I replied, slipping out to the balcony for a cigarette.
Leaning against the cold railings, staring at the city lights, I had to ask myself: do I really need this? Why be with someone who acts like my cash is communal property when its for her grandchild, but her pasties are guarded like crown jewels? It wasnt about the food I can buy anything, order posh delivery if I want. Its about attitude.
She didnt even seem to twig shed upset me. Called that evening, chirpy as ever: Jamies here, he ate loads, hes happy as Larry, watching cartoons. I just listened, silent. I wanted to say, My little ones asked for more and I had to tell them there wasnt any. But I didnt.
Have you ever come up against that sort of double standard? Where everything nice is reserved for their lot, but theyre happy for you to foot the bill? Do you think I should bring it up, or am I just being a grump for no reason? Maybe its just normal English thrift or am I right to be annoyed?
