I fell in love at seventy. My children told me it was shameful.
At seventy, youre almost certain youve tasted every possible flavour life has to offer: the morning tea, the favourite armchair by the window, those dog-eared novels youve read three times but swear you cant remember the ending. The hush that follows forty years of marriage after one of you pops your clogs.
I knew all about that hush. Three years of it, in fact. Three years with a kitchen for one, dinner for one, and conversations with my cat as if she were a therapist. By the way, the cat makes a terrible therapist. Never answers and always nods off just as you get to the important bit.
And just as life, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, decided to deliver me a man of seventy, I was completely unprepared. Not even remotely.
It was at the book fair. Tuesday. Raining, naturally. I was wearing my most hideous raincoat the beige one, which looks like its been borrowed from the BBC costume warehouse for retired ladies. Because, well thats precisely where I bought it. Seemed a good idea at the time.
He was hovering by a table of second-hand books, glasses perched on the end of his nose, holding a book open but clearly not reading it. Staring into space, like he was calculating the age of the universe, or at the very least, pondering what he fancied for supper. With men, you never really can tell.
I sidled up, because Ive never mastered the art of standing still, and said:
So, is that book speaking to you, or are you speaking to it?
He jumped so violently his glasses nearly fell off. Caught them with one hand, chuckled with the other, and looked at me as if I were the funniest thing hed seen since 2004. To be fair, the past twenty years havent been brimming with laughter.
Its speaking to me he said. But Im not listening.
And right at that moment, I felt something odd. Not in my heart I gave up running that like a high-speed train ages ago but in my stomach. A right old commotion. Like someone had decided to whip up a full English fry-up down there without so much as a by-your-leave.
I suggested we grab a coffee. He said yes. I have no idea how we went from talking about books to going for coffee in all of forty seconds, but when youve got nothing left to lose, thats just how life rolls.
Coffee lasted three hours.
Three hours in which I found out his name was Bernard, he was a widower, and he had two sons who treated him like a slow cooker they cant find a place for. Also, his entire culinary repertoire consisted of scrambled eggs.
Scrambled eggs? I asked. With what?
Whatevers in the fridge.
Bernard, thats not cooking, thats basic survival.
He laughed so hard he spilled his coffee. And I thought: well, this mans a complete shambles, but hes a funny shambles. And at seventy, funny counts for a lot.
We went out three more times before I decided to tell my children. Not out of embarrassment more like tactical preparation. Like packing for a difficult walk. I needed to find the right words and master that you cant change my mind look.
Sunday came. There we were, the three of us, at the dining table. My eldest had put together his roast dinner with near-religious devotion. The food was lovely, the wine distinctly average, but I knocked it back anyway. And, in the perfect lull between the mains and pudding, I dropped it:
By the way Im seeing someone.
A silence fell. So thick you could slice it with a butter knife.
My daughter got in first. Opened her mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.
Mum, she said, using that tone that suggests Im regressing to toddlerdom, you cant be serious.
And why on earth couldnt I?
Well its shameful. my son muttered into his gravy. People will talk.
So I stood up.
Darling, I said calmly, which people? Today I chatted with the neighbour, the lady at the bakery, and the dog in the park. None seemed scandalised. The dog actually looked chuffed for me.
Another silence. Brief, but awkward.
And another thing, I went on, pouring myself more wine, if you say its shameful again, Ill invite him for lunch here every Sunday. With his famous scrambled eggs.
My son choked on his water.
My daughter hid her face in her hands.
And I, in all the dignity a seventy-year-old woman in a beige raincoat can muster, smiled, and called Bernard that very evening.
Bernard, I asked, besides scrambled eggs, do you know how to cook anything else?
Care to guess what he said?
