The restaurant where Charles invited me for our second date simply oozed ostentatious luxury: rich dim lighting, waiters gliding between the tables as quietly as ghosts. He fit seamlessly into the scenetailored suit, a conspicuous silver watch, and that same self-assured half-smile youd expect from someone accustomed to being the centre of attention.
Order whatever you like, he announced with indifference, not so much as glancing at the menu. I cant stand it when a woman limits herself.
It sounded impressive, like a line straight from a glossy fairytale about a generous prince, but I couldnt shake a sense of unease. Maybe it was his calculating stare, or the way he so readily spoke about his exeswomen, he claimed, who viewed him only as a walking wallet.
I settled for a duck salad and a glass of Riesling. Charles, meanwhile, went all out: sirloin steak, steak tartare, a pricey bottle of red. As he mused about his business, grumbled about the shallowness of people, and pontificated on values and emotional intimacy, I listened politely. Still, it felt less like a date, and more as though I were sitting an exam, waiting to be tripped up by a cunning question.
A One-Man Show
When the waiter placed the black leather bill folder by our table, Charles didnt pause his musings. He lazily reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, then the other, then patted his trousers. His confident expression gave way to a show of helpless confusion.
Oh, drat he muttered, staring me straight in the eye. I must have left my wallet at the office, or maybe in my other car.
He shrugged, hands spread as if completely lost. But I could see there was no real worry in him. He didnt ask the waiter to wait, nor reach for his phone to solve the matter by bank transfer. He simply looked at me.
What an awkward situation, he went on, reclining in his chair. Could you help me out? Pay this time and Ill transfer it overor treat next time, with interest.
It was obvious, suddenly: this wasnt forgetfulness or a mishap. It was his pre-planned test, the very thing hed rambled on about half an hour earlier.
Id read about these scenarios on forums, seen them in cheap TV dramas, but never did I imagine Id encounter it myself, especially from a supposedly successful grown man.
His reasoning was laughably simple: if a woman pays for both without complaint, then shes good, convenient, happy to be the rescuer. If she refuses, then she must be mercenary, after his money. In that moment, I looked at a man who was no longer a businessman, but an insecure manipulator, eager to play judge and jury.
He was certain he had victory in the bag. In his view, the promise of a relationship with such a desirable catch would surely make me silently fetch my purse.
Chilly Calculation
I calmly opened my handbag. Charles visibly relaxed, convinced his ploy had worked.
Of course, not a problem, I said gently, beckoning the waiter.
Could you split the bill, please? I said clearly. Ill pay for mine. Let the gentleman cover his steak, wine, and dessert.
The smile slipped from his face.
What do you mean? he hissed, leaning towards me. I dont have my wallet.
I understand, I nodded, tapping my phone on the card reader. But we barely know each other. Paying for myself is perfectly reasonable. As for the dinner of the man who invited me to a posh restaurant and ordered the most expensive dishessorry, but thats not my responsibility. Youre an adult, and Im sure youll work it out.
The waiter lingered awkwardly, his eyes darting between us. Charles cheeks reddened, his polished veneer peeling back to reveal a rather ordinary rudeness.
Are you serious? he spat. Over a bit of money? I said Id pay you back. I only wanted to test you.
And you have, I replied, rising from the table. Im simply someone you cant manipulate.
As I headed for the door, I could tell the scene wasnt quite finished. There he remained, fuming and flustered, with an unpaid bill and, supposedly, no wallet.
Returning, I pulled a few crumpled notes and a handful of coins from my pursethe sort that tends to gather at the bottom.
Oh, and by the way, I added, laying the change by his expensive wine glass, if your wallets in your other car, I assume youre short for a cab as well?
This should cover the Tube fare. Consider it my contribution to your research on the female soul.
A few diners at nearby tables glanced over. Charles looked as though hed just been slapped.
I walked out onto the street.
That evening cost me only a salad and a glass of winea tiny price to pay for seeing someones true colours and saving myself years of hassle. I hope he learned something, though men like him rarely do.
So tell me, what would you have done in my shoes? Would you have rescued the forgetful gentleman, or stood your ground, as I did?
