Saturday, March 16
James invited me out for our second date at The Regal Oak, one of those restaurants dripping with ostentationsoft lighting, impeccably discreet waiters gliding between tables like spectres. James fit the scene perfectly: tailored navy suit, an eye-catching watch, and that knowing half-smile of someone convinced hes the centre of the universe.
Order whatever you fancy, he said offhandedly, barely glancing at the menu. I cant stand it when women feel the need to limit themselves.
It sounded grandlike something from a fairytale about a generous princebut something about it niggled at me. Maybe it was his appraising look, or the way he enjoyed regaling stories about exes who, as he put it, had only ever seen him as a walking wallet.
I chose the duck salad and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. James went all out: steak, tartare, a bottle of pricey red. He philosophised endlessly about business, lamented the shallowness of people, mused about values and spiritual connection. I listened, nodded along, but the whole thing felt more like an interview than a datewaiting for a trick question that could come at any moment.
One-man Show
When the waiter placed the bill folder on the table, James barely paused his sermon. He lazily reached inside his jacket, then another pocket, then patted his trousers. His expression changedconfidence melting into a contrived confusion.
Blimey he breathed, meeting my gaze dead-on. Looks like I’ve left my wallet somewhere. Maybe in the office, or perhaps in my other car.
He threw up his hands, feigning helplessness, but I sensed no anxiety. He didnt ask the waiter to wait, nor did he try to sort it out with his phone. He simply stared at me.
Well, this is awkward, he went on, settling back in his chair. Would you mind covering the bill tonight? Ill reimburse you, or catch the next onewith interest.
It was clear: this wasnt forgetfulness. It was a calculated testthe very sort of thing hed spent half an hour pontificating about.
Id read stories like this on forums, seen them in dodgy comedies, but never thought Id stumble into one myselfespecially hosted by a grown, seemingly successful man.
His logic was laughably simple: if the woman pays without protestshes good, obedient, ready to rescue and support. If she refuses, shes mercenary and out for money. At this moment, he was less a businessman and more a manipulator, turning our meal into some ridiculous experiment.
He clearly expected to come out on top, convinced that any woman would eagerly pay for the privilege of joining hima catch by his own reckoning.
Calculated Response
I calmly reached into my bag. James noticeably relaxedhe thought the plan had worked.
Of course, no trouble, I said softly, waving for the waiter.
Could we split the bill, please? I said clearly. Ill pay for my dinner. The steak, wine, and dessert are for the gentleman.
His grin vanished.
What do you mean? he hissed, leaning across the table. I dont actually have my wallet, you know.
I get that, I replied, tapping my phone on the card machine. But we barely know each other. Paying for myself is perfectly normal. As for the meal of a man who invited me to a lavish restaurant and ordered the most expensive itemssorry, that simply isnt my responsibility. Youre a grown man; I trust youll sort it.
The waiter hesitated, looking nervously from me to him. James reddened, each layer of polish giving way to exposed irritation.
Are you serious? he whispered. Over some money? I told you Id pay you back. I was only trying to test you.
And you have, I replied, rising from the table. Im not the kind of person wholl let someone manipulate me.
I headed for the door, but realised there was still one last flourish. He stayed, stuck with the unpaid bill, angry and disarmed without his wallet.
I turned back, rummaged through my purse, and dug out a few crumpled notes and coinsthe sort that collect at the bottom of every handbag.
Oh, and if your wallets in your other car, I added, I take it youve got nothing for a cab?
I laid the money next to his glass of expensive wine.
Thats for the Underground. Dont fretyoull get home fine. Lets call it my contribution to your research on the female soul.
A couple of diners turned to look. James looked as if hed been slapped.
I stepped outside.
That evening cost me only a salad and a glass of winea small price to spot a person for who they really were and save myself years of trouble. I hope he learned something, though men like him rarely change.
The lesson? Id rather stand firm and honest than bail out a forgetful gentleman. In the end, dignity costs less than dinner.
