Ive always thought that meeting someone after youre past fifty was a pastime for people with settled opinions, a lifetime of experience and, at the very least, a basic sense of decorum. The fantasy of knights on shining steeds has long left my imagination.
Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in London and a life that feels reasonably harmonious. Yet sometimes I crave the simple warmth of another human being a night at the theatre, a coffee over a freshlyread novel.
With those thoughts humming in my head, I signed up on a dating site. Among the endless stream of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, Victors profile shone with a pleasantly ordinary tone.
He was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a neat blazer, standing in a summer park. In our messages he was courteous, peppered his replies with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his devotion to classical music.
After a week of chatting, we met at a café. Victor was exactly as his photos suggested: tall, a hint of silver at his temples, a smooth voice. He pulled my chair back with a gentlemans flourish, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry, saying he was watching his sugar), and spent the evening preaching the importance of preserving traditional values in todays world.
Im of the old school, Molly, he said, looking deep into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse. A man must be a provider and a protector. I cant abide the modern habit of separate bills. Courting should be done with style.
His words sounded like music. We met twice more, strolling along the Thames, talking at length. Then the weekend arrived and the weather turned decidedly griman insistent November drizzle.
Darling, shall I come over for dinner? Victors velvety voice drifted through the phone. Well sit in warmth, chat. Of course I dont arrive emptyhanded; Ill bring everything in the finest way. All Ill need from you is a cosy atmosphere and a smile.
As a decent Englishwoman, I didnt rely on just a smile. From the moment I woke, I launched a thorough cleaning. Later I drove to the supermarket, buying good beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and a pricey baguette. I spent three hours at the hearth.
I baked the beef with prunesa signature dish of mine that never fails to charm. I tossed a light salad, set the table in the sittingroom with crystal goblets, lit candles, slipped into an elegant housedress and applied a modest touch of makeup.
When the clock struck seven, I felt as jittery as a schoolgirl before her first date.
A knock sounded exactly at seven. I smoothed my hair, drew a deep breath and opened the door. Victor stood on the threshold, his coat damp from the rain, yet he bore a proudly upright bearing.
Good evening, lovely host! he announced, stepping into the hallway, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen drifted the intoxicating scent of the roast. Victor drew a hearty breath, smiled, and said, Ah, I sense a feast awaits me!
Come in, Victor. Hang your coat, I said, expecting the promised gifts. Truth be told, I wasnt hoping for a hundredrose bouquet or a vintage bottle. A box of chocolates, a simple cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
Victor hung his coat, straightened his jacket, then, with the solemn flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into an inner pocket and declared:
As I said, Molly, I never arrive emptyhanded. A man must always contribute.
With those words he presented a packet of tea.
Instinctively I took it, my gaze dropping. It was a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea, the sort sold on the bottom shelf of the supermarket on discount. The lid was torn, the inner flap halftucked.
I froze, trying to fathom the scene.
Victor, its opened? I whispered, fearing a cruel joke.
He showed no embarrassment. Instead his face lit with a patronising smile, the kind a teacher gives when explaining a universal truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it the other day and brewed a couple of bags. The tea is excellentstrong and quick to brew. I thought Id share. No need to lug a whole packet when well sip only a few cups tonight. What will you pair it with, dear host?
I stood in the entry of my clean, snug flat. Behind me the candles flickered, the beef with prunes cooled on the tablea dish Id laboured over all day and spent a decent sum on.
Before me stood a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold man, discoursing on traditional values, who had brought a halfused packet of pennycheap tea to a romantic dinner. Not a single tea bag left inside.
A hundred possible reactions surged through my mind. I could have laughed at him, launched a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed the sting, seat him at the table and serve him the meat as if I were a humbled maid.
Instead another current rose within mecalm that surprised even me.
I placed the crumpled box delicately on the side table by the mirror, met Victors eyes and smiledgenuinely, with a great relief that he had revealed himself right then, on the doorstep, rather than after months.
Victor, my voice was even and soft, Im deeply touched by your generosity. Yet, Im afraid we wont need this tea.
His eyebrows rose. Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next time; I have half a packet left at work
The next time wont come, I replied, still serene. You were rightA man should contribute. And your contribution was so impressive that I simply cannot return it in kind. My dinner doesnt measure up to it.
I slipped his stilldamp coat from the rack and handed it back.
Whats this, Molly? Offended by a packet of tea? How mercenary! his velvety tone cracked, his face flushing. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and she throws a tantrum over a trifle! Modern women only want money and restaurants!
I need respect, Victor. First and foremost, for myself. Put your coat back on; its cold outside. And don’t forget your tea, lest you catch a chill and have no cure.
I placed the halfused packet into his hands, nudged him gently toward the door and shut it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence settled in the flat, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of fine red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant beef and sat at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was marvelous. The meat melted in my mouth, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness, only pride for not letting anyone trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Yet the truth isnt about the price of the gift; its about the sentiment behind it. A man who brings a woman a halfused packet of tea isnt saving moneyhes sparing his own feelings, his respect. He shows that she isnt even worth his minimal effort. And I have no intention of spending my time, energy or life on such traditional providers any longer.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered this sort of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given the man another chance?
