Ive always thought that dating after fiftysome was a pastime for people who have settled opinions, a lifetime of experience and, at the very least, a basic sense of decorum. The fairytale of a knight on a white steed has long left my imagination.
Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a quiet lane of London, and a life that feels fairly balanced. Yet now and then I crave the simple heat of human contact a night at the theatre, a coffee in a tiny tearroom, a chat about a book Ive just finished.
With those thoughts swirling like mist, I signed up on a dating site. Between a sea of bizarre messages and outright absurd proposals, Edwards profile stood out for its pleasant, sensible tone.
He was fiftynine. His photos showed a trim man in a sharp blazer, standing in a summer park in HydeHyde. In our messages he was courteous, showered me with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of backandforth, we met at a little café on the South Bank. Edward looked exactly as his pictures promised dignified, with a touch of silver at his temples and a smooth voice. He pulled out my chair, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry, citing a watch on his sugar intake) and spent the evening lecturing on the importance of preserving traditional values in modern times.
Im a man of the old school, Eleanor, he said, his eyes locked on mine. A woman ought to be a muse, and a man must be a provider and protector. I cant abide the modern habit of separate bills. Courting should be done with elegance.
His words sounded like music. We met twice more, strolling along the Thames, talking at length. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather turned sour. A dreary November rain fell in relentless sheets.
Eleanor, perhaps I could come over for dinner? Edwards velvety voice drifted over the phone. Well sit warm, talk awhile. Of course Im not coming emptyhanded Ill make it a proper affair. All I need from you is a cosy home and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I didnt put my hopes on a mere smile alone. From the moment I woke, I set about a grand cleaning. Later I popped to the supermarket on Oxford Street: prime beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, an artisan sourdough loaf. I spent three hours in the kitchen.
I roasted the beef with prunes my signature dish, one that never leaves anyone indifferent. I tossed a light salad, set the table with crystal goblets, lit a few candles, slipped into an elegant housedress, and applied a soft touch of makeup.
The clock ticked towards the appointed hour, and my nerves fluttered like a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, inhaled deeply, and opened. Edward stood on the threshold, his coat damp from the rain, yet he wore a proud air.
Good evening, dear host! he announced, stepping into the hallway, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating aroma of the roast. Edward inhaled dramatically, smiling: Ah, I sense a feast awaiting me!
Come in, Edward. Shed your coat. Let me hang it for you, I said, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt looking for a bouquet of a hundred roses or a vintage wine; a box of chocolates, a modest cake, or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
Edward draped his coat over the peg, straightened his blazer, then slipped a hand into his inner pocket with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and declared:
As I said, Eleanor, I never come emptyhanded. A gentleman must always contribute.
With those words he presented a packet of tea.
Instinctively I took it, eyes dropping. It was a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea, the kind sold on the lowest shelves of the supermarket on discount. The box bore no glossy label; the flap was torn and haphazardly tucked inside.
I froze, trying to grasp the absurdity.
Edward, is it opened? I whispered, fearing a prank.
He showed no embarrassment. Instead his face softened into the patronising smile of someone explaining elementary truths to a child.
Of course! I bought a couple of sachets the other day, brewed a strong brew. Thought Id share it with you. No need to carry a whole box we wont finish it in one evening. Why waste goodness? And youll have something to accompany your tea, being the hostess you are.
I stood in the entry of my clean, cosy home. Behind me flickered candles, the roast with prunes rested, a dish Id laboured over all day and spent a tidy sum on.
In front of me was a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold engineer, espousing traditional values, who had brought a halfstarted packet of pennycheap tea to a romantic dinner. Not a single extra tea bag inside.
My mind raced through a hundred possible reactions. I could have laughed in his face. I could have erupted, spilling all my thoughts on his stinginess. I could have stayed silent, swallowed the irritation, seated him at the table and fed him meat, feeling like a humbled servant.
Instead a calm settled over me, surprising even myself.
I placed the crumpled box gently on the side table near the mirror, met Edwards gaze, and smiled not a forced grin but a genuine one, feeling a great relief that this man had revealed himself right there, at the door, rather than after months of courting.
Edward, I said, my voice steady and soft, Im deeply touched by your generosity. However, Im afraid well have no use for this tea.
His eyebrows rose: Why, dont you like black? I could bring green next time, I have half a packet left at work
There will be no next time, I replied, equally calmly. Youre right a man should contribute. And your contribution was so impressive that I simply cannot return the favour. My dinner is already beyond it.
I took his stilldamp coat from the peg and handed it back.
Whats happening? Eleanor, are you upset over tea? How mercenary! his velvety voice rose, his cheeks flushing. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and you make a fuss over a trifle! Modern women only want money and restaurants!
I need respect, Edward. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put your coat back on; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, or youll catch a chill with nothing to treat it.
I slipped the halfused packet into his hands, nudged him toward the door, and shut it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock, filled the flat. I drifted to the kitchen, poured a glass of fine red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast, and sat at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was exquisite. The meat melted on my tongue, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt no disappointment, no loneliness. I felt pride in having refused to let anyone step on my feet.
Men often accuse women of being materialistic, claiming we hunt for sponsors. Lets be honest: its not the price of the gift that matters. Its the intention. A man who brings a halfstarted packet of tea isnt saving money; hes sparing his own feelings, his respect. He shows that the woman isnt even worth a minimal effort. I will no longer waste my time, energy, or life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered such displays of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given the man a chance?
