Ive always thought that dating after fifty is something for people who have settled views, life experience and at least a basic sense of propriety. I no longer entertain fantasies about knights in shining armor.
Im fiftyfive, I work as a project manager, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a quiet London suburb and a fairly balanced life. Still, I sometimes crave a bit of ordinary human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee over a good book, a pleasant conversation.
With those thoughts in mind I sign up to a dating site. Among the endless stream of odd messages and outright ridiculous proposals, one profile stands out for its sensible tone: that of George Whitaker.
George is fiftynine. His photos show a fit man in a tidy blazer, standing in a leafy park on a summer day. In our messages he is courteous, lavishes compliments, talks about his work as a civil engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of chatting we arrange to meet at a tea room on the high street. George turns out exactly as his pictures suggest tall, a touch of silver at his temples, a smooth voice. He pulls out my chair, orders two cappuccinos (declining the dessert, saying hes watching his sugar), and spends the whole afternoon extolling the importance of traditional values in todays world.
Im an oldschool sort, Harriet, he says, looking deep into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, a man should be a provider and protector. I cant stand the modern habit of keeping separate bills. Courting should be proper.
His words sound almost lyrical. We meet twice more, strolling along the riverbank, talking for hours. Then a weekend arrives, and the weather turns miserably bleak. A dreary November rain patters against the windows.
Harriet, how about I stop by for dinner? Georges velvety voice suggests over the phone. Well sit in the warmth, have a chat. I wont come emptyhanded, I promise! You just bring the cosy atmosphere and your smile.
Being a sensible English woman, I dont rely on just a smile. From early morning I launch a fullon springclean, then head to the supermarket. I pick up prime beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, a nice baguette and a bottle of decent red. I spend about three hours in the kitchen.
I roast the beef with prunes my signature recipe that never fails to impress. I toss a light salad, set the dining table with crystal glasses, light a few candles, slip into a simple yet elegant dress and add a touch of makeup.
As the appointed hour approaches I feel as jittery as a teenager before a first date.
The doorbell rings precisely at seven. I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and open the door. George stands there, his coat damp from the rain but his posture proud.
Good evening, lovely host! he steps inside, removes his hat and begins to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen drift the mouthwatering aromas of the roast. He inhales deeply, grins and says, Ah, I can already tell theres a feast waiting for me!
Come in, George. Hang your coat, I reply, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt looking for a bouquet of a hundred roses or a rare vintage wine. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have been enough. Its the thought that counts.
George hangs his coat, smooths his jacket and, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, reaches into his inner pocket and declares:
As I said, Harriet, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
He then hands me a packet of tea.
Instinctively I take it and glance down. Its a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea, the kind you find on the lowest supermarket shelf when theres a sale. The brand is irrelevant; the box is scuffed, the flap torn and shoved back haphazardly.
I freeze, trying to process whats happened.
George, is it openended? I ask softly, fearing a prank.
He doesnt blush. Instead his face lights up with the patronising smile of someone explaining a basic truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it the other day, brewed a couple of bags. Its strong, quick to make. I thought Id share. No point lugging a whole packet when well hardly finish a few bags in an evening. Why waste a good thing? Youll have something to sip, youre the host after all.
I stand in the hallway of my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me the roast cools, the effort of the day and a decent sum of money lie on the table.
In front of me stands a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold man, preaching about traditional values, who brings a halfused packet of pennytea to a romantic dinner not even twenty tea bags inside.
Countless reactions flash through my mind. I could laugh in his face, I could launch into a fullblown argument about his stinginess, or I could simply swallow my anger, seat him at the table and feast while feeling reduced to a servant.
Instead I choose another path. A calm settles over me that even I find surprising.
I gently place the crumpled box on the side table near the mirror, meet Georges eyes and smile not forced, but genuine, a sigh of relief that his true colours are out in the open, right at my doorstep, not after months of courtship.
George, my voice is steady and soft, Im touched by your generosity, but Im afraid we wont need this tea.
His eyebrows rise. Why? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next time, I still have half a packet at work
There wont be a next time, I reply, keeping my tone even. Youre right, a man should contribute. Your contribution, however, is so impressive that I simply cant reciprocate. My dinner cant match it.
I take his stilldamp coat off the rack and hand it back.
Whats the matter, Harriet? Offended by a bit of tea? How petty! his velvety voice cracks, his cheeks reddening. I came here with my whole heart after a tough week, and you throw a tantrum over a trivial thing! Modern women only want money and fancy restaurants!
I need respect, George. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put your coat back on; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, lest you catch a chill with nothing to treat it.
I place the halfused packet into his hands, push him toward the door and close it behind him.
The lock clicks. Silence fills the flat, broken only by the ticking clock. I head to the kitchen, pour a glass of good red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast and sit down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The meal is superb. The meat melts in my mouth, the wine sings in the crystal. I feel neither disappointment nor loneliness, only a quiet pride in having refused to be trampled.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt the price of the gift that matters. Its the sentiment behind it. A man who brings a halfused packet of tea isnt saving money; hes saving his feelings, his respect. He signals that the woman isnt even worth minimal effort. Im no longer willing to waste my time, energy or life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered a similar display of masculine generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given the man a chance?
