You know, Ive always thought that dating after the big fivezero was something for people with firmly set views, years of life experience and, at the very least, a basic grasp of good manners. The fantasy of a knight in shining armour? Long dead, long since put away in the attic.
Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a leafy London suburb and a life that is, if not perfect, at least tolerably harmonious. Yet every now and then I crave a dash of simple human warmth a night at the West End, a coffee in a small café, a chat about the latest novel Ive devoured.
With those thoughts in mind I signed up to a dating site. Among a stream of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, Nigels profile stood out for its pleasant, downtoearth tone.
He was fiftynine. His photos showed a trim gentleman in a tidy blazer, posed against a summer park. In our messages he was polite, peppered his replies with compliments, talked about his job as a civil engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of texting we arranged to meet at a little café on the high street. Nigel turned out exactly as hed pictured himself: distinguished, with a touch of silver at his temples, and a voice that could have narrated a documentary. He pulled out my chair, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry, watching my sugar, he said) and spent the evening extolling the importance of preserving traditional values in our modern age.
Im an oldschool sort, Pippa, he said, looking into my eyes with a sincerity that would have made a poet blush. A woman is a muse, a man should be the provider and protector. I cant abide the modern trend of separate bills. Courtship ought to be done with a flourish.
It sounded like music. We met twice more, strolled along the Thames, talked endlessly. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather turned its back on us a dreary November rain hammered the streets.
Pippa, how about I pop round for dinner? Nigel offered over the phone in a velvety tone. Well sit cosy, have a chat. I never come emptyhanded! Ill sort everything. All I need from you is a warm welcome and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I didnt rely on just a smile. From the moment I woke, I launched a fullscale spring cleaning. Afterwards I hit the local supermarket: quality beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, a nice baguette. I spent about three hours at the hob.
I roasted the beef with prunes my signature dish, one that never fails to win hearts. I tossed a light salad, set the dining table with care, brought out crystal glasses and lit a few candles. I slipped into a simple yet elegant dress and applied a touch of makeup.
By the appointed hour my nerves fluttered like a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath and opened. There stood my gentleman, coat damp from the rain but looking remarkably proud.
Good evening, lovely host! Nigel stepped inside, tipped his hat and began undoing his coat. The kitchen wafted with the intoxicating scent of the roast. He inhaled dramatically, smiled and declared, Ah, I can already sense a grand feast awaiting me!
Come in, Nigel. Shed the coat. Let me hang it for you, I said, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Truth be told, I wasnt hoping 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 counted.
Nigel hung his coat, brushed his blazer into place. Then, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he slipped his hand into an inner pocket and announced:
As I said, Pippa, I never arrive emptyhanded. A gentleman must always contribute.
And with that he presented a packet of tea.
My hand instinctively took the box, and I lowered my gaze. It was a cardboard pack of the cheapest black tea, the sort you find on the bottom shelf of a discount aisle. The only notable feature was that the flap was torn and the torn edge was haphazardly tucked inside.
I froze, trying to process what Id just been handed.
Nigel, is it open? I whispered, fearing some sort of prank.
He didnt blush. On the contrary, his face lit up with the patronising smile of someone explaining a basic truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it just the other day, brewed a couple of bags. Its a solid brew, strong and quick. I thought Id share. No point lugging a whole packet, we wont finish it in an evening. Why waste a good thing? Besides, Im sure youve got something else for the tea, being the host.
I stood in the entryway of my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me, the roast beef with prunes, which had taken half my day and a respectable sum of money, steamed patiently.
In front of me was a welldressed, workingclass, fiftynineyearold gentleman, lecturing on traditional values, who had brought a halfused packet of pennycheap tea to a romantic dinner. Not a single tea bag inside.
My mind raced through a hundred possible reactions. I could have laughed outright, shouted a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my irritation, seat him at the table and feed him meat while feeling like a servant.
Instead, a calm I hadnt expected settled over me.
I placed the crumpled box on the side table by the mirror, met Nigels eyes and smiled not a rehearsed grin, but a genuine one, buoyed by the relief of seeing him reveal his true colours right at the doorstep rather than after months of courtship.
Nigel, I said, my voice even and soft, Im truly touched by your generosity. But Im afraid this tea wont be put to use.
His eyebrows shot up. Why not? Not a fan of black tea? I could bring some green next time, Ive got half a packet left at work
The next time wont be happening, I replied, still composed. You were right about men contributing. Your contribution, however, was so impressive that I simply cannot reciprocate. My dinner doesnt measure up to it.
He shuffled his damp coat back onto his shoulders, his voice suddenly strident. Whats the matter, Pippa, youre offended by tea? How mercenary! I came with all my heart after a hard week, and now you throw a fit over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
Respect first, Nigel, I said. Respect for yourself. Put on your coat, its chilly outside. And dont forget your tea you dont want to catch a cold with nothing to warm you up.
I handed him the halfused packet, gently nudged him toward the door and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence settled in the flat, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I drifted into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of fine red wine, sliced a piece of the fragrant roast and took my seat at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was splendid. The meat melted on my tongue, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt no disappointment, no loneliness only a quiet pride in having not let anyone trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Lets be honest: its never about the price tag. Its about the sentiment. A man who brings a halfused packet of tea isnt saving money; hes saving his feelings, his respect. Hes showing that the woman isnt worth even the slightest effort. And Im done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered such brandnew forms of male generosity? Or perhaps I was a tad harsh and should have given him another chance?
