You know, I always thought that dating after fifty was for people with settled views, life experience, and at least a basic understanding of decency. I haven’t harboured any illusions about princes on white horses for a long time.
I’m fifty-five, I work, I have a grown-up daughter, a cosy flat of my own, and a fairly harmonious life. But sometimes you want simple human warmth. Go to the theatre, have a coffee, discuss a book you’ve read.
It was with those thoughts that I signed up on a dating site. Amid the stream of strange messages and outright absurd proposals, Edward’s profile stood out with its pleasant sanity.
He was fifty-nine. In the photos – a fit man in a neat jacket, set against a summer park. In our messages he was polite, showered me with compliments, talked about his work as an engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of chatting we met at a café. Edward was exactly as in the photos: distinguished, with a touch of grey, good speech. He gallantly pulled out my chair, ordered us both a cappuccino (though he declined dessert, saying he was watching his sugar) and spent the whole evening telling me how important it was to preserve traditional values these days.
“I’m from the old school, Helen,” he said, looking deep into my eyes. “To me, a woman is a muse. A man should be the provider and protector. I can’t stand this modern fashion for going Dutch. Courtship should be done properly.”
It sounded like music. We met twice more, walked along the river, talked a lot. Then came the weekend, and the weather finally turned. A dreary November rain was pouring.
“Helen, darling, what if I pop round for dinner?” Edward suggested in his velvety voice over the phone. “We’ll sit in the warmth, have a chat. And of course, I never visit empty-handed! I’ll organise everything splendidly. All I need from you is comfort and a smile.”
Being a normal English woman, I didn’t rely on “just a smile.” From early morning I launched a thorough clean. Then I went to the supermarket: bought good beef, fresh vegetables, cheeses, an expensive baguette. I spent about three hours at the stove.
I baked the beef with prunes – my signature recipe that no one had ever been indifferent to. Made a light salad, laid the table in the living room beautifully. Got out the crystal glasses, lit candles. I put on an elegant house dress, did a little make-up.
By the appointed time I was as nervous as a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang at exactly seven. I smoothed my hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door. There stood my suitor. His coat was slightly damp from the rain, but he looked immensely proud.
“Good evening, lovely hostess!” Edward stepped into the hallway, took off his hat, and began to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen came the mouth-watering aroma of baked meat. Edward sniffed the air noisily and smiled with satisfaction: “Oh, I can tell a real feast is waiting for me!”
“Come in, Edward. Take your coat off. Let me hang it up,” I said warmly, expecting him to produce the promised offerings. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting a bouquet of a hundred and one roses or a vintage wine. A box of chocolates, an ordinary cake, or even a simple bunch of chrysanthemums would have been fine. It’s the thought that counts.
Edward hung up his coat, adjusted his jacket. Then he reached into his inside pocket, with the solemn air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and spoke those exact words:
“As I said, Helen, I never visit empty-handed. A man must always contribute his share.”
With that he handed me… a packet of tea.
I took it mechanically and looked down. It was a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea. You know, the kind sold on the bottom shelves of supermarkets on special offer. But the most interesting part wasn’t the brand. There was no cellophane wrapper. The cardboard tab was torn and carelessly tucked inside.
I froze, trying to process what was happening.
“Edward, is it… opened?” I asked quietly, afraid it was some strange joke.
He wasn’t embarrassed at all. On the contrary, his face lit up with the condescending smile of someone explaining the obvious to a child.
“Of course! I bought it the other day, brewed just a couple of tea bags. It turned out to be excellent tea – strong, brews quickly. I thought I’d share it with you. Why bring a whole packet? We won’t drink that much in one evening. No point letting good things go to waste. And I’m sure you’ll have something to go with the tea – you’re the hostess, after all.”
I stood in the hallway of my clean, cosy home. Behind me the candles flickered and the beef with prunes was cooling – the beef I’d spent half the day and a tidy sum on.
And in front of me stood a grown, employed, well-dressed fifty-nine-year-old man who went on about traditional values, bringing a woman a started packet of cheap tea – with twenty bags missing – to a romantic dinner.
A hundred possible reactions flashed through my mind. I could have laughed in his face. I could have made a scene and told him exactly what I thought of his stinginess. I could have kept quiet, swallowed the insult, sat him down and fed him the meat, feeling like a humiliated maid.
But I chose a different path. The calm that came over me at that moment surprised even myself.
I carefully placed the crumpled box on the little table by the mirror. I looked Edward straight in the eyes. I smiled – not fake, but completely genuine, with a deep sense of relief that this man had revealed himself right there on the doorstep, not after months or years.
“Edward,” my voice was steady and soft. “I am immensely touched by your generosity. But I’m afraid this tea won’t be needed.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why not? Don’t you like black? I can bring green next time – I’ve got half a packet left at work…”
“There won’t be a next time,” I interrupted him, just as calmly. “You know, you were right. A man should contribute his share. And your contribution is so… impressive that I simply cannot match it. My dinner doesn’t measure up.”
I took his still-damp coat from the hook and held it out to him.
“What’s going on? Helen, are you upset about the tea? How mercenary!” His velvety voice cracked; his face blotched red. “I come to her with all my heart, after a hard week, and she throws a tantrum over a trifle! You modern women only care about money and restaurants!”
“What I care about is respect, Edward. First of all, self-respect. Put your coat on – it’s cold outside. And don’t forget your tea. You might catch a cold, and then you’ll have nothing to treat it with.”
I placed the opened packet in his hands, gently but firmly steered him towards the door, and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. The flat was utterly silent, broken only by the ticking of the clock. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, cut a slice of the aromatic meat, and sat down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? That dinner was magnificent. The meat melted in my mouth; the wine sparkled in the crystal. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness. I felt proud that I hadn’t let someone wipe their feet on me.
Men often accuse us of being mercenary. They say we’re looking for a sponsor. But let’s be honest: it’s not about the cost of the gift at all. It’s about attitude. A man who brings a woman opened food isn’t saving money.
He’s saving his feelings, his respect for her. He’s showing that she isn’t worth even a minimal effort. And I no longer intend to waste my time, my energy, and my life on such “traditional providers.”
And what do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered such displays of male “generosity”? Or maybe I was too harsh and should have given him a chance?
