31October
Ive always thought that dating after fifty was something reserved for people who have already set their bearings, accumulated enough life lessons, and at the very least understand the basic rules of courtesy. The fantasy of a knight on a white horse has long since faded from my mind.
Im fiftyfive, I have a steady job, an adult daughter, a cosy flat in Birmingham, and a life that feels reasonably balanced. Yet there are moments when I crave a simple human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee with someone, a chat about a book Ive just finished.
With those thoughts humming in my head, I signed up on a dating website. Among the endless stream of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, a profile named Edward stood out for its downtoearth tone.
He was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a smart blazer, set against a summer park in HydeHyde. In our messages he was polite, peppered his replies with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his love for classical music.
After a week of exchanging emails we agreed to meet at a café on Broad Street. Edward turned out exactly as his photos suggested: dignified, a touch of silver at his temples, and a pleasant voice. He pulled my chair back with a courteous smile, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the dessert, citing a watchful eye on his sugar intake), and spent the evening extolling the importance of preserving traditional values in todays world.
Im an oldfashioned sort, Emma, he said, looking into my eyes with a sincere intensity. To me a woman is a muse, and a man ought to be a provider and protector. I cant stand the modern habit of keeping separate bills. Courtship should be done with style.
His words sounded almost musical. We met again two more times, strolling along the canal, talking at length. Then the weekend arrived and the weather turned sour a bleak November rain drummed against the windows.
Emma, perhaps I could stop by for dinner? Edwards velvettoned voice floated over the phone. We could sit in the warmth and chat. Of course I never come emptyhanded; Ill sort everything out. All I ask is your hospitality and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I didnt rely on a mere smile. From early morning I launched a fullscale cleanup. Later I popped into the supermarket on NewStreet, bought a good cut of beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, and a pricey loaf of sourdough. I spent about three hours at the stove.
I baked the beef with prunes my signature dish that never fails to impress tossed together a light salad, set the dining table with crystal goblets, lit a few candles, and slipped into an elegant housedress with light makeup.
By the appointed hour I was as nervous as a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I brushed my hair back, inhaled deeply, and opened. Standing on the threshold was my guest, his coat slightly damp from the rain, but he wore a proudly upright bearing.
Good evening, lovely host! Edward stepped inside, tipped his hat, and began to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen drifted the intoxicating aroma of the roasting beef. He inhaled with a theatrical sigh and smiled, Ah, I can already feel 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 collectors bottle of wine. A box of chocolates, a modest cake, or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
Edward hung his coat, smoothed his jacket, then slipped his hand into his inner pocket with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and declared:
As I said, Emma, I never come emptyhanded. A gentleman always contributes.
With those words he presented a packet of tea.
I took it reflexively, eyes dropping to the cardboard. It was the cheapest black tea you can find on the lower shelves of a discount aisle, the kind thats often on promotion. The only thing remarkable about it was the torn flap, hastily shoved back in.
I froze, trying to process the scene.
Edward, is this opened? I whispered, fearing I was the victim of some odd joke.
He showed no sign of embarrassment. Instead, his face brightened with a patronising smile, as if explaining elementary truths to a child.
Of course! I bought it a few days ago, brewed a couple of bags. Its a decent, strong brew, quick to steep. I thought Id share it with you. No need to lug a whole packet; we wont drink that much in one evening. Why waste good tea? Im sure you have something else to accompany it, being the host.
I stood in the hallway of my tidy, candlelit home. Behind me the candles flickered, the beef with prunes sat cooling on the table a dish that had taken half the day and a respectable sum of pounds.
Before me stood a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold gentleman, extolling traditional values, who had arrived for a romantic dinner bearing a halfused packet of pennycheap tea, with no more than two tea bags inside.
A thousand possible reactions raced through my mind. I could have laughed in his face. I could have sparked a scene and told him exactly what I thought of his stinginess. I could have kept silent, swallowed the insult, seated him at the table and fed him meat while feeling like a demeaned servant.
Instead I chose another path. A calm that settled over me in that moment surprised even me.
I placed the crumpled packet gently on the side table near the mirror, met Edwards gaze, and smiled not a forced smile, but a genuine one, feeling a great relief that he had revealed his true self right at the doorstep, not after months of courtship.
Edward, I said, my voice steady and soft, Im truly touched by your generosity. However, Im afraid we wont be needing this tea.
His eyebrows rose. Why not? Not a fan of black tea? I could grab some green next time Ive got half a packet left at work
The next time wont be happening, I replied calmly. You were right about a man contributing, but your contribution was so impressive that I cant reciprocate. My dinner doesnt measure up to it.
I took his still damp coat from the rack and handed it back.
Whats this? Youre upset over tea? How mercenary! his velvety voice cracked, colour flushing his cheeks. I came from a hard week with all my heart, and she makes a scene over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, Edward. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put on your coat; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, or youll catch a chill with nothing to treat it.
I placed the halfused packet in his hands, nudged him towards the door, and shut it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence settled in the flat, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. I drifted to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of good red wine, sliced a piece of the fragrant beef, and sat down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was magnificent. The meat melted in my mouth, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt no disappointment, no loneliness. I felt a quiet pride for not letting anyone step on my toes.
Men often accuse women of being materialistic, saying were after 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 is not saving money; hes saving his affection, his respect. He demonstrates that the woman isnt even worth the slightest effort. Im done spending my time, energy, and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered this kind of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh and should have given the man a chance?