I fell in love at seventy. My kids told me it was embarrassing.
You know, when you turn seventy, you reckon youve tasted all the flavours life has to offer. The morning cuppa. That battered old armchair by the window. Novels youve read so many times you know the plot better than the author, but you keep going because your memory isnt what it used to be. And thensilence. The kind that creeps in after forty years of marriage, once your other halfs gone.
I lived with that silence for three years. Three years of empty kitchens, dinners for one, and having all my best chats with the cat, who’s shockingly bad at listening. Honestly, she never replies, and always nods off right when I’m getting to the juicy part.
And, as life doesjust when you think its all slowing downit tossed a man my age in my direction. And let me tell you, I was anything but ready.
It was at the London Book Fair. Tuesday. The rain was chucking it down, and I was wearing the worst raincoat in Britaina ghastly beige number that looked like it belonged in a fancy dress shop for eccentric grandmas. Thats where I found it, by the way. Seemed clever at the time.
He stood by a table of well-thumbed novels, glasses perched on his nose, holding an open copy like he might read it any minute but quite obviously wasn’t. He was staring into space as if pondering the age of the universeor maybe what he fancied for tea. With men, you never quite know.
Being incapable of standing still when somethings piqued my interest, I wandered over and said, Well, whats the verdict? Is that book talking to you, or are you talking at it?
He joltedhis glasses nearly tumbled offcaught them with one hand, chuckled with the other, then looked at me as though I was the most entertaining thing he’d seen in twenty years. For all I know, I was; twenty years without a good laugh is plenty.
Its talking to me, he said. But Ive stopped listening.
And thats when I felt it. Not in my heart, mind youthats given up on gymnastics these days. But my stomach. Butterflies? Hardly. More like someone was whipping up a full English in there without asking.
I blurted out that we should grab a coffee. He agreed on the spot. I cant explain how we went from commiserating over a book to heading for coffee in under forty seconds, but thats what happens when youve not got much left to lose.
We sat for three hours.
Three hours was enough to learn hes called William, also widowed, with two grown sons who treat him like a half-forgotten household appliance, and that hes spent his entire life unable to cook anything but scrambled eggs.
Scrambled eggs? I asked. With what?
Whatever I can find in the fridge.
Will, thats not cooking, thats survival.
He laughed so hard he spilled his tea, and right then, I thought to myself: this fellas a shamblesbut hes a delightfully funny shambles. At seventy, thats priceless.
We met up three more times before I decided to come clean to the kids. Not because I was ashamedmore like tactical prep. Getting my words in order, like packing a suitcase for a rough journey, and putting on my sturdiest youre not talking me out of this face.
Sunday rolled around. There we were, the three of us at the table. My eldest, Michael, had roasted his chicken with what I can only call religious devotion. The dinner was lovely, the wine a bit bland, but I drank it anyway. Then, waiting for the right moment between mains and pudding, I finally said, By the way… Ive been seeing someone.
Silence. Thick enough to slice with a butter knife.
My daughter, Emily, reacted first. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Mum, she said, in that voice reserved for toddlers and senile dogs, youre not serious.
Why wouldnt I be?
Its… embarrassing, said Michael, staring holes into his mashed potatoes. People will talk.
So, I stood up and looked him right in the eye. Son, I said calmly, which people? Only today I chatted with the neighbour, the lady at the bakery, and the labrador in the park. None of them seemed shocked. In fact, the dog looked rather pleased for me.
Another pause. Not as lengthy.
And another thing, I added, topping up my wine, if either of you calls it embarrassing again, Ill invite him round here for Sunday lunch every week. With his special scrambled eggs.
Michael spluttered into his water.
Emily hid her face in her hands.
And mewell, I smiled as proudly as a seventy-year-old in a beige raincoat can manageand called William later that evening.
So tell me, Will, I asked, apart from scrambled eggs, can you cook anything else?
And guess what he said?
