“Who would want you now you’re over fifty?” Peter would often chuckle. But Linda decided to find out.
Linda’s husband, Peter Richard Corbett, was a man of strong opinions. Not just one, mindat least twentyand all unshakeable. He believed a proper stew was only made with beef, that cats were cleverer than dogs, and that the TV volume should be set at exactly thirty-two, nothing more, nothing less. But his main theory, trumping all the rest, went like this: once a woman passes fifty, men are no longer interested.
Hed dress it up, depending on his mood.
Sometimes very academically: Its just the natural order, Linda, nothing personal.
Sometimes philosophically: Thats life, you cant argue with it.
But most oftenusually if Linda wore a new dress or put on lipstickhed say matter-of-factly at the breakfast table: Youre fifty, love, whos going to want you?
No question mark. Stated as truth.
Linda was fifty-two. She worked as an accountant for a building firm, did her exercises every morning, read fat novels in the evenings, and baked pies at the weekendpies Peter devoured, never once linking the wonderful baking with the woman behind it.
Theyd been married for twenty-six years. In that time, Peter had grown heavy and lost most of his hair, and stuck by his theories. But Linda? Not so much. At least not in the same way.
Her friend Jane picked up on it before anyone else.
Lin, she said over coffee, squinting with that lookone that meant she was about to say something important and a bit mad. Do you realise youre actually beautiful?
Oh, get off, Linda replied out of habit.
Im being serious. Absolutely. And honestly? Lets sign up for a dating website. Just for fun. An experiment.
Linda set her mug down. Youve lost your mind.
Well just fill out a profile. Find a nice photo. Lets see what happens.
Nothing will happen, said Linda. Im fifty already. Who would want me?
She didnt mean to sound like Peter, but she did.
Jane wasnt one to take no for an answer. Rather than persuade, she simply made resistance seem… awkward. That evening she appeared at Lindas flat with a laptop under her arm and a bottle of wine in her hand, as if everything had already been agreed.
Right, she announced, uncorking the wine. Were making your profile. Quick, simple and no arguments.
Hang on, Linda protested, half out of her pinny. Whose profile?
Yours. I told you.
You did. And I said no.
You said, Who would want me? Thats different.
Linda looked at her. Jane stared back, eyes filled with the calm certainty of someone whose rightness is just taking time to be heard.
Jane, Im fifty-two.
I know. Ive been your friend thirty years.
And?
And nothing. Now sit.
Linda satnot to give in, but because her legs were tired. Long day, long commute. So she sat. Just for a rest.
Right, photo, Jane said, opening her laptop.
What photo?
A good one. Got any?
Linda frowned, trying to remember the last time shed been photographed. The most recent snaps were from the office Christmas do, where she stood off to the side, glass in hand, looking away because Peter had rung three times that night demanding to know when shed be home.
Ive got one from New Years, she offered.
Show me.
Jane studied the photo carefully. This is lovely, honestly. Why do you slouch in life but not in photos?
Nobodys looking at me in pictures, Linda replied, surprised at her own words.
Jane poured the wine. They set to work. Jane typed, Linda objected to every single question.
What are you looking for? Linda, just put Friendship.
I dont want to talk to anyone.
Not the point. Write it.
Tell us about yourself. Jane, what am I supposed to say? Accountant, makes a decent stew, married to a man obsessed with theories about women over fifty?
Jane grinned. Well say, Active, interesting, love books and travel.
I dont travel anywhere.
Would you like to?
Linda considered this. Yes.
Well, there you go, no fibbing.
They picked the New Years photoLinda in a deep red dress, hair up, eyes alive with something. Peter hadnt seen the dress; hed been asleep when she got home that night.
All set, Jane said, shutting the laptop. Profile done.
And now?
Now, we wait.
For what?
Youll see.
Linda poured herself more wine and stared out the window. Just an ordinary eveningquiet street, streetlamp, bare branch of a sycamore. Peter was in the other room watching TV, volume exactly thirty-two.
Oh well, Linda thought, lets see what comes of it. She finished her wine and washed the dishes.
By next morning, Linda hadnt given the profile a second thought.
She commuted to work, slogged through the quarterly report, forced down a bland bowl of soup from the canteen, and at three oclock found herself counting pigeons on the office windowsill.
Her phone was at the bottom of her bag.
At five she checked itmainly to see if Peter had rung. He hadnt. But there was a notification from the site, a red dot with a number.
Eleven.
Eleven messages in one day.
She stared at the phone, then tossed it back into her bag. Three minutes later, curiosity won.
Eleven.
Spam, probably, she told herself.
But nono spammers. Eleven men, all with photos and names, each with a real message. Some said, Hello, interesting profile. Others wrote whole paragraphs. One, Paulfifty-fourwrote three blocks: about his favourite books, how he loved her gaze in the photo, and how much he enjoyed travelling.
Linda reread his message, twice.
I wrote travel too, she remembered, feeling slightly dishonest though not especially guilty.
That evening, she phoned Jane.
There are eleven, she blurted without a hello.
Already? Told you! Jane was delighted.
One of them wrote about books.
Message him back.
I dont want to.
Linda.
What? Im fifty-two, and Im married.
Message him.
Linda didnt. She spent the evening washing up and thinking about Paul and his paragraphs.
Ridiculous, she muttered to herself.
Yet next morning, she opened the app. Not eleven this time.
Twenty-eight.
Linda sat on the edge of the bed. Peter still slept.
Twenty-eight strangers had written to her overnight.
She scrolled gingerly, as if the app might break. Here was Andrew, forty-eight, an engineer, grinning with a cat in his arms. Michael, fifty-six, all serious in a suit, wrote: Youre a very beautiful woman. Then there was Liamforty-one, standing with mountains behind him, simply: Hi. Tell me about yourself.
Forty-one. He was eleven years younger.
Linda shut her phone. Then opened it again.
By the next evening, the number had risen past fifty.
Fifty-three messages. No, fifty-four as she counted.
She sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, scrolling as if shed gone out for bread and found buried treasure. There was David, fifty, a businessman, sending a borrowed poembut still, it was a nice touch. Nick said simply: You seem lovely, Id like to get to know you. And that Liam with the mountains wrote again, when she hadnt replieddecently, just: Maybe youre busy? Thats alright.
Linda read that message, lingering.
From the other room, Peter argued with the television. The television answered back. They seemed to get on perfectly well together.
Who would want you, she remembered.
Fifty-four men in forty-eight hours. Some her own age, some younger. One sent poetry, another politely waited for her reply. Peters favourite theory, it seemed, was starting to come apartslowly, like the old floorboards near the back door, but definitely coming apart.
Linda finished her tea, put her mug by the sink, and for the first time truly looked at her reflection in the dark kitchen windownot a rushed glance, but properly.
There, in the glass, was a woman aged fifty-two. Straight-backed. Clear-eyed. Fifty-four strangers had reached out to speak to her in two days.
Well, fancy that, Linda murmured to her reflection.
Her reflection nearly winked back.
Her phone was charging on the nightstand. Peter, half awake, reached for his glasses. The screen lit up with a new message.
Peter picked the phone up as always, never really expecting surprises. He looked, frowned.
Looked again.
On the screen: Liam: Good morning! Youve been on my mind
Peter sat up. Slowly. Like someone suddenly unsure whether the news is good or bad.
Linda! he called.
Linda was in the kitchen brewing coffee. She heard him, but didnt hurry.
Linda?
On my way, she replied at last.
She entered, mug in hand, moving calmly. Peter held out her phone as if it were a strange animal he didnt quite trust.
Whats this, then? he demanded.
Linda glanced at the screen, then at him. Sipped her coffee.
A notification, she said mildly.
I can see that. Whos this Liam?
From the dating site.
A long, meaningful pause.
What dating site? Did you sign up?
Yes.
Why?!
Linda set her mug down and looked at her husband, not cross, just curiouslike someone who already knows the answer to a puzzle.
I was testing your theory, she said.
What theory?
The one about women over fifty. Remember? Who would want you?
Peter opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked back at her phonethree more messages had popped up in the meantime.
How manyhow many are there? he asked faintly.
Fifty-four, Linda said. In just two days.
He echoed, Fifty-four, trying to get used to the size of it.
Some are younger than me, Linda added, picking up her mug and heading back to the kitchen.
Peter Richard Corbett was left standing in the middle of the room, holding her phone. Outside, it was just another morningstreetlamp off, sycamore bare, sparrows squabbling on the gutter. Everything as usual. Only his favourite theory didnt quite fit anymore.
Not at all.
And Linda, at fifty-two, learned that somebody always wants yousometimes, the only one who needs convincing is yourself.
