“You’re fifty already who’d want you?” My wife, Susan, says that’s my husband’s favourite line, especially when he’s in a mood to hold forth on his pet theories. And my word, has James ever got a stash of them. At least twenty, all as stubborn as the man himself. He reckons the only proper roast is made with beef, that cats are cleverer than dogs, and that television is best enjoyed at volume exactly twenty-one not a notch above or below. But his chief conviction was always this: a woman after fifty has no appeal for any man.
Of course, the form this theory took depended on whether he’d just had his tea or was watching the football.
Sometimes academically: “It’s just nature, Sue, nothing personal facts of life.”
Other times, all philosophical: “That’s life, can’t argue with it now, can you?”
More often than not, when I put on a new dress or bothered with some lipstick, it came out casual, from his armchair: “You’re fifty now, love. Who’d be interested in you?”
No question mark. Just a statement.
I was fifty-two, working as an accountant at a building firm. My days started with stretches, ended with books, and my weekends were spent baking pies that James devoured without linking them, ever, to the woman baking. Twenty-six years together. In that time, James got fatter, balder, and more set in his theories. Not me at least not in that way.
My friend, Jenny, was the first to notice the change.
“Sue,” she said one morning over coffee, looking at me with that mischievous glint that meant she was about to say something a bit mad, “do you even realise you’re beautiful?”
“Oh, stop it,” I said, like always.
“I’m serious. Properly. Honestly, let’s try setting up a dating profile for you. Just for a laugh. An experiment.”
I set my mug down on the kitchen table. “Have you lost your marbles?”
“Lets just fill in a profile together. Find a decent photo. Let’s see what happens.”
“Nothing will Im fifty, Jen. Who would care?”
I said it, and even as the words left my mouth, I recognised Jamess tone as my own.
Jenny wasn’t one for pleading; she simply made things happen. That evening, she turned up at mine with her laptop under her arm, a bottle of red in her hand, and an expression that said everything was already decided.
“Right,” she announced, putting the wine down. “Were making you a profile. No fuss.”
“Hang on,” I barely had time to undo my apron. “What profile?”
“On a dating site. I told you.”
“And I told you: no.”
“You said ‘who would care.’ Which is very different.”
We locked eyes hers brimming with that quiet certainty, patience itself.
“Jenny, Im fifty-two.”
“I know. I’ve known you thirty years.”
“So?”
“So, nothing. Sit.”
I only sat because my feet were aching. It’d been a devil of a long day the accounts, trains running late, mere survival. I sat, just for a rest.
“Let’s have a photo,” said Jenny, opening her laptop.
“Which photo?”
“A good one. There must be one?”
I thought. The last were from the office Christmas do. I was off to the side in those, glass in hand, looking distracted because James had rung three times that night demanding to know when Id come home.
“Theres one from New Years,” I finally said, doubtfully.
“Show me.”
I did. Jenny peered at it, thoughtfully.
“Its a lovely photo. You look wonderful in red. Why do you hunch all the time in real life, but stand tall here?”
“Because no ones looking at me in a photograph,” I replied and didnt quite know what I meant.
Jenny paused, then opened the wine.
The profile took ages to fill or rather, Jenny wrote and I objected to every bit.
“What are you looking for?’ Just put friendship, Sue.”
“I dont want to make new friends.”
“Doesnt matter. Put it.”
“Tell us about yourself. What on earth do I say? ‘Accountant, good at baking pies, live with a man convinced women over fifty are invisible?'”
“Well write: Lively, interesting, love reading and hope to travel more.”
“I dont travel anywhere.”
“Do you want to go places?”
I considered. “Yes. I do.”
“There, not a lie then.”
We picked the New Years photo. I had my burgundy dress on, hair up, a spark in my eyes. James never saw the dress; he’d already nodded off when I got home.
“All finished,” Jenny said at last, shutting the laptop.
“Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
“What for?”
“You’ll see.”
I poured myself some wine and gazed out the window: dusk, a lamppost, bare cherry branches, nothing extraordinary. James, next door, watching TV volume at exactly twenty-one, as ever. The evening rolled on, just like always.
“So what?” I thought. “Nothing will happen.”
I finished my wine and did the washing up.
By the next morning, I wasnt thinking about the profile. I was at work, up to my eyes in figures, had a dreary lunch from the canteen, and by three oclock found myself just counting pigeons out the office window.
My phone was buried in my bag.
At five, I dug it out half hoping for a text from James. Nothing from him. But there was a notification from the dating site: a red dot with a number inside.
Eleven.
Eleven messages. In a single day.
I stared at the phone. It stared back. I shoved it back in my bag for three minutes, took it out again.
Eleven.
Spam, surely.
I opened the app. No spam. Eleven actual men with photos, real names, proper messages. Some just wrote: “Hi, liked your profile.” Others, longer, thoughtful. One man Robert, fifty-four had written three whole paragraphs about books, travel, and how he hadnt seen eyes like mine in ages.
I reread that one twice.
“I did say I like to travel,” I remembered, feeling slightly guilty. But only slightly.
That evening I rang Jenny.
“Eleven,” I blurted, no greeting.
“Already?” Jenny was thrilled. “Told you!”
“One wrote all about books.”
“Message him back.”
“I cant, Jen.”
“Sue.”
“What? Im fifty-two, I’m married.”
“Send a reply.”
I didnt. That night, I washed up thinking about Robert and his thoughtful words.
“Mad,” I told myself.
But in the morning, I opened the app again. Not eleven anymore.
Twenty-eight.
I sat on the edge of the bed. James was snoring beside me.
Twenty-eight men had written overnight.
I scrolled, cautious, as if I might break something. There was Andrew, forty-eight, an engineer, grinning with a ginger cat on his lap. Michael, fifty-six, deadly serious in a tie, had written, “You are a very beautiful woman.” Then there was Peter I stopped at his. Forty-one, photo of mountains behind him, wrote simply: “Hello, tell me about yourself?”
Forty-one. Eleven years younger than me.
I put the phone away. Then picked it up again.
By that second evening, the number was over fifty.
Fifty-three messages, actually fifty-four by the time Id counted.
There I sat, cup of tea in hand, scrolling with the surprise of someone who went for a loaf and found treasure. Tom, fifty, a business owner, had sent a poem not his own, but still nice. Nick, simply: “I like you, Id like to get to know you.” Peter with the mountains had written again, politely, “Perhaps youre busy? No worries either way.”
I stared at that one for ages.
James was still muttering at the TV set. They got on fine, those two.
“Whod be interested in you,” floated through my mind.
Fifty-four people in two days. Some my own age, some younger. One wrote a poem, another waited and asked again, gently, without frustration.
James’s pet theory was starting to crack slow as shifting floorboards, but cracking all the same.
I finished my tea, set my mug in the sink, and for the first time in ages looked at my reflection in the kitchen window really looked.
In the glass stood a woman, fifty-two, with bright eyes and a straight back. And in two days, fifty-four total strangers had written to her.
“Well, I never,” I whispered at my reflection.
I think it agreed.
My phone was on the bedside table.
James reached for his glasses, just as the screen lit up: a new notification. He picked up the phone with all the nonchalance of someone who expects nothing out of the ordinary. Peered at it. Frowned.
Then checked again.
On the screen: Peter: Morning! Thought of you…
James sat up in bed, slowly. Like someone whod just been handed important news but couldnt quite tell if it was good or not.
“Sue,” he called out.
I was in the kitchen making coffee. I heard him, but didnt hurry.
“Sue!”
“Coming.”
I came into the room, mug in hand. Calm. James was holding the phone as though unsure what to do with it.
“Whats all this?” he demanded.
I looked at the screen, then at him. Sipped my coffee.
“A notification,” I said.
“I can see that. Whos this Peter?”
“From the dating site.”
Pause. A long, thoughtful one.
“What dating site?” James surged up. “Did you sign up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I set the mug down and fixed my gaze on him gentle, curious the look you give a riddle youve already solved.
“I was testing your theory,” I told him.
“What theory?”
“That one about women over fifty. Remember? Whod be interested in you?”
His jaw dropped, then clamped shut; he looked at the phone again, three more notifications dinging in as he watched.
“And how many…?” he trailed off.
“Fifty-four,” I said, “in two days.”
“Fifty-four,” James echoed, shell-shocked. The number wouldnt fit.
“Some are even younger than I am,” I added, took my mug, and went back to the kitchen.
James sat in the middle of the room, phone in hand. Outside, it was an ordinary morning streetlamp blinking off, bare cherry trees, sparrows chattering. Everything as normal. Except Jamess theory just didnt seem to hold water.
Not anymore.
