“Who would want you at your age, fifty and over?” Henry would chuckle, never missing an opportunity. But Susan decided one day that shed run a little experiment herself.
Susan’s husband, Henry William Cornwell, was a man of theories. Not just one or two, mind you. Hed accumulated a collection of about twenty, all equally firm. Like how proper Yorkshire pudding could only be made with beef dripping. Or how cats were far more intelligent than dogs. Or that the television must always be set to volume twenty-two no higher, no lower. But his main theory, which he repeated often, was this: Once a woman passes fifty, shes no longer attractive to men.
Hed state it differently depending on his mood.
Sometimes academically: Its simply nature, Susan, nothing personal.
Sometimes philosophically: Such is life you cant argue with it.
And sometimes, especially whenever Susan put on a new dress or touched up her lipstick, just plainly and matter-of-factly: Youre already in your fifties. Whod want you?
No hint of a question. Purely a statement.
Susan was fifty-two. She worked as an accountant at a construction firm, did stretches every morning, read her novels at night, and baked mince pies on weekends which Henry devoured with gusto, never tying the treats to the notion of who on earth might want their maker.
Theyd been together for twenty-six years. In that time, Henry had grown heavier, balder, and more steadfast in his views. Susan had changed, but not in the same way.
Her friend Jane spotted this first.
Sue, Jane said over coffee one day, squinting at her with that look that meant she was about to say something at once important and a bit mad. Do you have any idea just how pretty you are?
Oh, get off, Susan replied, out of habit.
No, really. Completely. And listen, what if we signed you up for a dating website? Just for a laugh. A little experiment.
Susan put her mug down.
Are you absolutely bonkers?
Well just make you a profile. Find a nice photo. See what happens.
Nothing will happen, said Susan. Im over fifty. Who would want me?
And as she said it, she stopped suddenly. She recognised Henrys tone and words.
Jane was very much a woman of action. She didnt do prolonged persuasion; that wasnt her thing. Instead, she simply made it awkward to say no. Not physically awkward, but somehow morally so. That evening she appeared at Susans house, laptop tucked under her arm, bottle of wine in hand, giving off an air that everything had already been decided.
Right, then, she declared at the door, putting down the wine. Were making you a profile. Quick and tidy, no fuss.
Hang on, Susan barely had time to shed her apron. What sort of profile?
Dating site. I told you.
You told me. I said no.
You said who would want me. Entirely different.
Susan stared at her. Jane stared back with the sort of certainty only a best friend can muster.
Jane, Im fifty-two.
I know that. Ive known you for thirty years.
And?
And nothing. Sit.
Susan satnot because she gave in, but simply because her legs were aching. It had been a long day, filled with deadlines and traffic jams. So she sat. Just to rest.
Come on, give us a photo, Jane instructed, opening the laptop.
What photo?
A decent one. Do you have any?
Susan thought. The last photos were from the staff Christmas do. She was lurking in the corner with a glass of wine, facing away slightly, glancing out the window Henry had called three times that evening asking when shed be back.
Ive got one from New Years Eve, she offered, not at all confident.
Show me.
Susan did. Jane looked for a long while.
Thats good, she nodded. Really, Sue, youre quite lovely here. Why do you always hunch in real life, but not in the photo?
No ones looking at me in the photo, Susan replied, not sure why she said it.
Jane gave her a searching look. Then opened the wine.
Creating the profile took agesmostly because Jane wrote as Susan protested every question.
Reason for joining? Put chatting, Jane said.
I dont want to chat with anyone.
Doesnt matter. Write it.
Tell us about yourself. Jane, what am I meant to say? Accountant, makes a mean Yorkshire pudding, married to a man who believes women disappear after fifty?
Lets go with: Lively, curious, loves reading and travel.
I never travel.
But you want to, dont you?
Susan paused. Yes, I suppose I do.
So thats not a lie, then.
They picked the New Years photo Susan in a deep red dress, hair up, something bright in her eyes. Henry had never seen the dress; he was already asleep when shed come back that night.
All set, said Jane, closing the laptop. Profile done.
And now?
Now we wait.
For what, exactly?
Youll see.
Susan poured herself a glass of wine and stared out the window. Evening darkness, the glow of the streetlamp, stark winter branchesnothing remarkable. Henry watched telly in the next roomsound exactly at twenty-two. Something babbled from the screen. Routine.
Well, there you are, Susan thought. If nothing else, it was only a profile. Nothing will come of it anyway.
She finished her wine and went off to do the dishes.
By the next morning, Susan had put the profile out of her mind. She worked through half the day on the quarterly report, had a rather bland soup at the canteen, and at three found herself counting pigeons outside the office window.
Her phone stayed hidden in her bag.
At five, she finally checked, imagining it might be Henry. It wasnt. But there, on the dating app, was a little red circle with a number.
Eleven.
Eleven messages in just one day.
Susan stared at the phone. The phone, it seemed, stared right back. She put it away for three minutes, then looked again.
Eleven.
Probably just junk mail, she thought.
She opened them. They werent scammers. There were eleven genuine men with photos, names, and messages. Some just said, Hello, your profiles interesting. Others wrote longer, more thoughtful notes. One, Richard, aged fifty-four, typed out three whole paragraphsabout books, not meeting anyone with her kind of gaze, his love of travel.
Susan reread his message twice.
I wrote I liked travel as well, she remembered. Felt a little guilty. Only, just a little.
She rang Jane that evening.
There are eleven, she blurted out instead of hello.
Already? See, what did I tell you! Jane crowed.
One loves books.
Reply, then.
Im not replying.
Susan.
What? Im fifty-two, married.
Reply.
Susan didnt. That night she did the washing up and found herself thinking about Richard and his lengthy note.
Good grief, she scolded herself.
The next morning, though, she peeked at the app once more. The red circle no longer said eleven.
Twenty-eight.
Susan perched on the edge of the bed. Henry was still fast asleep.
In one night, twenty-eight men had written.
She scrolled with caution, as though she might break something. There was Adam, forty-eight, an engineer, with a silly photo with his cat. Charles, fifty-six, looking rather serious in a tie, who wrote, You are a beautiful woman. Then Davidhere Susan pausedforty-one, mountains behind him, simply: Hello. Tell me about yourself.
Forty-one. Eleven years younger than her.
Susan closed the phone. Then opened it again.
By the end of the second day, the number reached fifty.
Fifty-three, in fact, and fifty-four as she was counting.
She sat in the kitchen, sipping tea, scrolling through the messages like someone who popped out for bread and stumbled upon buried treasure. Simon, fifty, a businessman, had sent a poem (borrowed, but touching). Peter wrote, You caught my eye. Would love to get to know you better. And that same David, the one with the mountains, had messaged again, gently: Are you busy? No worries if you are.
Susan stared at Davids words.
From the living room, Henry bickered with the television. They got along quite well.
Who would want you at your age? she recalled.
Fifty-four men, in two days. Some her age, some younger. One sent poems, another waited for a reply and wrote back, polite, no hint of pushiness.
Henry William Cornwells theory was cracking like old floorboards. Slowly but surely.
Susan finished her tea, set the mug in the sink, and for the first time in ages, looked at her reflection in the dark kitchen windowproperly, not in passing, but as though seeing herself anew.
There she was, a woman of fifty-two with clear eyes and upright bearing, to whom, in two days, fifty-four men had written.
Well, I never, Susan softly told her reflection.
The reflection, she thought, agreed.
Her phone sat on the bedside table.
Just then, Henry reached for his glassesright beside the phoneas a new notification flashed up. He picked it up out of habit, expecting nothing. He looked. Frowned.
Then looked again.
On the screen, it said: David: Good morning! Thinking of you…
Henry sat up in bed, slowly, as though someone had told him something important but he wasnt sure if it was good or bad.
Susan, he called.
Susan was in the kitchen making coffee. She heard him, but didnt rush.
Susan!
Coming, she said.
She stepped into the room, coffee in hand, calm as ever. Henry held the phone as if it were a live thing he wasnt sure to let go or not.
Whats all this, then? he demanded.
Susan glanced at the screen, then at her husband. She sipped her coffee.
A notification, she said.
I see its a notification. Whos this David?
From a dating website.
A solid pause.
What dating website?! You joined one?
Yes.
Why on earth?!
Susan set her mug down. Looked at him, not angry, but almost curiouslike a person who knows the answer before the questions asked.
I put your theory to the test, she said.
What theory?
About women over fifty. Remember? Who would want you.
Henry opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked at the phone againthree more notifications arrived as he stared.
And how many? he began, but couldnt finish.
Fifty-four, Susan supplied. In two days.
Fifty-four, Henry repeated, quietly, as if trying the number on for size and finding it didnt fit.
Some are even younger than me, Susan added, took her coffee, and returned to the kitchen.
Henry William Cornwell remained in the middle of the room, phone in hand. Outside, morning had comethe streetlight winked off, bare branches framed the window, sparrows chirping on the sill. Everything appeared ordinary. Only, somehow, his theory no longer made sense.
Not one bit.
Sometimes, you find out the world thinks more of you than you ever allowed yourself to believeand its never too late to find that out.
