So listen, you wont believe what happened to me the other day. I was invited to dinner by this lovely gentleman, seventy years old, a real charmer. But his thirty-year-old daughter, after digging up all sorts of bits from my past, ended up asking me this blatantly rude question And honestly, he was just gobsmacked. I just stood up and left, right then and there.
Margaret Bennett is her nameone of those women who seem to look even more elegant and composed with every passing year.
Shes been a widow for five years now. The sting of loss has dulled, her son and daughter are busy with families of their own, and Margarets spent her sixties on her own in a cosy, carefully kept two-bed flat in Camden. But truly, she hasnt found loneliness all that unbearable. She goes swimming twice a week, visits museums, and has recently mastered the delicate art of baking French macaronssomething shed only ever admired in fancy shop windows before.
Still, if were being honest, everyone wants a companion. She longed to chat with someone about whats on the telly or the rain, to vent about the price of milk, or simply to share the silence of a favourite drama with someone else on the couch.
And then came John Gregory, just like some old film hero. They met at a dance night for silver singles at the community centre. He asked her for the waltz, didnt once step on her toewhich is rare as hens teethand spent the evening showering her with compliments, making Margarets cheeks glow pink with delight; she honestly couldnt remember the last time shed been treated that way.
He was sixty-seven, tall, white-haired, tidy in a freshly ironed shirt. John had that air of an old-school gentleman about him, said hed worked his whole life as an engineer, widowed too, and lived with his daughter and her family in Finchley.
Youre extraordinary, Margaret, hed said as he walked her home. A rare gem. They dont make them like you nowadays.
Their little romance took off quickly but innocentlywalks in Regents Park, tea in nice cafés, ice cream on Hampstead Heath, and endless phone chats that lasted well into the night. John was always so considerate, never moaned about his joints and never once asked to borrow moneywhich, for Margaret, was hugely reassuring.
So a month in, he invited her round for dinner to meet his daughter. Margaret was a bundle of nerves, like she was about to sit her A-levels all over again. She did her hair, wore her very best dress.
Johns flat was an old three-bed in Finchley, with high ceilings, ornate skirting, the scent of old books, and this odd, underlying tension.
The door was opened by his daughter, Charlotte. She was thirty but looked oldersolid build, a rather determined jaw, a sharp gaze that seemed to size Margaret up as if she were a crate of overripe bananas at the market.
Evening, Charlotte said, not a hint of a smile. Come in. Dads still dithering over his tiegoing on three hours now.
Margaret handed over the homemade Victoria sponge shed baked that morning. Charlotte accepted it as if it were a dead mouse and disappeared into the lounge.
The table was set out handsomelycrystal, salads, roast lamb. Clearly, a big effort had been made. John appeared at last, beaming, and fussed politely over Margaret.
Come sit here, love. Charlotte, do pass our guest some potato salad.
Dinner started out civilly enoughweather, London traffic, the price of gas. Charlotte kept mostly quiet, chewing slowly, giving Margaret a once-over so intently it felt a bit like being auctioned off.
Margaret started to feel uneasy. She half-expected someone to raise a paddle and shout a bid.
Finally, when the pudding had gone and John poured the tea, Charlotte put down her fork, dabbed her lips and, looking Margaret dead straight, said:
Margaret, can I askwhat sort of flat do you have?
Margaret nearly choked on her tea. The question was so out of the blue, so intrusive, it felt like being asked for the colour of her knickers.
Im sorry? Margaret blinked.
Your flat, Charlotte retorted, undeterred. Do you own it? How big is it? Which part of town? What floors it on?
John seemed to shrink in his chair, staring intently at his teacup as if the pattern might reveal the secrets of the universe.
Wellits a two-bed, on Camden High Street. But why do you ask? Whats that got to do with tonight?
Charlotte leaned back, arms folded tightly. Everything, actually. Lets skip the romantic pleasantries. I need to know the arrangement.
What arrangement? Margaret glanced from Charlotte to John, but Johns inspection of the tablecloth had only grown more intense.
The living situation, Charlotte stated bluntly. Im thinking of Dads comfort. Your areaquiet? Near a GP surgery? Dad needs peace, and heart-healthy meals.
Margaret put her cup down: the porcelain clinked in the silence. Excuse mewhat do you mean, handing him over for care? Who said I was taking him?
Charlotte actually looked surprised, one eyebrow arched. But why not? Youre here, Dads always on about youall signs point to moving in together, dont they?
Perhaps, Margaret replied carefully. But weve only known each other a month. And why would you assume hed move in with me?
Obvious, isnt it? Charlotte began ticking off her reasons on her fingers. We have a three-bed, but its me, my husband and two teenagers. Way too loud for Dad; he needs his own space. But you, single in a two-bedthats perfect.
She said it as casually as if arranging a foster home for her cat.
I thought youd be thrilled! Charlotte went on, seeing Margarets silence. A man in the house, someone for the odd chore, makes things easier for everyone. I wont have to cook for five, or do as much laundry. And Dad wont be any botherhis pension is his own. More left over for you, really.
Margaret glanced at John. John, youre awfully quiet. Do you also think your daughter can parcel you off like a package to make her life easier?
He looked up, his eyes full of resigned sadness that chilled her.
Margaret, he murmured, Charlotte worries, thats all. Its much too cramped at ours, so noisy with the boys. Yours would be calm and lovely.
It dawned on her, all of a suddenshed thought it was a romance, genuine attention, some real interest. Turns out, she was being auditioned to be Johns unpaid live-in carer.
You know what, Margaret stood up, her voice absolutely steady, thanks for dinner. The salad was lovely.
Where are you off to? Charlotte frowned. We havent discussed details. When will Dad move in? Hes not got much, but the armchair needs proper transport.
Margaret looked Charlotte square in the eyethis strong, practical woman, treating her fathers fate as casually as an unwanted sofa.
Charlotte, Im looking for a man to share happiness with, not someone elses chores. Im not a branch of the local care home.
She turned to John. And as for you, Johnif youre happy to let your daughter organise your life like this, then were not for each other.
But Margaret John tried to protest, but Charlotte silenced him with a hand.
Oh, just sit down, Dad! she snapped. Its her loss. Dads a good man, with a cracking pension. Loads of single ladies lining up. Aunt Viv from next doors been dropping hints for ages.
Margaret hurried to the hallway, her hands shaking so much the buttons on her coat wouldnt do up. From the living room, Charlottes voice floated out:
Told you theyre all like that. Just want company, not responsibilities. Typical. Well ring Aunt Vivshell leap at the chance.
Margaret strolled down to the tube, thinking, Thank heavens I learned the truth now, over dinner, not six months from now, after getting attached.
Its true what they sayhousing can really bring out the worst in people. Adult children want an easy life, shuffling their parents along to a good woman for their twilight years. Its convenient, practical, less fuss for them.
And sadly, a lot agree, scared of winding up alonethinking, Better this than nothing at all, poor dears.
What do you reckondid Margaret do the right thing walking out? Should she have stayed for Johns sake, since he wasnt to blame, or was his daughter just too much?
