The restaurant where Edward invites me for our second date practically oozes with ostentatious elegance: the lighting is soft and low, waiters glide silently between tables like whispers. Edward fits into this scene perfectlytailored suit, flashy watch, and that same self-satisfied half-smile of someone whos used to believing the world spins for him.
Order whatever you fancy, he says casually, not even peeking at the menu. I can’t stand it when a lady holds back because shes worried about the bill.
Its the kind of line straight out of a fairytale about a generous prince, but I cant help feeling uneasy. Perhaps its his appraising look, or maybe its the way hes quick to regale me with tales of former girlfriends who, according to him, only ever saw him as a wallet.
I opt for duck salad and a glass of Chardonnay, while Edward goes all out: steak, tartare, a bottle of expensive Bordeaux. He rambles on about business, complains about how shallow people are these days, muses on values and soulful connections. I nod and listen, but the whole situation feels offas though Im not on a date, but sitting an exam where a tricky question could spring up at any moment.
A One-Man Show
When the waiter places the billneatly tucked in a black leather folderon the table, Edward doesnt miss a beat. He keeps talking about the decline of good manners, absentmindedly patting pockets: inner jacket, outer, then his trousers. His expression shifts: that cool confidence melts away, replaced by a performance of helplessness.
Oh, blast, he drawls, gazing straight at me. I must have left my wallet at the office. Or in the car. What a nuisance.
He shoots me a look as if its all a minor mishap, but I catch the flicker of expectation in his eyes. He doesnt ask the waiter to wait, doesn’t reach for his phone to sort a bank transfer. He just sits there, watching.
Well, this is rather awkward, he continues, stretching back in the chair. Could you cover us tonight? I’ll transfer you later, or treat you next time with interest.
Its glaringly obvious: this isn’t an accident, nor simple forgetfulness. It’s the test he was on about earlier, no doubt carefully planned.
Ive heard of these storiesread them on forums, seen them play out in cheap sitcomsbut I never imagined it happening to me, let alone orchestrated by a grown man who looks every bit the successful businessman.
His logic is laughably simple: if the woman pays for the whole meal without a fuss, shes good, accommodating, content to play saviour. If she refuses, then shes only after cash, a gold-digger. Sitting before me now isnt a businessman but a manipulator, angling to catch me out.
Hes convinced hes got the upper hand. In his mind, the chance to date such a good catch should be enough to have me quietly reach for my card.
Cool Calculation
I slowly and calmly open my bag. Edward visibly relaxesclearly thinking his plan has worked.
Of course, not a problem, I say softly, signalling to the waiter.
Could you split the bill, please? I state clearly. I’ll pay for mine. As for the steak, the wine, and the dessertthose are the gentlemans responsibility.
The smile vanishes from his face.
What do you mean? he hisses, leaning in. I’ve not got my wallet on me.
I understand, I reply, tapping my phone against the card reader. But we hardly know each other. Paying for myself is reasonable. As for the dinner you invited me to in one of Londons priciest spots, and for which you ordered the most expensive things on the menusorry, thats not my concern. Youre a grown man, and Im sure youll sort it.
The waiter pauses, awkwardly glancing from me to Edward. A flush creeps up Edwards neck, the smooth mask slipping and revealing nothing but petty rudeness.
Youre serious? he hisses. Over a bit of money? I said Id pay you back. I only wanted to check what sort of woman you are.
And youve had your answer, I say, rising from my seat. Im not someone you can manipulate.
I make my way towards the exit, but feel a final flourish is needed. Hes left at the table, red-faced, with an unpaid bill and, apparently, no wallet.
I stride back and fish out a few crumpled notes and a handful of coinsthe sort that always ends up at the bottom of my handbag.
Oh, and by the way, I add. If your wallets in the car, I take it youve no cash for a taxi?
I drop the money next to his now-lonely glass of Bordeaux.
Thats for your fare on the Tube. Think of it as my contribution to your exploration of the female psyche.
A couple of people at the nearest tables look over. Edward looks as if hes been slapped.
I walk out into the night.
That evening cost me only for a salad and a glass of winea small price to pay for spotting someones true colours early, saving myself years of trouble. Hopefully, hell take the lesson on board, though people like him rarely do.
But what would you have done in my shoes? Help out a forgetful date or take a firm, honest stand?
