I fell in love at seventy. My children told me it was embarrassing.
At seventy, you imagine youve experienced every flavour life has to offer. The morning cup of tea. Your favourite armchair by the window. Novels youve read three times, but return to because your memory isnt what it used to be. The silence that fills the house after forty years of marriage, when your partner is gone.
Id lived with that silence for three years. Three years of an empty kitchen, meals prepared for one, and conversations with the cat, pretending shes my therapist. For the record, the cat is a dreadful therapist. She never answers and always drifts off to sleep just when you get to the heart of things.
And just when life, in its usual tactless manner, decided to throw another man of seventy my way, I wasnt ready for it. Not in the slightest.
It happened at the London Book Fair. Tuesday. Pouring with rain. I was in my most hideous raincoat a beige one that looked as though it had been borrowed from a costume shop specializing in elderly womens attire. Thats exactly where it came from. At the time, it seemed a sensible purchase.
He was standing by a stall stacked with secondhand books, glasses perched at the end of his nose, flicking through a novel he clearly wasnt reading. He was gazing into space, as if pondering the age of the universe. Or, perhaps, what to have for supper. With men, you never can be sure.
I edged closer, because Im not one for simply standing still, and said,
So, is this book speaking to you, or are you speaking to it?
He jumped so much his glasses almost tumbled off. He caught them with one hand, chuckled with the other, and gave me a look as though I was the funniest thing hed seen in twenty years. Perhaps I was. Twenty years without laughter is a long time.
Shes speaking to me, he replied. But Im not listening.
Right then, I knew something odd was happening. Not in my heart that stopped racing long ago. But in my stomach, a chaos as if someone were attempting to whip up a full English inside without my permission.
I suggested we go for a cup of tea. He nodded, yes. Im not sure how, in forty seconds, we went from talking about books to sitting in a café. But thats how life goes when youve nothing left to lose.
The tea stretched to three hours.
In those three hours, I learned his name was Edward, that he was a widower, that his two sons treated him like a spare appliance, unable to decide where he best fitted, and that the only thing hed ever mastered in the kitchen was scrambled eggs.
Scrambled eggs? I asked. With what?
With whatevers at hand.
Edward, thats not cooking. Thats merely surviving.
He laughed so hard he spilt his tea. I thought to myself, this man is a complete muddle, but an amusing muddle. And at seventy, amusement is priceless.
We met up three more times before I decided to tell my children. Not because I was ashamed. More out of strategic caution. Like packing sensibly for an arduous journey. I needed to arm myself with the right words and my best you shant change my mind stare.
Sunday arrived. There we sat, the three of us round the table. My eldest son had prepared his roast with near-religious devotion. The food was excellent. The wine passable, but I drank it regardless. And, at just the right moment, somewhere between the main course and pudding, I announced,
By the way Im seeing someone.
Silence fell. So heavy you could carve it with a carving knife.
My daughter reacted first. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Mum, she said, in that tone she saves for when she thinks Ive lost all sense. Youre not serious.
Why shouldnt I be?
Its well, its embarrassing, my son muttered, staring at his plate. People will talk.
Then I stood up.
Son, I said calmly, which people? Because today I spoke to the neighbour, the lady from the bakery, and the dog in the park. Not one of them seemed outraged. The dog, if anything, looked pleased for me.
Another pause. Slightly shorter.
And another thing, I added, topping up my wine. If you say its embarrassing one more time, Ill invite him for Sunday lunch right here. Every week. Including his famous scrambled eggs.
My son nearly choked on his water.
My daughter covered her face with her hands.
And I, with all the dignity a seventy-year-old woman in a beige raincoat can muster, smiled and, that same evening, rang Edward.
Edward, I asked, aside from scrambled eggs, do you know how to cook anything else?
What do you reckon he said?
