Timothy Peter Wilkes, a fifty-year-old bachelor with greying hair, sat in his worn-out armchair in a small flat on the outskirts of Manchester, absently stroking his cat, Whiskers. The disdainful look in Whiskers’ eyes suggested he’d have left long ago if not for some misplaced pity for his owner. Life hadn’t been kind to Timothy lately. Out of work, his prospects were dim, and his flat’s decor consisted of a chipped sideboard, a threadbare sofa, and a rug hiding a crack in the floorboards.
That evening, sipping a cheap tea bag brew, Timothy decided it was time to find happiness—not abstract contentment, but the very tangible sort: a wealthy, glamorous wife. His logic was simple—why slog away at a job when he could skip straight to the good life? A home-cooked meal, a warm bed, and all the latest appliances, courtesy of a well-off spouse.
He fired up his laptop—salvaged from a skip years ago—and signed up to a dating site. With a touch of creative flair, his profile photo wasn’t his own but a stock image of a chiselled, suited businessman holding an iPhone. His bio read:
Name: Timothy Wilkes.
Age: 38.
Occupation: Entrepreneur, business owner.
Hobbies: Yachting, gourmet cooking (self-taught maestro!), classic literature.
Seeking: Serious relationship with an attractive, slim woman. Must be financially independent—no gold diggers.
“Well, aren’t I quite the catch?” Timothy grinned, imagining the flood of messages.
And flood they did—just not from the women he’d hoped for. Instead of high-flying beauties, his inbox filled with messages from women whose idea of “financial independence” was a council job, three cats, and a knitting addiction. “No, dears, you’re not what I’m after,” he muttered, ignoring them. “I need a goddess with a fat bank balance.”
Then, a breakthrough. A message from Rebecca, 41. Her photo showed a striking brunette in a tailored suit, smiling like she had it all. “There’s something about her,” Timothy mused. “Could she be the one?”
“Hello, Timothy! Interesting profile. Do you really enjoy cooking?”
“Absolutely! Whipping up culinary masterpieces is my passion. Ever tried a proper ratatouille? Pure heaven,” he replied, nibbling a stale biscuit.
An hour later, Rebecca agreed to meet. Triumphant, Timothy prepped—sprucing up his only decent suit (last worn to his cousin’s wedding in ’99), shaving carefully, and dusting his thinning hair with talc to hide the bald patches. They arranged to meet at a cosy café.
He arrived early (by bus) and claimed a table by the window. Rebecca was everything her photo promised—polished, elegant, effortlessly attractive.
“Hello, Timothy,” she greeted warmly, then paused, brow furrowing. “You look… different than in your picture.”
Timothy had rehearsed this. “Ah, cameras never do me justice! In person, I’m far more… charismatic.”
“Mmm,” she replied sceptically.
Conversation stalled. When she asked about his business, he waffled: “It’s a bit complex—start-ups, investments. Right now, we’re in a quiet phase.”
She nodded politely, but her eyes screamed escape.
Desperate, Timothy blurted, “Rebecca, I think we’d be perfect together. You’re stunning—I’d cook, clean, be your devoted househusband!”
She set down her teacup. “Timothy, let’s be honest—what makes you think you’d fit into my lifestyle?”
The words stung. Muttering about “shallow harpies,” he stormed out without paying.
Over the next week, three more dates ended the same. The worst was with Emily, 37, who saw through him instantly.
“You claim to own a business. So why suggest splitting the bill?”
“Er—reinvesting profits!” he stammered. She left, barely suppressing laughter.
A month in, Timothy accepted the truth: rich women weren’t falling for him. The injustice! He even showered before dates—what more did they want?
Bitter and vindictive, he took to social media, trolling women’s profiles. Under a model’s photo: “Only after rich blokes, eh? Try having a heart!” On a fitness page: “Who’d marry a woman with muscles like that?”
No one replied—just swift blocks.
Only Whiskers watched, meowing softly as if to say, “Maybe just get a job?”
Lying awake, Timothy wondered—perhaps happiness wasn’t yachts and ratatouille, but a quiet life with a loyal cat. Who could say?
