I have always thought that romance after fifty belonged to people with settled views, a lifetime of experience and at least a rudimentary sense of decorum. The fantasy of a knight on a white horse has long since faded.
I am fiftyfive, I work as an accountant, I have an adult daughter, a snug flat in a quiet London borough and a life that could pass for harmonious. Yet sometimes I crave a simple human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee over a shared book, a conversation that does not end in silence.
With that yearning I signed up to a dating site. Among the flood of odd messages and absurd proposals, a profile named George Whitaker stood out for its modest, sensible tone.
He was fiftynine. His photos showed a trim man in a tidy blazer, standing in a sundappled park. In our messages he was courteous, peppered his replies with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his devotion to Beethoven.
After a week of texting we met in a little café on the corner of a cobbled street. George turned out exactly as his pictures suggested: dignified, a touch of silver at his temples, and a voice that seemed to echo from an old radio. He pulled out my chair, ordered two cappuccinos declining the dessert, claiming he was watching his sugar intake and spent the evening extolling the importance of preserving traditional values in these modern times.
Im of a bygone generation, Emily, he said, looking into my eyes as if trying to read a secret. To me a woman is a muse, and a man must be a provider and protector. I cannot abide the newfangled idea of separate bills. Courting should be graceful.
His words sounded like music. We met twice more, strolling along the Thames, talking until the sky turned a bruised November grey and a relentless drizzle began.
Emily, perhaps I could come over for dinner? Georges velvety voice rang over the phone one soggy afternoon. Well sit by the fire, chat a while. I never come emptyhanded Ill bring everything in proper order. All I ask is a cosy home and a smile.
A sensible Englishwoman does not rely on a smile alone. From the moment I woke, I set about a thorough cleanup. I then drove to the local Tesco, buying a good piece of beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, and a crusty loaf. I spent three hours in the kitchen.
I roasted the beef with prunes my signature dish that never fails to win hearts tossed a light salad, set the table with crystal glasses, lit a few candles, slipped into an elegant housedress and brushed on a subtle makeup.
When the clock struck seven, my nerves fluttered like a schoolgirl before her first dance.
A knock sounded precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, inhaled deeply and opened the door. There stood my guest, coat damp from the rain, yet holding himself with a proud bearing.
Good evening, lovely host! George stepped inside, removed his hat and began to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating scent of the roasting meat. He inhaled dramatically and smiled, Ah, I can already sense a feast awaiting me!
Come in, George. Shed your coat. Let me hang it for you, I said, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Honestly, I did not need a bouquet of a hundred roses or a rare bottle of wine; a modest box of chocolates, a simple cake, or even a sprig of chrysanthemums would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
George hung his coat, adjusted his blazer and, with a flourish reminiscent of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into the inner pocket and declared:
As I said, Emily, I never arrive emptyhanded. A gentleman must always contribute.
He extended his hand and presented a packet of tea.
Instinctively I took it, eyes dropping to the cardboard. It was the cheapest black tea, the sort sold on the bottom shelves of the supermarket on promotion. The label was plain, the flap torn and tucked haphazardly inside.
I froze, trying to comprehend.
George, is this opened? I whispered, fearing a prank.
He showed no sign of embarrassment. Instead, his face lit with a patronising smile, as if explaining a universal truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it the other day, brewed a couple of bags. Its a strong blend, quick to steep. I thought to share it with you. No need to lug a whole box; we wont finish it in an evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure you have something else to go with it, being the host.
I stood in the hallway of my clean, welcoming home. Candles flickered behind me, the beef with prunes cooled on the table a dish Id spent half the day and a tidy sum preparing.
Before me stood a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold engineer, discoursing on traditional values, who had brought a halfused packet of bargain tea to a romantic dinner. It contained fewer than twenty bags.
A hundred possible reactions sprinted through my mind. I could have laughed at him, launched a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my pride and served the meat while feeling like a humbled servant.
Instead, a calm settled over me, surprising even myself.
I gently placed the crumpled packet on the sideboard near the mirror, met Georges gaze, and smiled not a forced smile, but a genuine one, feeling a great relief that he had revealed his true self at the doorstep rather than after months of courtship.
George, I said, my voice even and soft, Im truly touched by your generosity. But Im afraid we wont need this tea.
His eyebrows rose. Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next time; I have half a packet left at work
The next time wont come, I replied calmly. You were right a man should contribute. And your contribution was so impressive that I cannot return it in kind. My dinner doesnt rise to that level.
I took his stilldamp coat from the coat rack and handed it back.
Whats this? Youre upset over a packet of tea? How mercenary! His velvety voice turned sheepish, his cheeks flushing. I came with all my heart after a hard week, and now shes throwing a fit over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, George. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put your coat back on its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, lest you catch a chill with nothing to treat you.
I placed the halfused packet in his hands, nudged him toward the door and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence, broken only by the ticking of the hallway clock, settled over the flat. I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of fine red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant beef and sat at the beautifully set table alone.
And you know what? The dinner was splendid. The meat melted on my tongue, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness, only a quiet pride for not allowing anyone to tread on my dignity.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Yet the truth isnt the price of a gift; its the intention behind it. A man who brings a halfused packet of tea is not saving money; he is sparing his feelings, his respect. He demonstrates that the woman is not even worth a modest effort.
I will no longer waste my time, energy or life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered a similar display of male generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh, and a chance should have been given?
