I have always thought that courting after fifty belongs to those who have settled opinions, a lifetime of experience and, at the very least, a basic sense of propriety. The fairytale of a prince on a white horse has long been out of my imagination.
I am now fiftyfive, employed, with an adult daughter, a cosy flat in a quiet square of London, and a life that feels fairly balanced. Yet, from time to time I crave a simple human warmth a night at the theatre, a cup of coffee over a newlyread novel, a chance to be heard.
With those thoughts in mind I signed up on a dating website. Amid a flood of odd messages and outright ridiculous proposals, one profile stood out for its calm, sensible tone that of Thomas Whitaker.
Thomas was fiftynine. His photographs showed a trim man in a smart jacket, standing in a summer park. In our correspondence he was courteous, peppered his replies with compliments, spoke of his work as a civil engineer and his love of classical music.
After a week of exchanging letters we arranged to meet at a café on the Strand. Thomas proved exactly as his pictures suggested: dignified, with a touch of silver at his temples, a clear, articulate voice. He pulled my chair back, ordered two cappuccinos (declining dessert, citing a watchful eye on sugar), and spent the evening explaining why, in these modern times, he believed traditional values were still worth defending.
I’m of an older mould, Ethel, he said, looking straight into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse, and a man must be a provider and protector. I cannot abide the modern trend of separate accounts. Courtship should be done with style.
His words sounded like music. We met again, walked along the riverbank, talked at length. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather turned foul a dreary November rain drummed against the windows.
Ethel, perhaps I could come over for dinner? Thomas offered over the phone, his voice as smooth as velvet. Well sit by the fire, have a chat. Of course I never arrive emptyhanded; Ill sort everything out. All I ask is a cosy home and a smile.
Like any sensible Englishwoman, I did not rely on a just a smile. From early morning I set about a thorough cleaning. Later I visited the local supermarket, buying quality beef, fresh vegetables, a selection of cheeses, and an expensive baguette. I spent three hours at the stove.
I baked the beef with prunes my signature dish that has never left anyone unmoved prepared a light salad, set the dining table with crystal glasses, lit candles, and slipped on an elegant housedress with a modest touch of makeup.
At the appointed hour my nerves fluttered like a schoolgirl before her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, inhaled deeply and opened the door. There stood my guest, coat damp from the rain, yet looking remarkably proud.
Good evening, lovely hostess! Thomas stepped inside, tipped his hat and began to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating scent of the roast. He inhaled dramatically, smiled and declared, Ah, I can feel a feast awaiting me!
Come in, Tom. Hang up your coat for me, I said warmly, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Truth be told, I wasnt hoping for a hundredrose bouquet or a rare vintage. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have sufficed. It was the thought that mattered.
Thomas hung his coat, adjusted his jacket, then, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, slipped his hand into an inner pocket and announced:
As I said, Ethel, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.
With those words he handed me a packet of tea.
Instinctively I took the cardboard box, lowered my gaze. It was the cheapest black tea, the sort marketed on the lower shelves of the supermarket in a clearance promotion. The box bore no fancy label; the flimsy flap was torn and slipped inside.
I froze, trying to digest the scene.
Tom, is it opened? I asked in a whisper, fearing a prank.
He showed no embarrassment. On the contrary, his face lit with a patronising smile, as if explaining a basic truth to a child.
Of course! I bought it just the other day, brewed a couple of bags. Its a strong tea, quick to steep. I thought Id share it with you. No need to carry a whole packet we wouldnt finish it in one evening. Why waste a good thing? Im sure you have something else to pair it with, being the hostess you are.
I stood in the hallway of my tidy, welcoming home. Behind me flickered the candles, the roast of beef and prunes a dish I had tended to all day and for which I had spent a decent sum. In front of me stood a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold gentleman, preaching traditional values, who presented a halfused packet of pennytea, lacking even twenty tea bags inside.
A hundred possible reactions surged through my mind. I could have laughed at him, launched into a tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my offense, seat him at the table and feed him the meat while feeling like a humbled servant.
Instead I chose a different path. A calm settled over me that surprised even myself.
I placed the crumpled packet on the sideboard near the mirror, met Thomass eyes, and smiled not feigned, but genuine, a relief that this man had revealed his true colours at the doorstep rather than after months of polite conversation.
Thomas, I said, my voice even and soft, Im deeply touched by your generosity, but Im afraid we wont be needing this tea.
His eyebrows arched. Why? Not a fan of black? Next time I could bring green, I have half a packet left at work
The next time wont come, I replied, still composed. You were right about a man making a contribution. Yet your contribution was so impressive that I simply cannot return the favour. My dinner is already beyond it.
I lifted his stilldamp coat from the hook and handed it back.
Whats the matter, Ethel? Offended by a bit of tea? So mercenary! I came with my whole heart after a hard week, and she throws a tantrum over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, Tom. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put on your coat; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, lest you catch a chill with nothing to cure it.
I placed the unfinished packet into his hands, nudged him gently toward the door and closed it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence settled in the flat, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of fine red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast, and sat at the beautifully set table alone.
And you know what? The meal was splendid. The meat melted on the palate, the wine sang in the crystal. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness, only a quiet pride that I had not let him trample over me.
Men often accuse women of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Yet the truth lies not in the price of the gift but in the sentiment behind it. A man who brings a halfused packet of tea is not saving money; he is sparing his own affection, his respect. He shows that the woman is not even worth minimal effort. I will no longer waste my time, energy, or life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you ever encountered a similar display of masculine generosity? Or perhaps I was too harsh, and a chance should have been given?
