There was a peculiar haze hanging over the restaurant where Benjamin invited me for our second rendezvous. The lighting was soft and the waiters floated between tables as if they were part of the wallpaper, barely more than shadows in well-pressed shirts. Benjamin himself blended seamlessly with the placeexpensive suit, a glimmering watch, and that smug half-smirk of a man convinced hes the sun around which every social solar system spins.
Order anything you fancy, he said in that offhand way, not even glancing at the menu. I cant bear it when a lady limits herself.
It was a line straight from a fairy tale, a generous prince and his open wallet. Yet something in his calculating gaze or the way he relished recounting stories about former girlfriends who saw him only as a walking wallet unsettled me.
I picked a duck salad and a glass of Chardonnay. Benjamin went big: steak, tartare, and a bottle of expensive Bordeaux, all the while rambling about business, lamenting the shallowness of modern folk, waxed lyrical about values and emotional depth. I nodded along, but it felt bizarreas though Id stumbled into an exam, waiting for a trick question to catch me off guard.
When the bill arrivedpresented in a sleek, black leather wallet by a nearly invisible waiterBenjamin didnt break his stride. Still talking about moral collapse, he lazily patted the inside of his jacket, then his trousers, then shrugged theatrically.
Oh bother he drew out, looking me squarely in the eye. Seems Ive left my wallet in the office or maybe my other car.
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, but I sensed not distress but the easy confidence of an actor playing a well-rehearsed part. He didnt ask the waiter for patience, didnt pull out his phone to sort a bank transfer. He simply watched me.
What a silly situation, eh? He leaned back, casual as a cat. Would you mind covering tonight? Ill send it over later, or next timeand Ill treat, interest included.
It was suddenly ludicrously clear: this was no accident, but a premeditated test he’d mentioned half an hour before. Id read about such games in forums and C-list drama series, never expecting to encounter the scenario myself, let alone starring a grown, successful man.
His logic was almost childlike: if the woman pays without quibble, shes good, easy-going, ready to save and carry. If not, shes greedy, gold-digging. In that moment, before me sat not a businessman but a hack renderer of manipulation, playing judge and jury.
Benjamin seemed sure the game was his. In his world view, the promise of winning a relationship with such a catch should make me quietly extract my card and pay like one of his compliant exes.
I calmly opened my handbag, moving slow. He visibly relaxedhe evidently thought his plan had worked.
Absolutely, no trouble, I said gently, beckoning the waiter over.
Would you kindly split the bill? I said clearly. Ill pay for my own meal. The steak, wine, and dessert are for the gentleman to pay.
His smile evaporated.
What do you mean? he hissed, leaning in. Ive just said I havent got my wallet.
I understand, I nodded, tapping my phone to the machine. But we’re practically strangers. Paying just for myself is quite normal. As for the dinner of a man who invited me to a lavish restaurant and ordered the priciest itemssorry, but thats not my responsibility. Youre an adult; youll figure it out.
The waiter froze, glancing between us, unsure. Benjamin began to flush, his layers of polish stripping away to ordinary rudeness.
Are you serious? he whispered, incredulous. All over a bit of money? I told you Ill pay you back. I just wanted to test you.
And you got your answer, I said, rising from the table. Im someone who doesnt allow herself to be manipulated.
I headed for the exit, but something in the air insisted on a final touch. He remained at the table, fuming, walletless and with his extravagant bill unpaid.
I returned, rummaged in my purse for a handful of crumpled notes and loose coinsthose little bits that always collect at the bottom.
Oh and by the way, I added. If your wallets in your other car, then you havent got money for a taxi either, have you?
I set the coins beside his glass of fine wine.
Thatll get you on the Underground. Dont fret, youll make it home. Consider it my contribution to your research into the female psyche.
A few patrons at neighbouring tables glanced our way. Benjamin looked as if Id slapped him.
I stepped outside into the cool air. That night cost me only a salad and a glass of winea small price to pay to see someone’s true nature and save myself years of trouble. Perhaps he drew a lesson, although men of his sort rarely change.
What would you have done in my shoes? Would you rush to rescue a forgetful suitor, or stand your groundcold, but honest?
