Timothy Arthur Whitmore, aged fifty, a single man with greying hair who prided himself on his supposed high intellect and peculiar charm, sat in his worn-out armchair in a small flat on the outskirts of Manchester, absentmindedly stroking his tabby cat, Whiskers. The disdain in Whiskers’ green eyes suggested he’d long wanted to flee but stayed out of pity for his owner. Timothy’s life had been on a steady decline—no job, foggy prospects, and a flat furnished with only a battered sideboard, a threadbare sofa, and a rug barely hiding the hideous crack in the floorboards.
But that evening, fate nudged him. As he sipped weak teabag tea, he decided it was time to reclaim happiness—not in some vague, philosophical sense, but through the tangible form of a wealthy, beautiful woman. His personal mantra? “Find a well-off wife, and dignity will follow.” He’d never managed steady employment, but why bother when he could skip straight to the good life—gourmet meals, warmth, and a state-of-the-art kitchen?
He booted up the battered laptop he’d salvaged from a skip years ago, logged onto a popular dating site, and crafted a profile with creative flourish. His profile picture wasn’t of himself but a stock image of a chiselled Adonis—tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, flashing the latest iPhone with a confident grin. His bio read:
Name: Timothy Whitmore.
Age: 38.
Occupation: Entrepreneur, business owner.
Hobbies: Yachting, culinary expertise (self-taught maestro!), classic literature.
Seeking: Serious relationship with an elegant, slender woman. Must be financially independent—no gold-diggers, please.
“Bloody brilliant,” Timothy murmured, admiring his handiwork. “The messages will pour in now.”
And pour in they did—just not from the sort of women he’d hoped for. Instead of sophisticated heiresses, his inbox filled with replies from women whose idea of luxury was three cats, a hand-knitted scarf, and a till job at Tesco. “No, no, my dears,” he muttered, dismissing each one. “I’m after a goddess with a trust fund.”
Then, a breakthrough: a message from Evelyn, 42. Her photo showed a striking brunette with a radiant smile, dressed in a sleek designer outfit. “There’s something about her,” Timothy mused. “Could she be the one?”
“Timothy, hello! Fascinating profile. Do you really cook gourmet meals?”
“Absolutely! Cooking’s my passion. Ever had a proper beef Wellington? Pure artistry,” he lied, nibbling stale toast.
An hour of chatting later, Evelyn agreed to meet. Victory! Timothy sprang into action—dusting off his decade-old wedding guest suit, shaving his patchy stubble, and sprinkling talc on his thinning hair for extra volume. They arranged to meet at a quaint café.
He arrived early (via bus) and chose a window table. Evelyn was even more stunning in person—slender, immaculately groomed, exuding effortless elegance.
“Timothy, lovely to meet you,” she said warmly—then paused, scrutinising him. “You look… different from your photo.”
He’d rehearsed this. “Ah, cameras never do me justice! In person, I’m far more, er, magnetic.”
“Right,” she said flatly.
Conversation stumbled. His vague ramblings about “start-ups” and “strategic investments” only deepened her scepticism.
“What exactly is your business?” she pressed.
“Oh, it’s niche. High-level consultancy. Quiet phase right now, you understand.”
She nodded politely, but her eyes begged for escape.
Desperate, Timothy blurted, “Evelyn, we’d be perfect together. You’re exquisite. I’ll cook, clean—you’d want for nothing. Be my queen!”
She set down her teacup. “Timothy, forgive me, but what makes you think you’re remotely suited to a woman like me?”
The words stung. Muttering about “shallow harpies” and “heartless ice queens,” he stormed out—without paying.
Over the next fortnight, three more dates ended identically. The crowning humiliation was Margaret, 38, who arched a brow when he suggested splitting the bill.
“You claim to be a businessman. Why can’t you pay?”
“Reinvestment strategy!” he spluttered, but she was already leaving, stifling laughter.
By month’s end, Timothy faced facts: affluent women weren’t fooled. The injustice! He’d even showered before dates—wasn’t that effort enough?
Bitterness took hold. He lurked on social media, trolling every attractive woman’s profile. “Only after a rich bloke, eh? Try loving someone’s soul!” he sneered under a influencer’s post.
On a fashion blog: “Why bother with makeup? No man’ll wife you looking like that.”
A fitness page earned his ire: “Muscle women terrify proper lads.”
The kicker? No one replied—just instant blocks.
Only Whiskers offered silent judgement, mewing as if to say, “Get a job, you prat.”
Late one night, Timothy wondered: maybe happiness wasn’t yachts and Michelin stars, but a quiet life with a loyal cat.
Or maybe not. Who could say?
