Youre fifty now. Who on earth would want you? my husband used to chuckle. But I decided to find out for myself.
My husband Richard John Cartwright was a man of theories. Not just one, mind you. At least twenty, each as rock-solid as the last. According to him, you can only make proper stew with beef. Cats are definitely cleverer than dogs. The TV volume must always be set to forty-two, never more, never less. But his most cherished theory was this: after fifty, a woman holds no interest for a man.
He phrased it in all sorts of ways, depending on his mood.
Sometimes bleakly scientific: Thats just nature, Linda, nothing personal.
Other times, philosophical: Such is life you cant argue with it.
But usually, especially when I put on a new dress or a bit of lipstick, it was simply, casually, Youre fifty now whod have you? No question mark. A statement, like the weather.
I was fifty-two, working as an accountant for a construction company. I did my exercises each morning, read books in the evenings, and baked pies on weekends that Richard devoured with gusto, never once linking them to the who would want you narrative.
Wed been married twenty-six years. In that time, Richard had grown plumper, lost his hair, and mastered his theories. I changed too, but somehow, not in his way.
My friend Sarah noticed far sooner than anyone.
Lin, she said once over coffee, her eyes narrowed in that particular way which meant she was about to say something both important and mildly bonkers. Are you even aware youre rather lovely?
Oh, jog on! I said, grinning.
No, I mean it. Absolutely. And tell you what why dont we set up a profile for you on a dating website? Just for a laugh. Call it an experiment.
I set my mug down on the table.
Have you gone quite mad?
Well just fill out a little profile. Find a nice photo. See what happens.
Nothing will happen, I said. Im fifty, Sarah. Whod want me?
As I said it, I caught myself. The tone and words were pure Richard John Cartwright.
Sarah was a doer by nature persuasion wasnt her style; she just made it awkward to say no. That night she turned up at my flat, laptop tucked under her arm, bottle of wine in hand, looking like everything had already been arranged.
Right, heres the plan, she said, setting the wine down. Were going to make you a profile. Quick, chic, no fuss.
Wait a what?
Online dating, Lin. Like I said.
You did, and I said no.
No, you said, Whod want me. Not the same thing at all.
We stared at each other, her steady certainty giving me that nudge only an old friend can.
Sarah, Im fifty-two.
I know. Known you thirty years, havent I?
So?
So nothing. Sit down.
I sat. Not because Id caved my legs were simply tired. It had been a long day, tax returns at work; then congestion on the M25. I sat down just to rest.
Give me a photo, Sarah demanded, switching on her laptop.
What photo?
A good one. Got anything you like?
I hesitated. The latest ones were from the annual office do glass in hand, hiding in a corner, looking sideways since Richard rang three times to ask when I was coming home.
Ive one from New Years, I mumbled.
Show me.
I did. Sarah studied it for ages. This ones good. Seriously you look fantastic. Why dont you stand up tall like this in real life?
No ones looking at me in a photo, I said and realised I didnt quite know what I meant.
Sarah gave me a searching look, then uncorked the wine.
We spent ages filling out the profile. Well, Sarah did, while I protested at every line.
Intended purpose? she read aloud. Linda, just put chat.
I dont want to chat with random people.
Doesnt matter. Put it anyway.
About me? I moaned. What now? Accountant, make amazing Yorkshire puddings, married to a man obsessed with women over fifty?
Well say: Active, loves reading, open to adventure and travel.
I dont go anywhere.
Would you like to?
I considered.
Yes. I think so.
There you go then no fibs.
We used that New Years photo: me in a burgundy dress, hair swept up, something alive in my eyes. Richard hadnt seen that dress; hed been asleep when I got home.
Done, Sarah announced, snapping the laptop shut. Profiles up.
So what now?
Now, we wait.
For what?
Youll see.
I poured myself a glass of wine, looked out the window at the street-light, bare sycamore, nothing much happening just an ordinary evening. Richard was next door watching the telly, volume exactly at forty-two. The hum was as familiar as breathing.
Oh well, I thought. Lets see. Cant do any harm.
I finished my wine, then washed up.
By the following morning, Id forgotten all about the profile.
I went to work, slaved over the quarterly accounts, forced down some dreadful soup from the staff canteen, and at three realised I was just staring out the window counting pigeons.
My phone was in my handbag.
At five, I pulled it out, half-expecting something from Richard. Nothing from him, but there was a little red notification from the dating site.
A bold 11 glimmered on the icon.
Eleven messages. In a single day.
I stared at my phone; it stared right back. I stuffed it away again, paused, heart thudded, then fished it out once more.
Eleven.
Probably just spam, I told myself.
I opened the app. Not one scammer. Eleven actual men, with photos, names, real messages. Some short: Hi, lovely profile. Others more thoughtful. One David, fifty-four wrote three proper paragraphs, about books, about not meeting anyone with such a look in her photo for years, about his love for travel.
I read his message twice.
I wrote about travel too, I mused. Then felt a faint pang of guilt. Only a small one.
That night I rang Sarah.
Theres eleven of them, I blurted, skipping hello.
Already?! She was delighted. Told you!
One writes about books.
Reply!
Im not replying.
Linda.
What? Im fifty-two! Im married!
Reply.
I didnt. That evening, I washed up, thinking about David and his three paragraphs.
Im off my trolley, I told myself.
But next morning I opened the app. The red number was no longer eleven.
Twenty-eight.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. Richard still sleeping.
Twenty-eight men, overnight.
I scrolled nervously, like I might break something precious. There was Andrew, forty-eight, an engineer, cheeky photo holding his cat. There was Michael, fifty-six and serious, in a tie: Youre a very attractive woman. Then Sam and I stopped forty-one, posing by mountains, just wrote: Hi. Tell me about yourself.
Forty-one. Eleven years younger.
I closed the app. Then opened it again.
By the end of the second day, the total soared over fifty.
Fifty-three messages. No, wait, fifty-four as I was counting.
There I was in my kitchen, drinking tea, scrolling through messages as though Id popped out for bread and unearthed buried treasure. There was Philip, fifty, a businessman, whod penned a poem not his own, but it was sweet. There was Nigel, You caught my eye, Id love to know you better. And that same Sam, mountains behind him, tried again since I hadnt replied: Are you busy? No problem if so.
I stared at his note, thinking.
Richard was grumbling at the television the telly replied in kind. They got on rather well.
Whod want you, I remembered.
Fifty-four men in less than forty-eight hours. Some my age. Some younger. One wrote poetry. Another sent a second message, no pressure, just polite.
Richard John Cartwrights theory was starting to come apart. Slowly, like an old floorboard underfoot, but unmistakably.
I finished my tea, put my mug in the sink, and for the first time in years looked properly at my reflection in the dark kitchen window, not just a passing glance but really looked.
There shimmered a fifty-two-year-old woman. Upright. Bright eyes. Who, in two days, had received fifty-four messages from strangers.
Blimey, I whispered to my reflection.
It seemed to agree.
The phone buzzed on the bedside table.
Richard reached for his glasses, which were next to it, just as the screen lit up: another notification. He picked it up with the careless routine of someone who never expects surprises. He looked. Frowned.
Looked again.
Sam: Good morning! Thinking of you
Richard sat up slowly, as if hed just heard something important but wasnt yet sure if it was good news or dreadful.
Linda! he called.
I was in the kitchen making coffee. I heard but took my time.
Linda!
Im coming.
I entered, mug in hand, calm. Richard was clutching the phone like hed caught something wriggly and didnt know if to let go or not.
What on earth is this? he asked.
I glanced at the screen, then at my husband. Sipped my coffee.
A notification, I said.
I can see that. Whos this Sam chap?
From the dating site.
A pause. A proper, weighty pause.
What dating site?! Richard shot up. You registered?
Yes.
Why?!
I set my mug down, looked him squarely in the eye not angry, almost curious, like someone about to reveal an answer theyve known all along.
I was testing your theory, I said.
What theory?
The one about women over fifty. Remember? Whod want you.
Richards mouth opened, closed, opened again as he glanced down at the phone more notifications flowing in, one after another.
How many?
Fifty-four, I answered. In two days.
Fifty-four? he echoed, as if measuring the number and finding it didnt quite fit.
Some are even younger than me, I added, took my mug, and returned to the kitchen.
Richard John Cartwright remained standing in the middle of the bedroom, phone in hand. Outside, it was an ordinary morning the streetlight off, sycamore bare, sparrows squabbling on the sill. Everything was as usual. Except the theory, oddly enough, had simply stopped working.
Completely.
