Ive always thought that dating after fiftysomething belonged to people with firmlyset views, a decent dose of life experience and, at the very least, a basic sense of propriety. The fairytale notion of princes on white horses has long been out of my wardrobe.
Im fiftyfive, I work, I have a grownup daughter, a cosy flat in a leafy suburb of London and a life thats more or less humming along. Still, every now and then I crave a pinch of ordinary human warmth a night at the theatre, a coffee over a good book, a chat that isnt about spreadsheets.
With that in mind I signed up on a dating site. Among the endless stream of odd messages and outright absurd proposals, Arthurs profile struck me as refreshingly sensible.
He was fiftynine. His pictures showed a trim man in a tidy blazer, standing in a sundappled park. In our chats he was polite, peppered his replies with compliments, talked about his job as a civil engineer and his fondness for classical music.
After a week of texting we met at a café on the South Bank. Arthur turned out to be exactly as his photos suggested: dignified, a touch of silver at his temples, a smooth manner of speech. He courteously pulled my chair out, ordered two cappuccinos (declining the pastry on the grounds that he was watching his sugar), and spent the evening expounding on why, in todays world, we should cling to traditional values.
Im an oldschool gentleman, Evelyn, he said, looking into my eyes with a seriousness that made me think of a library reading room. To me, a woman is a muse. A man ought to be a provider and protector. I cant stand the modern habit of keeping separate accounts. Courtship should be done with a dash of elegance.
It sounded almost lyrical. We met up twice more, strolled along the Thames, talked for ages. Then the weekend arrived, and the weather took a turn for the worse a dreary November drizzle.
Evelyn, how about I pop round for dinner? Arthur suggested over the phone, his voice as smooth as a wellpolished shoe. Well sit in the warm, have a chat. Of course Im not coming emptyhanded Ill sort everything out. All I need from you is a cosy place and a smile.
Being a sensible Englishwoman, I didnt plan to rely on just a smile. From the moment I woke, I launched a fullscale springclean. Then I headed to the supermarket: a good joint of beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses, and an expensive baguette from the bakery. I spent about three hours at the hob.
I roasted the beef with prunes my signature dish that never fails to win approval. I tossed together a light salad, set the dining table with crisp linen, fetched crystal glasses, lit a few candles, and slipped into a smart housedress with a touch of makeup.
By the appointed hour I was as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date.
The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hair, drew a deep breath and opened. There, dripping slightly from the rain, stood my guest, coat damp but shoulders proud.
Good evening, lovely host! Arthur stepped in, tipped his hat and began unbuttoning his coat. From the kitchen wafted the intoxicating aroma of the roast. He inhaled dramatically and smiled, Ah, I can already feel a feast waiting for me!
Come in, Arthur. Hang your coat, I said, halfexpecting him to unveil the promised gifts. Truth be told, I wasnt dreaming of a bouquet of a hundred roses or a vintage wine. A box of chocolates, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have done. Its the thought that counts.
Arthur hung his coat, adjusted his blazer, then, with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, reached into an inner pocket and declared:
As I said, Evelyn, I never come emptyhanded. A gentleman should always contribute.
He slid a paper packet across the table.
Instinctively I lifted it, and my eyes dropped to a cardboard box of the cheapest black tea the sort you find on the lower shelves of the local supermarket, on promotion. The brand was unremarkable, the wrapper unglued, the inner flap haphazardly tucked in.
I froze, trying to process the scene.
Arthur, is that open? I whispered, fearing a prank.
He wasnt embarrassed in the slightest. Instead his face lit up with the patronising smile of someone lecturing a child on elementary truths.
Of course! I just bought a couple of sachets the other day. Its a good, strong brew, quick to make. Thought Id share. No point lugging a whole box when we wont finish it in one evening. Well manage the rest, youre the hostess after all.
I stood in the tidy hallway of my flat, candles flickering behind me, the roast beef cooling on the kitchen counter a dish that had taken half a day and a respectable sum of money to prepare.
And opposite me was a respectable, welldressed, fiftynineyearold engineer, spouting about traditional values, who presented me with a halfempty packet of bargain tea. Not a single extra tea bag inside.
A thousand possible reactions raced through my mind. I could have laughed in his face, launched a fullblown tirade about his stinginess, or simply swallowed my irritation, seated him at the table and fed him meat while feeling like a servant.
Instead I chose a different route. A calm that surprised even me settled over me.
I placed the crumpled box on the sideboard by the mirror, met Arthurs gaze, and smiled not a forced grin but a genuine one, relieved that his true colours had shown up right on my doorstep, not after months of polite small talk.
Arthur, I said evenly, Im touched by your generosity. However, Im afraid we wont be needing this tea.
His eyebrows shot up. Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring you some green next time; theres half a packet left at work
There wont be a next time, I replied, still calm. You were right about men contributing, but your contribution was spectacularly underwhelming. My dinner cant live up to it.
He shrugged off his stilldamp coat and, with a voice that suddenly sounded like a roosters crow, blurted, Whats the matter, Evelyn? Upset over a bit of tea? Such mercenary attitudes! I came here after a hard week, and youre making a fuss over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!
I need respect, Arthur. First and foremost for myself. Put your coat back on; its chilly out. And dont forget your tea, lest you catch a cold with nothing to treat it.
I handed him the halfused packet, nudged him toward the door and shut it behind him.
The lock clicked. Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, filled the flat. I made my way to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of fine red wine, cut a slice of the fragrant roast, and sat down at the beautifully set table. Alone.
And you know what? The dinner was divine. The meat melted in my mouth, the wine sang in the glass. I felt neither disappointment nor loneliness, only a quiet pride that I hadnt let anyone trample over me.
Men often accuse us of being mercenary, of hunting for sponsors. Lets be honest: it isnt the price tag that matters. Its the attitude. A man who brings a halfempty packet of cheap tea is not saving money; hes sparing his own feelings, his respect. Hes showing that the woman isnt even worth a modest effort. Im done spending my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.
What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered this brand of male generosity? Or perhaps I was overly harsh and should have given the fellow a chance?