Recently, a reply to a hello message that I wrote last autumn arrived out of the blue, apologising drily for the delay. It came from Miles, who is an academic and lives an hour away by train. Miles is round-faced with wild, grey hair and a wide smile. His profile picture, I recalled, was rather dapper (three-piece suit, tie; a picture probably taken at a wedding) and he’d come over as a Glass Three-Quarters Full person, consumed by enthusiasms. His only complaint about life was that there’s not enough time.
After a brief flurry of mutually reassuring emailing, establishing that there was conversational potential, I was invited to lunch. After a morning of trying on and rejecting dresses, opting for jeans, boots, a T-shirt and blazer, careful, subtle makeup, big jewellery, I nervously took the train to his town, to meet at a restaurant he’d suggested.
In fact, this was plan B. Originally, he had asked me to his house in a village a further short drive away. “Sod the protocol. Come to my place on Sunday and I’ll cook you lunch and we’ll walk across the fields in the afternoon,” he wrote.
What seems normal and sensible to one person – a 10-minute lift from the station – is impossible to others. I’m unable to get into a strange man’s car unless it’s a taxi. Nor, needless to say, was I sure about going into a stranger’s kitchen. Miles thought I was being overcautious. Caution will gain us nothing, at this stage of our lives, he said. As he’s 59, about to be 60, this was perhaps a little over-inclusive. Maybe he could cook for me on the second meeting, I suggested. I had already checked his identity, online; academics are easy to validate, at least. His reaction to this idea was positive. Good plan, he said. Let’s do that. Then he sent another email, the night before we met, with pictures of his house – a newbuild, partly designed by him. Beneath the photographs there were thoughts about what he might cook me for lunch on our second date.
We decided to meet at the restaurant. After that, we’d mooch; there was interesting mooching to be had. Stay for an early evening drink, he said, perhaps an early supper somewhere before heading home. By the time I got to the bistro, it was raining heavily.
Miles texted to say he would be late. I texted back to say I was already at the table. When he arrived, the man striding towards me, the big smile evident, looked a bit different from the man in the profile picture, but then, no doubt, so did I. He was wearing a cotton polo neck and a giant, plaid shirt. He was broader, a decade older than in the picture, and balding. I wasn’t attracted to him, but I’ve learned not to make snap judgments. Sexual chemistry isn’t always immediate. Sometimes it builds softly and surprises you.
We ordered and talked about being single in midlife. He’d been divorced for almost 10 years and in the past four, hadn’t had a relationship that lasted more than a month. Perhaps you’re too picky, I told him. My mother’s sure I am. He didn’t ask about my mother or my family or origins, or career. He wanted to talk about ideas, which was fun, if a bit exhausting.
We ate fish and drank white wine – I drank almost all of it, as he was driving – and then he insisted on paying the bill. He was smiling broadly as he paid. “This has been fun,” he said. “It’s tremendous to meet new people.”
As I rose from the table – the first time he’d seen me standing up – his eyes went to my hips and thighs, and his smile faltered. We stood in the porch of the restaurant, under its awning, the rain hammering on it. He had already made his decision. Miles, who is heavy, with a belly that I could have forgiven, couldn’t bring himself to see me again. He could give me a lift to the train, he said, but to be honest I’d be as quick to walk. Oh, I said, sounding obviously disappointed, you’re heading straight home? I thought …
He had work to mark, he said, not looking at me, and it was raining, so best call it a day. He said goodbye and went over to a big silver car, unlocking it and raising a farewell hand, as I opened my umbrella and crossed the road towards the station.
Stella Grey is a pseudonym
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