What’s Going On with Men These Days? I Invited One Over to My Place, Thought It Might Turn Into a Relationship

For some inexplicable reason, crowds of women seem to believe that once they’ve crossed the age of forty and collected a divorce or two, it’s perfectly acceptable to give up on life altogether. I find myself in just such shoes. Ive walked down the aisle twice. The first time, when I was fresh-faced and hopeful, and from that chapter I have a wonderful daughter. The second time, I was thirty. Neither marriage lasted more than a pair of years. There seemed to be something a bit off-centre about the men.

Naturally, after my second trip through matrimonial misadventure, I found myself in a selection of romantic tangles, though none of them ever blossomed into marriage. Now, at forty-five, despite the bizarre twists of my years, I stubbornly continue to believe there’s joy out there for me yetsomewhere, my soulmate is sipping tea in the sun, waiting. To spare you the winding back-lanes of my tale, just last month I encountered a manquite by chance and quite dreamilywhile drifting through Hyde Park. His name was Charles, aged forty-nine. I was gliding along, the picture of calm sophistication, when I decided to stop at a café for tea.

Charles approached, intentions shimmering oddly behind his polite smile. No, he didnt match my long-held image of the perfect English gentleman, but he was smartly dressed, polished shoes reflecting distant clouds. We exchanged perfunctory introductions, and he offered to buy me another cup of Earl Grey. Not wasting time, I asked him directly whether he had a wife or a lady-friend. His words danced around the answer, evasive as the London fog. It was apparent there was some sort of entanglement. Still, I extended my hand, inviting him home for tea and the scones I had baked only yesterday. Yes, perhaps it was mad to invite a near stranger in, but the whole thing felt draped in a half-sensible dream. Besides, wed been seen by plenty of familiar faces in the park, so there was really nothing to be concerned about, and Charles struck me as harmless enough.

Upon entering my flat, we paused in the hallway. Charles looked about, a faint giggle escaping him:

My, you do have quite a sizeable place. Rather looks as if the decorators last came around before England won the World Cup!

I pretended not to understand. Ten years ago, I had indeed given the flat a new look. But everything seemed perfectly charming now. Why pour pounds into plaster and paint when I could invest in myself? Was that truly such a strange philosophy?

I served Charles the tea and scones, and as we nibbled, he started in again, making small jabs at my home. I told him straightforwardly, What does it matter what kind of flat I live in? Why dont you invite me to your place, then? He fell instantly silent. There was no witty retort, no invitation. He took his leave with the promise that hed ring me in a week’s time.

A week drifted pastsilent as the Cambridge mistnot a peep, not so much as a cheeky text. Then, late Saturday night, a message appeared: he wanted to see me. I replied that, if he was coming over, he could very well lend a hand with the redecorating. Together, we could put up some new wallpaper! Suddenly, Charles recalled urgent business that needed his attention and said he’d have to see about coming round another week. I suspect he was a married man, nosing about for a convenient dalliance with a well-off woman. Well, I dont fit that bill. In the end, it scarcely matters. What matters is that all we shared was a passing camaraderie. Im certain Ill find real affection, in some odd, dreamlike corner of the world. And heres the only advice Id give any woman: if a man never lifts a finger for you, why ever would you hold onto him?