For Two Months, I Wined and Dined a 56-Year-Old Woman at the Best Restaurants—But the Moment I Invited Her Back to My Place, She Dropped the Act Instantly

For two whole months, I wined and dined a 56-year-old lady. But the moment I invited her round to mine, her mask slipped faster than a buttered scone.

Five years ago, my divorce went through without much drama. I settled into my bachelor routine, and for a while, it suited me fineslippers, strong tea, and not a cushion out of place. Lately, though, the idea of always coming back to an empty flat has started to wear thin.

Im now 56, still reasonably sprightly, not yet creaking at the joints. So I did what any modern Englishman would: registered for online dating, hoping to meet a woman for a proper relationshipperhaps even shared holidays in Cornwall or Lake District strolls if things went well. Against all odds, within days I’d found someone who seemed interested.

Her profile was classic:

Susan, 56, widow, seeking a decent English gentleman for a meaningful relationship.

The photo showed a pleasant, down-to-earth woman with warm eyes. We started messaging, and straight away I let her know I wasnt looking to twiddle my thumbs for months exchanging puns and cat GIFsI wanted real companionship, shared day-to-day life, and maybe a cheeky weekend away. She agreed, and we set up a date that weekend in the heart of Birmingham.

The first date was a treat. We strolled through the city in beautiful weather, chatted about her job and grandchildren (classic topics), and I nodded along, being the attentive sort. I appreciated her calm presenceno verbal overkill. Afterwards, I took her to a café and, of course, paid the bill. Im old-fashioned; if a chap invites a lady out, he ought to cover it.

Thus began our official sweets and bouquets phasechocolates and flowers were a routine purchase for me, but we both had a lovely time. Every Friday and Saturday, wed indulge in a cultural evening. Im not tight-fisted, but if I ran the numbers on what I spent over those two months… well, lets just say the Bank of England would be unimpressed.

We went to the theatre, then always ended up in a restaurant. The following weeks saw us at art exhibitions, concerts, even a countryside drive with a hearty pub lunchvery Peak District.

I styled myself a proper gentleman, assuming we were drawing closer. Shed link her arm in mine on the high street, beam, and say,

Martin, youre such good companyso attentive and charming.

You can imagine my ego was chuffed.

The warning signs at the cinema

Looking back, I ought to have read the room. There were clues in her behaviour.

Firstly, she never once invited me to her place. Not even for a quick cuppa, not accidentally-on-purpose. Every attempt met with, Oh, the house is in a state, My granddaughters over, or Im shattered after worklets stick to the café. At first, I assumed she was just shyan independent woman unused to hosting a man. I didnt push, just waited for the right moment.

Secondly, her age-related chatter was distinctly odd. When it came to outings and adventureslong trips, dinners, a dash around Legolandshe was positively youthful. Suggest a more intimate atmosphere and, in a blink, out popped Granny Edith: all tutting and pursed lips.

Once, in a near-empty cinema, I gently rested my hand on her kneejust being affectionate, nothing improper. She immediately shifted and said, quite crisply,

Martin, people will see!

Susan, its pitch blackand were alone at the back.

Thats not the point. We’re not teenagers, are we?

I chalked it up to an English upbringinga bit of reserve never hurt anyone. But the nagging discomfort began: we’re not 16, were nearly 60, so why play the coy Victorian Miss for months on end?

She could also deliver a marathon on her medical history. I get itat this age, half of Birmingham has a dodgy back and blood pressure thats all over the shop. But she went on with an almost theatrical delight. Id endure dinner-long accounts of her cholesterol battles and the comparative merits of statins.

Of course, I listened attentively and offered to take her to my GP. But when I mentioned that I went swimming twice weekly to keep in shape, she made a face as if I’d suggested base jumping.

Whats the point of all this exercise? Youll wreck your ticker! At our age, you ought to be sprawled on the sofa with a book, not splashing about in chlorine.

But I wanted more from life than counting ceiling tiles.

Moment of truth and a brisk sermon on shame

Last night, I decided enough was enough. Two months is plenty to decide if youre a match.

We were in a Georgian restaurant, tucking into khachapuri and a decent bottle of Rioja. The mood was great, she was laughing loudly about colleagueseverything seemed promising. So, I opted for honesty.

Afterwards, we sat in my car, rain pattering against the windows, Classic FM on in the background. I gently took her hand. This time, she didnt pull away.

Susan, would you like to come back to mine? We can put the kettle on, listen to some music.

She went rigid. The smile vanished, replaced by a look one usually reserves for the taxman.

Martin, what, precisely, are you implying?

No implications. Ill just say it: I fancy you. Were both single, weve been seeing each other for over two months. Its perfectly natural to want to be closer.

And there it wasan oration on age, propriety, and spiritual connection, delivered with the conviction of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Do you hear yourself? Her tone tightened. That sort of thing is for youngsters and reproductive purposes. Why ever would we bother? Its preposterous! Can you imagine how wed look without clothes? I’ve got a roll, youve got a paunch. Ugh! At our age, its all about spiritual harmony, mutual support, and friendship. Not the animal stuff!

I stared, wondering if Id suddenly become some sort of perverted beast for wanting what, frankly, felt well-deserved after two months of West End plays and three-course dinners.

Susan, hang ona paunch? I go to the gym! And you look fantastic for your age. Who declared 56 the cut-off for anything fun, with the rest of life reserved for spiritual chats?

Its the done thing, she retorted. Proper Englishwomen my age are gardening or minding the grandkids. Id be mortified if my children found out Id taken up with a man for that.

At this point, my patience snapped.

So, you never actually wanted a partneryou just wanted someone to buy you meals, drive you around, and fund your new cultural hobby?

She went bright red, mostly with indignation.

I hope youre not suggesting that after a few dinners, I owe you my virtue?

Lets not be melodramatic, I said, keeping my inner volcano in check. I did the courting bitthat usually leads somewhere. You were, lets say, after a convenient pal with a car and credit card.

She shot out of the car and slammed the door so hard my Mondeo rattled. I sat and watched her stalk off, feeling fairly betrayedby myself, mostly.

I do enjoy good conversation and a discussion of Shakespeare over Jaffa Cakes. But Im a living, breathing man, with entirely normal appetites, and I refuse to retire emotionally just because someones convinced themselves that post-50 life is a spiritual waiting room.

Deleted her number, ditched my dating profile. Ill need a little time to recover from that circus.

From now on, Ive resolved: first date, straight to the pointwhats your take on intimacy? If I hear another homily about our age or grandchildren come first, bills getting split and its off to separate Tube lines.

Sowhat do you think? Was I wrong for hoping for a bit of romance at fifty-six? Or is it simply indecent to suggest closeness to a respectable woman of such a mature vintage? And why, pray tell, do ladies sign up to dating sites if theyve already consigned themselves to tea with the cat?