“You’re fifty now—who would want you?” her husband scoffed. But Linda decided to find out for herself

Youre fifty, whod even want you anymore? Mark used to laugh. But Linda was ready to see for herself.

Lindas husband, Mark Edward Cartwright, was a man of theories. Not just one, mind you. He had about twenty, and held onto each as tight as old chewing gum under the kitchen table. Beef is the only proper meat for a good stew. Cats are cleverer than dogs. The telly volume should be exactly forty-two not higher, not lower. But the one theory he loved to announce the most was: No mans interested in a woman past fifty.

He had a different way to say it every time.

Sometimes academically: Its just nature, Linda, its nothing personal.

Sometimes like he was a philosopher: Thats life. You cant argue with it.

But mostly, and this was always when Linda put on a new dress or added a bit of lipstick, hed just say, matter-of-factly: Youre fifty now, love, who on earth needs you?

No question mark. Just the obvious truth.

Linda was fifty-two. She worked as an accountant for a building firm, did a bit of morning exercise, read in the evenings, baked pies on weekends pies Mark would demolish, never once linking the treats to his question of whod need you.

Theyd been together twenty-six years. In that time, Mark had grown thicker around the middle, gone bald, and developed his collection of theories. But Linda hadnt changed like that. Or rather, she had, just in her own way.

Her friend, Jane, spotted it first.

Lin, Jane said one day over coffee, peering at her with that special squint which always meant: Im about to say something important, and possibly a bit mad. Do you even realise youre gorgeous?

Oh, bugger off, Linda replied, as she always had.

No, I mean it. Properly. And listen how about signing up to a dating site? Just as a laugh. For the science.

Linda put her mug down.

Have you completely lost it?

Well just fill in a profile. Find a cracking photo. See what happens.

Nothing will happen, said Linda. Im fifty. Whod want me? She caught herself mid-sentence, recognising Marks tone and words echoing straight out of her mouth.

Jane was a woman of action. She didnt do endless coaxing it wasnt her style. Shed just get on with something until it was simply awkward to say no. So that evening, she turned up at Lindas with her laptop, a bottle of wine tucked under her arm, and a face that plainly said it was all decided anyway.

Right, Jane said as soon as she was through the door, setting the wine down. Were sorting your profile. Quick, tidy, no nonsense.

Hang on, Linda hadnt even managed to untie her apron. What profile?

Dating site. I told you.

You did, and I said no.

You said, Whod want me? Thats not the same.

They stared at each other Jane with that unshakeable look she got when she knew she was right and was just waiting for everyone else to realise it.

Jane, Im fifty-two.

I know Ive known you thirty years.

And?

And nothing. Sit down.

Linda sat. Not because shed given up, just because her feet ached. Long day. Then reports at work. Then traffic. She just wanted a sit.

Photo, come on, Jane said, opening her laptop.

What photo?

A good one! Got any decent ones?

Linda thought. The latest were from the office do, where she stood in the corner with a glass, a bit sideways, staring out the window because Mark called three times that night asking when shed be home.

Theres one from New Years, she confessed.

Show me.

Linda found it. Jane looked for ages.

Thats lovely, Jane said at last. Why do you always slump in real life but stand straight in photos?

Because no ones looking at me in the photo, Linda mumbled, not really sure what she meant herself.

Jane studied her, went quiet, then popped open the wine.

Making the profile took ages. Really, Jane typed, Linda protested every box.

Interests? Write chatting, Jane prompted.

I dont want to chat with anyone.

Thats not the point. Put it anyway.

About you. What am I meant to put? Accountant who can cook a mean stew, and lives with a man who thinks women past fifty are invisible?

Well say: Energetic, interesting, loves books and travelling.

I dont travel anywhere.

Do you want to?

Linda hesitated.

Yes.

There you go, not a lie.

They chose that New Years photo. Linda in a burgundy dress, hair tidy, her eyes lit up with something alive. Mark never saw that dress hed already gone to bed when she got home that night.

All done, Jane said, snapping her laptop shut. Profile sorted.

And now? asked Linda.

We wait.

For what?

Youll see.

Linda poured herself a glass of wine. She glanced outside evening, a streetlamp, bare branches, nothing much happening. Just an ordinary evening. Mark was in the next room watching TV volume, of course, set at exactly forty-two. The dull hum was somehow comforting.

Oh well, Linda shrugged to herself. Profile it is. Wont come to anything anyway.

She finished her wine and started scrubbing the dishes.

The profile vanished from her mind the next morning.

She went to work, slogged through a quarterly report, had terrible canteen soup for lunch, and at three found herself counting pigeons on the office window ledge.

Her phone was still buried in her bag.

At five, she dug it out. Just to see if Mark had called. He hadnt. But there was a notification from the dating site a little red circle, with a number: 11.

Eleven messages. In a day.

Linda blinked at the phone. It stared right back. She stuffed it in her bag, waited about three minutes, then fished it back out.

Eleven.

Must be junk mail, she reckoned.

She looked anyway. No spam just eleven men, all with pictures, names, and proper messages. Some were quick hellos. Others wrote longer, more thoughtful notes. One, Peter, fifty-four, had left three solid paragraphs about books, about how hed never met someone with her expression in a photo, and how much he loved travelling.

Linda read that one through twice.

I did say I loved travelling, she remembered, feeling a slight twinge, but only a little one.

That evening, she rang Jane.

Theres eleven, she blurted, skipping hello.

Already?! Jane was delighted. Told you so!

One of them talks about books.

Reply.

Im not replying.

Linda.

What? Im fifty-two, and Im married.

Reply.

Linda didnt. She did the washing up and kept thinking about Peters three paragraphs.

Daft old bat, she chided herself.

But next morning she opened the app anyway. The notification was no longer eleven.

It was twenty-eight.

Linda perched on the edge of the bed. Mark was still snoring.

Twenty-eight men had written to her overnight.

She scrolled, careful, as if she might break something. Here was Jack, forty-eight, engineer, goofy photo with a cat. There was Michael, fifty-six, all serious in a tie, wrote: Youre a beautiful woman. Then Dan caught her eye forty-one, a mountain in the background, and just wrote, Hi, tell me about yourself.

Forty-one. Eleven years younger than her.

Linda snapped the phone shut. Then opened it again.

By dinner the next day, the number had gone over fifty.

Fifty-three messages. Well, fifty-four, really, by the time she finished counting.

Sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, she flicked through as if shed gone to buy bread and come back with a treasure chest. Here was Stephen, fifty, a business bloke, sent a (borrowed) poem but nice anyway. Then Paul: I like you, would love to get to know you. There was Dan with the mountain, again, writing politely a second time because she hadnt answered: Sorry if youre busy, no worries.

Linda stared at the message for ages.

Mark was chatting away to the TV. They got on rather well, those two.

Whod want you? she remembered.

Fifty-four people in two days. Some her age, some younger. One sent poetry. One waited and wrote back, politely, hardly pushy.

Mark Edward Cartwrights favourite theory was falling apart. Quietly, like old floorboards creaking, but falling apart all the same.

Linda finished her tea. Put her mug in the sink. And for the first time in ages, caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window properly, not a quick glance, but really looking.

There in the glass stood a fifty-two-year-old woman. Upright. Lovely eyes. And, in two days, fifty-four messages from total strangers.

Well, would you look at that, Linda said, just above a whisper.

Her reflection seemed to agree.

Her phone was on her bedside table.

Mark reached for his specs, and just as he did, the screen lit up with a new notification. He picked it up with the casual boredom of a man who expects nothing. Checked the screen. Frowned.

Looked again.

It read: Dan: Good morning! Was thinking of you…

Mark Edward sat up in bed. Slowly. Like someone whos just been told something big, but isnt sure if its good news or bad.

Linda? he called out.

Linda was in the kitchen, brewing coffee. She heard him but took her time.

Linda!

Im coming.

She walked in with her mug, calm as you like. Mark was holding the phone like it might suddenly leap up and bite him.

Whats all this then? he asked.

Linda glanced at the screen. Then at Mark. Sipped her coffee.

A notification, she replied.

Yes, but whos this Dan bloke then?

From the dating site.

Pause. A cracking, long pause.

What dating site?! Mark stood up. Did you actually sign up for something like that?

Yes.

Why?!

Linda set her coffee down, eyed her husband without malice, almost as if he was a maths problem for which she already had the answer.

I was testing your theory, she said.

What theory?

The one about women over fifty. Remember? Whod want you?

Marks jaw dropped, shut, dropped again. Glanced back at the phone while three more notifications popped in, one after another, as he stared.

And how many of how many?

Fifty-four, Linda told him, with a neat little smile. In two days.

Fifty-four, Mark echoed, like trying on a suit that didnt quite fit.

Some are younger than me, Linda said, picked up her mug and wandered back to the kitchen.

Mark Edward Cartwright was left standing in the middle of the room, clutching the phone. Outside, it was just another ordinary morning lamp off, tree bare, sparrows squabbling at the gutter. Business as usual. Only the theory had stopped working.

And that, as they say, was that.