Mid-Life Ex-Wife

by Stella Grey

  After I’d tidied up and had taken the dog out for his last pee, and had climbed into bed in soft pajamas, my Kindle primed and ready, I began to feel that I needed to say something. So I sent Roger a text message, saying, “What happened earlier, our not being able to have sex, it didn’t matter, you know. We’ll get there and meanwhile I am so glad to have met you. I am becoming really fond of you. Night night xx.” Then I wrote the entry in the dating diary. I was satisfied, encouraged, content.

  A one-word response came back: “Night.” There were no kisses. That was odd, I thought. It bothered me so much that I had trouble sleeping. The next morning there was another text from him that said: “You are very lovely, you know.” That was all.

  I frowned at my phone and replied. “When shall we meet again? Soon I hope. Cinema?”

  He didn’t reply until lunchtime. His message said: “Overloaded this week with project, but perhaps the weekend?”

  Should this have bothered me? Probably not. But, oh God, the bothering that it occasioned was really something else. I do this, though. I torture myself with others’ ways of expressing themselves. I’ve never really learned to make allowances for poor or different communication habits. I’m tortured by bloody nuance; by often imaginary slights and misjudged tone. I have become a self-appointed expert in nuance. I was confident, when I started online dating, that I could interpret those nuances with the accuracy of an atomic clock, though often I was shown to be way, way off. It was possible that the absolute unshakable confidence I had in that ability would be my downfall over and over. Lesson Six was this: sometimes, the things that are happening in the relationship are only happening in your head.

  Though at other times they’re not only happening there.

  “Roger, is everything okay?” I ventured to ask. He didn’t reply until the evening, and then I got an email from him, the first real email he’d sent. My heart was full of dread when I opened it, and with good reason. If he was emailing, it was to explain something he couldn’t say by text and couldn’t bear to in person or on the phone. Sure enough, my instincts were good. He was seeing someone else on Friday, he said. He hoped I wouldn’t mind too much. He hoped that I was also dating and seeing other men.

  Maybe you think this was fair enough, and normal-normal and the way it works, and my qualms about it were over-sensitive. Maybe your opinion is that exclusivity—particularly after a second failed attempt to have sex—was too much to expect. I know of several people who “date” as a permanent way of life, without ever becoming exclusive to anyone, and I can see how the thinking goes, but it isn’t for me. I can’t see people on a rota, not even in the even-handed spirit of having lots of friends, all of whom are equally cherished. It doesn’t usually work that way, in any case: often “open dating” entails hidden scoring and shifting rankings, until a number one is decided upon and the process comes to an end. I didn’t want to take part in that game show.

  I became engaged in an internal debate. On the one hand, Roger was a handsome, charming and intriguing man. On the other hand it was pretty clear to me what his message about non-exclusivity really meant. If you feel the need to announce to someone that you’re seeing someone else, and hope they are too, you’re signaling your waning interest. That’s the purpose of it, surely. It’s an announcement that’s likely to offend, and people must say it in the full realization of that. It isn’t a kind announcement. Maybe it wasn’t even true, that he was seeing someone else. Maybe it was a get-out clause. Perhaps he was trying to get me to finish it, so that he didn’t have to. Whatever the case, my confidence in the two of us had crashed to the ground.

  The week that followed was difficult in general. I was moving to another flat, a hundred yards down the road, which had been long planned but was still completely exhausting. Just before moving house, my poor old dog, who’d developed a tumor, became much worse: he was in obvious pain, the vet agreed, and uncomfortable and had lost his joy in life. The prognosis was bad and it was just going to get worse, from here on in. The vet made it clear where he thought the obligation of a kind owner lay. So my lovely boy had to go to his final sleep, which was devastating. (I wasn’t going to get another dog. But then I went to the refuge “just to have a look” and came home with one. There were too many sad old boys desperate for love, a need that I couldn’t ignore.)

  So, I packed up, with family help, and got a man with a van to help move me the hundred yards, and then I unpacked again, with more family help, and was confined to barracks for several days, getting everything sorted out and settling in. A few mornings later, having no choice but to resume work, I took my laptop out of the residual chaos and down the road to my usual café. And then the thing that everybody had been telling me would happen did happen: the offline real-world romcom story line. I got talking to a stranger in the coffee shop, and left some time later feeling deeply, nonsensically infatuated. It was as sudden and unsolicited as an ambush, and the Roger debate went out of my head.

  It was my neighborhood café, and I found myself there often in that phase of my life. I liked the people who worked there and hung out there, and the occasional casual conversations; I liked the loose, relaxed sense of community, and I liked the people-watching plate-glass window onto the street. Even the coffee was quite good. As I was going in, a tall middle-aged man held the door open for me. He was broad-shouldered, strong-looking, had silvery gray hair cut short and pale blue eyes; he was wearing a suit jacket, white shirt and jeans. He had a certain presence, an atmosphere; something personal and portable; some people do. I’d discover later that he was ex-military—sometimes ex-forces people have something about them that’s hard to put into words. (Roger had been ex-military too; did I have a thing about ex-military? If so, I wasn’t ever going to admit to it.) When we got into the queue I turned to the stranger and said, “You must order first, as you were here first. Door opening shouldn’t impede your rights to the last croissant.” He was trying not to order the curd cheesecake, he said, though every fiber of his being longed for some. Me too, I said, but I won’t if you won’t.

  He was trying to get fit, he said, and was attempting low-carbing. He told me enthusiastically about the high-protein regime. He’d been pretty good and had stuck to the plan, and had lost half a stone. It was unfortunate, in the light of this, that the barista interrupted him by saying, “Your usual?” and gesturing towards the cheesecake.

  “Ah, you have form,” I said. “Your name and your carbohydrate ways are known here.”

  “I’m afraid that I do and they are.” He wasn’t classically good-looking, not by any means, but he had an attractive smile . . . and that quality about him, one that’s hard to put into words.

  We stood at the waiting area, chatting beside the sugar and cinnamon. It was busy, and so coffee delivery took a while. When both cups were produced, instead of going to a table we both chose to stay there, at the end of the counter, getting in other people’s way but staying put. It was a mutual decision not to move. We dodged other customers as we continued talking—about cake and diets, exercise, the use and abuse of weekends, going to the cinema alone (Aha!), swimming, the coming of autumn, dogs, books, work. He’d just gone freelance and found himself working at the café a lot. “I’m Andrew by the way,” he said. “Very glad to meet you.” We introduced ourselves properly. We’d finished our coffees by now, and he bought us both a second one. The barista, who knew I’d been online dating, gave me a look that was almost conspiratorial.

  When Andrew came closer to me, to give me this second coffee, I had the weirdest impulse to kiss him. I can’t account for it, but I felt an immediate, strong sense of . . . I was going to use the word ownership, but that won’t do. I felt an immediate strong sense of belonging. What I wanted most was to keep talking. I wanted to say, “Shall we go for a walk, shall we eat together?” But I didn’t, obviously, because he was a total stranger and it might have been interpreted as deranged. (And because I’m not brave.) “Right,” he said eventually
. “Down to work.” He’d come here to work at a café table on a Saturday, too, just like I had. It’s something that single people find themselves doing, when the weekend begins to be echoey.

  “Yes, down to work, I suppose,” I agreed. I walked away, holding my coffee with both hands—I found I was a little bit shaky, a little bit light-headed—and went to the far end of the room. Andrew occupied a table nearby, and I looked at him occasionally over my cup, aware that he was doing the same.

  I couldn’t concentrate on work, and texted Chief Sensible Friend. “I’ve just experienced it, the thunderbolt. I’m not kidding. Pow! Andrew, 6'4, silver fox, charming, bright, possibly interested. Help me.”

  “Oh Christ,” she replied. “Not again.”

  “No no!” I responded. “Actual thunderbolt. Plus, seems v. nice. Interesting, cute, funny.”

  “Leave the café at once,” she responded. “Go home, never go back; avoid, avoid.”

  Obviously, I completely ignored this advice. I thought it was kind of obnoxious, actually. How the hell did she know? People’s intuitions can be genuinely irritating. I went on Sunday and waited for forty-five minutes, reading a paper and watching the door, and Andrew didn’t show. On Monday in the early evening he came in, waved hello and sat looking intently at his laptop. A male pal arrived and they talked animatedly about politics, before leaving together. On Tuesday I wore a skirt and boots, a T-shirt and jacket, silver jewelry, lipstick, and waited for over an hour, and he didn’t come. On Wednesday I zipped round there at 8 a.m. for a take-out, still in my baggy black pajamas (which just about look like leisurewear), with a big long woolly over them, a hat over my ears, a disguising ankle-length coat, not having even cleaned my teeth, and guess who turned up? I pretended I hadn’t seen him, until I had to pass by in order to exit, and then I wished him a cheery good morning, and strode home.

  I hadn’t heard from Roger since the dating-others email, but now felt ready to reply. “I don’t think we should see each other again,” I wrote. It wasn’t me doing the dumping; the truth was he’d already done the dumping, with his apparently sincere desire that I see other people.

  “I’m sorry you don’t want to continue,” Roger said in his reply. “Let me know, any time, if you’d like to have dinner again. Best, R.”

  The detached, unhurried unconcern of this told its own story. I spoke to a friend about him. She saw his point of view. He’d been badly hurt and was spreading the risk. I told her how I’d listened in to a conversation between two American students at the coffee shop about dating. Neither of them was going steady. They were seeing different guys every weekend and were having fun. It was an alien idea, that it could be a process of enjoyment, rather than of neurotic anxiety, second-guessing, self-doubt, panic and nausea. But that’s the way to do it. That’s definitely the way to do it. “American-style dating and seeing several people is exactly what you need,” the friend said. “Lots of nice dates, lots of nice men and no danger of heartbreak.” I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t have been one of Roger’s roster, taking turns and wondering who he was snogging tonight, just like I couldn’t enter into a polygamous marriage. In any case I had my own diagnosis of his easy-come easy-go approach, one that was more straightforward. Roger wasn’t actually attracted to me. He was a complicated man but I think it was that simple. Instinct was telling me that it was a hopeless case.

  A few days later I got to the coffee shop to find that Andrew was watching the door. He asked to join me. “I haven’t seen you here for a while,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” I had a physiological reaction to being in his vicinity, one that was unprecedented. My pupils were probably at maximum dilation. I was blushy, stammery, sweaty, an over-excited woman trying to appear calm. We talked about food, the pros and cons of old flats versus new builds, little known parts of the city, art—he wasn’t a fan of modernism—American TV series we’d seen, and then, becoming overwhelmed, feeling I might have a heart attack, I had to excuse myself and go home.

  On Saturday morning I was sitting reading when Andrew came and sat—temporarily he said—in the next chair (he was parked at a table down the room). We talked about trying and failing to stay off the internet, about whether we’d go to university if we were eighteen now (probably not), history degrees (he has one), and then we got onto punctuation. I’m a grammar nerd, mildly bugged by a split infinitive, and he wasn’t; he didn’t think it mattered; he thought language should be simplified. As we were having this conversation, a mother and adorable blonde tot of about two came to sit on the sofa opposite. The little girl made a grab for my phone and I had to swap it for her toy one, and negotiations were complex. When they’d gone, Andrew said, “Pretty child.”

  “Do you have children?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said, looking away. He kept looking away, as if thinking about something challenging. Then he said, “Well, I must get on. Work to do. Have a good day.” He returned to his table, but only for five minutes, before packing up and leaving. Clearly the query had been a faux pas. But of what order?

  The following Sunday, while doing some work at the café (I’d begun to do a lot more work there), I became aware that Andrew was standing in front of me. I was in a quiet corner where there are only two tables, and after looking around at the options he sat down at the other one, unpacking his laptop. He began to chat to me as he did so, and we got talking and lost all track of time. Our laptops sat open and dormant while we chatted. We had several coffees—I can’t be sure how many—at intervals, still talking, and then glasses of water, and didn’t stop. I was amazed to find afterwards, looking at my watch, that we’d talked for over three hours.

  Initially I’d had the same physical response to him, but after a while I began to relax. This time we talked about ambition and money and fulfillment. We talked about time, and how different it seems in your fifties (he was fifty-five) and about infirm parents. We talked about going to live overseas in our old age, and about unspoiled corners of Europe, enthusing about the Mediterranean way of eating. He said that cooking was his main relaxant at the end of the day, and that he lived alone. He’d never married. I told him a bit about my divorce, and said that I’d been online dating. He said he was trying it too, but with little success so far. He thought he might buy a little house in France, and retire there, and it happened that I knew of one for sale, so Andrew asked if I could send him the internet link, and gave me his email address. I had his email address, now, which was hugely encouraging. This could be the beginning of an email romance, I thought—though the incredibly exciting thing was that we already had a connection with the quality of that: we’d talked to one another, in three-dimensional space, in ways that I’d only experienced via email with Peter, with Martin. That had been email and illusory, but this was real; this was happening!

  I can’t tell you how excited I was. I was having all the good and happy feelings. My antennae were picking up reciprocal feelings. This was going to build up a real head of steam; it was going to develop into a sexual and intellectual intimacy, I was sure of it. I’d seen in his eyes the same realization about me as I’d had about him. On the way home, still euphoric, I thought, This is it; this is the man I’ve waited for and wanted. It’s done. I’ve found him. The minute I got back to the flat I wrote that in the dating diary and underlined it. Next, I emailed him. “I’m sending this to you before I forget,” I wrote. I attached the link and sent the email without pondering any cunning additions. I wrote it and sent it. He had my email address now.

  Late the following afternoon a reply arrived, thanking me for the info about the French house. He might go window shopping, looking at other houses in the south of France on his laptop as a work-avoidance strategy, he said. He was in the café, he added, and having trouble concentrating. He was in the café! That had to be an invitation, or else why had he mentioned it? I dropped everything and ran down the street, before slowing to a casual stroll as I drew closer. Andrew was standing in the queue for another cof
fee. “I just got your message as I was coming here,” I lied, holding my phone up illustratively. “I didn’t see you here at all, until recently, and now I see you here all the time!” That was because he was finding the freelance life lonely, Andrew said. I sat at a nearby table to him, reading a paper. It wasn’t too obvious or smothery a thing to do, I reassured myself, because it was the only table that was free. My phone buzzed with an email from Roger, saying he was sorry that it hadn’t worked out. He’d realized he wasn’t ready to enter into a one-to-one relationship that would lead naturally into a partnership. He needed to see lots of people first, make friends, have fun, take his time. I said I understood, and wished him luck.

  Midlife hesitancy about commitment is a big topic. Sometimes it’s complicated. Sometimes it masks another truth (in other words, it’s another form of the kind lie). Someone on Twitter told me of a friend of hers who’d been seeing someone she met on a dating site. All seemed to be going well; in fact it had been going really well for six months when he felt he had to correct a misunderstanding. He felt the need to point out that they weren’t really a couple. “Oh, but we’re not an item,” he said. Some people are able to live in a permanent state of impermanence. I talked to a psychiatrist friend about Roger’s freedom issue. He concurred with the kind lie theory. “He’s chocolate coating it, this Roger person,” he said, “because actually it’s just that he wants to dick around—and why do men dick around? Easy. Because they’re terrified of death.” Whatever the case, there’s no doubt that fifty is dangerous; fifty is a neon sign in your life that reads Last Chance. There’s still time at fifty to change everything, still the last remnants of an illusion of youth and potential. At fifty, that’s a time to take serious stock. Better ask yourself at fifty if you are happy with your life, because it might be the last fork in the road, the last time we can convince ourselves that we’re still in our prime.