Raven (15 page)

Quick as a flash he came back with: ‘How would your kids/grandkids feel about you being on Tinder?'

‘They'd feel embarrassed. Not betrayed.'

Then he blocked me, even before I could block him.

*

I am on a girls' night in, Sauvignon Blanc and light supper in the kitchen. Emily is a few years younger than me, Carole a few years older. Both are friends from the enthralling world of London media folk. And both are single. But there the similarities end. Their approach to men and relationships couldn't be more disparate. And I sit between them, both at the kitchen table and in my viewpoints on those weighty issues.

Emily has never married or had children. She is a steadfastly independent woman, beholden to no one. She likes it that way. For many years she has been involved with a married man and says theirs is a close, warm relationship and that the arrangement is mutually satisfying.

‘We don't see each other often,' she admits. ‘Maybe every five or six weeks. It's passionate and intense and about having a wonderful time together, rather than sharing every aspect of our lives. But that seems to be enough for both of us.'

‘Good for you,' I say. ‘And the wife doesn't know?'

‘No and we intend to keep it that way. No one needs to get hurt. Actually, I think his relationship with me stops him from leaving his wife. It makes his marriage more bearable. I just hope she never finds out.'

I recall a famous Fleet Street journalist (and noted ladies' man) once telling me that his suspicious wife had the temerity to examine his emails and afterwards confront him with the evidence of his adultery. ‘She read personal emails,' he declared in an outraged tone, ‘with no respect for my privacy.' Only such an unashamed roué could argue that her betrayal of his right to privacy was a greater sin than his betrayal of their marriage vows.

‘I had a few relationships with married men, a long time ago,' I say, ‘and it was never a happy gig for me. Won't be going down that road again.' I mention that one married man, with whom I'd had a passionate affair 15 years earlier, wanted to stoke up the old fire now that I was single again. Our affair had started when he was newly married and ended six months later – abruptly and painfully – when his wife became pregnant with their first child. Sobered by the realisation that he was going to be a father, he no longer had the stomach for an extra-marital affair. But now that that baby had grown into an ornery teenager and fatherhood into a wearying role, a
liaison dangereuse
was on the table again. ‘Looks like fidelity and commitment are fluid concepts for a lot of men. Most men, I'd say.'

‘You see, I could
never
do that,' says Carole. ‘I'd never have a relationship with a married man. Full stop. I've had a few invitations from married men but always point-blank refused. It's just wrong. And anyway, if I were in a relationship with a man I'd want it to be exclusive and not have to share him with some sad little wifey-poo sitting at home, pining away for hubby.'

Carole is the uncompromising sort. And generally believes that she is right about things. Her partner died nearly two decades ago and except for a couple of fleeting relationships, she has been on her own ever since. The problem, she admits, is that her standards are very high and no man she meets can equal her late ex. We discuss this impasse.

‘You don't want to price yourself out of the market,' I remark.

‘I understand about having standards, really I do,' says Emily. ‘But it
is
possible to adjust one's standards without necessarily lowering them.'

Carole nods. ‘Maybe, but it's not easy. And the longer I'm on my own the harder it gets. I'm used to having things the way I like them now, so I don't know if I'm capable of sharing my space full-time with someone else again. I don't even like having house-guests for more than a weekend.'

‘You've become too set in your ways,' I remark, feeling like the designated freewheeler amongst the three of us.

‘Comes with age, hon,' replies Carole.

Emily asks: ‘But you still want a man in your life, right?'

‘Of course. Don't we all? Nobody wants to grow old alone.'

‘So what are you doing about it?' I ask. ‘Why don't you try online? You can meet thousands of blokes on those dating sites. There's got to be someone out there you'd like.' (I don't even mention Tinder; the notion of Carole signing up for that is surreal.)

‘I'm too busy working. Haven't got time for all that futzing around on the computer. Anyway, the pool of older single men in London is a nightmare. When I tried the lonely hearts ads a couple of years ago every guy I met was either a ghastly bore or weird in some way.
Yeuch
!'

‘And what about sex, Carole? Have you given up on it?' This is my specialist subject; I feel I must ask.

‘Well, there's a problem with that.' She pauses. ‘I'm wary about having sex with anyone because I always fall in love with the people I sleep with.'

Emily and I exchange glances. ‘
Always
?' asks Emily.

Carole nods. ‘Yes.'

‘Oh Jesus, Carole,' I say. ‘That's crazy. You fought for women's lib back in the sixties, remember? I bet you burnt your bra. We'll never beat men at their own game if we can't control our emotions.'

She shrugs. ‘Sorry, that's just the way I am. It's no big deal, though. Sex isn't that important to me any more.' She flashes me a pragmatic smile.

‘Oh.' I smile back sweetly. ‘I see.'

But I didn't really see. At this point in my life I didn't get ‘throwing in the towel' with regard to sex at all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

There were another half-dozen or so Tinder boys with whom I entered into a dialogue which began with promise and heated up into a crescendo, only to burn itself out, usually for no discernible reason. But in a few cases I knew precisely what the reason was. Young people have learnt to be cautious in the virtual world and are mistrustful sometimes to the point of paranoia. There were TBs who remained unconvinced that I was who I claimed to be, suspecting that mine was a fake account and I was up to no good.

Admittedly it was highly unusual (probably unique) for a woman of my age to be on Tinder. So it seemed unlikely to them. There had to be something fishy about it. Was I part of a scam of some sort? One young man tried to ‘catch me out' by inquiring whether I'd be interested in accessing his personal details, to see what my response would be. At first I hadn't a clue what he was on about. Later he friended me on Facebook to check my credentials and that set his mind at rest, although by then we had both decided that this was not a ‘match' we wished to pursue. (He did inform me, though, by way of consolation, that his mate ‘might be very interested'!)

And then there was Sam, who for me spelled the endgame. Our introductory e-conversation, late one night, turned quite ugly. Although he had ‘liked' me on the app, which was why we were communicating, he soon began to doubt my identity, demanding to know what I
really
looked like. I sent him my popular little lingerie shot but he brushed it aside: ‘That could be anybody!'

Then he became insulting about my age. ‘Shouldn't you be making jam or something?' That was a bit below the belt.

I didn't know how to convince him I was genuine and was wondering why I should even try, when he sent me an obscene photo of a very fat woman doing something indelicate to herself with fruit. It was meant to shock me, like a slap in the face, but it was too stupid and juvenile for that, it just made me realise that it was past my bedtime and I should switch the mobile off. And switch Sam off, permanently. I deleted him from Tinder and my contacts list and went to sleep.

In the morning, without much deliberating, I went one step further and scrapped my own Tinder account. I had been on it for two weeks in total, encountered an intriguing little selection of young men and had had jolly good fun. A fascinating experiment. But the Sam episode left a sour taste in my mouth and I knew it was time to skedaddle from that particular playground. It had not been designed for the likes of me.

I was surprised, soon afterwards, to receive a text from Sam. ‘Apologies if that actually was you last night. Had too many beers and got carried away!'

‘Boys will be boys. Luckily I have a thick skin. [Not necessarily true.] Well, just off to make the jam now…or should I prune the roses instead?'

‘Ha! Sometimes a thick skin is needed with me. I can be temperamental at times!'

‘Is that what you call it?'

We had what seemed to be a pleasant exchange. I told him that, contrary to his impression, I was not a retired lady of leisure but a working journalist and directed him to my website. He browsed through it before messaging again: ‘I'm shocked…you're a real person, who's lived a very interesting life!'

He told me he worked for a government department. Good lord, I thought, I can see why this country is in a permanent mess, with boozed-up government employees getting out of control, insulting the older generation and firing off offensive photos. Still, he seemed to have returned to his senses now.

‘Sam, I'm glad we had that uncomfortable Tinder chat last night because it made me realise it isn't for me and I should get off. So I've deleted my account.'

‘You probably made the right decision. There's a lot of testosterone flying around on Tinder, including my own. I suppose because you have no prior knowledge of anyone on there you don't feel guilty making outrageous statements. Well I don't!'

‘I agree. Anyway, for me the whole thing had got a bit crazy.'

‘I guess that's what comes of encouraging innocent young men. The lure of the older woman is overpowering!'

‘Perhaps. But believe me, these innocent young men don't need much encouragement.'

‘So…have I missed the boat? If only I'd been a few young men earlier.'

‘Ah, I see. So now you're interested.'

‘I was always interested. Just cautious.'

‘Fair enough. Okay, I'm happy to meet, if you like, but will leave it up to you.'

Then came the final slap. ‘Well here's the deal. You send me a picture of you with something relevant and I'm game. Otherwise it's a no go.'

‘Don't know what you mean.'

‘A picture of you today, maybe pointing at Tinder on your computer screen, something verifiable. Then there's no confusion.'

He was still confused? ‘You're kidding. Think I would let some young guy demean me like that? Hey, meeting you isn't that important to me.'

‘I don't intend to demean you. But it would be nice to put my mind at rest.'

‘Then you can friend me on Facebook or connect with me on LinkedIn and we can send messages that way.'

‘That doesn't help. Anyone can fabricate social media profiles. It's a picture or nothing.'

I might have replied, truthfully, that personally I did not know how to fabricate social media profiles. But I had wasted enough time on suspicious Sam and no longer cared what he did or did not believe. To me he was just an irritating greenhorn whose presence was no longer required.

‘No deal.'

And with that, my days and nights of Tinder loving care came to an end.

*

At our last chinwag Sara had pointed out that some of those Tinder tots were actually closer in age to my grandsons than my sons. Only by a year or two, but even so, the thought was sobering (if only slightly). ‘Try to date some men your own age,' she advised. ‘You might click with someone. They won't all be like DanBoy and his dreary caravan.'

I mulled this over. I had loved being with young men. It wasn't just the robust, dexterous sex and the many pleasures of intimacy with delectable, strong young bodies. It was their company, too. Their easy banter, entertaining slang and youthful mannerisms. I loved it all.

But Sara was right. I ought to give the oldies another go. There were a few stipulations, however, which had to be met by any contender with whom I might enter into a liaison. Firstly, he couldn't have the same first name as my ex-partner. I had spent thirteen long years uttering that name and fancied a change. I was fairly open-minded about it but had a preference for short, zippy names. Drew and Clint, Tod and Rod, for example, were all perfectly acceptable. Secondly, he couldn't be yet another business consultant, like my ex. I no longer wanted to hear the buzz-phrase ‘systems and processes' or the constant refrain of ‘does that make sense?' at the end of every exposition. And finally, (yes, again like my ex) I'm afraid I couldn't countenance another fellow who took personal development courses and read self-help books. If I were to, as they say, ‘get into bed' with someone (cue much chortling), I would insist that they already knew who they were and be content with it.

On the other hand, if the aspirant was hot-hot-hot, all the above objections would immediately be rendered null and void.

So, onwards and numerically upwards to the online oldsters. I decided to tweak my own dating profile narrative, making one or two minor concessions. Perhaps it had been putting some acceptable contestants off. Thus ‘all men are rascals' became the more conciliatory ‘most men are rascals'. And after ‘I'm just looking to have a nice time' I added: ‘but if something more promising turns up that would be a bonus!' (This was to encourage the serious prospects…not that I was anticipating any.)

I had grown strangely restless over the months of my internet dating. Once I had been reasonably content lying on the sofa watching TV of an evening or else reading in bed, and in the summer months, with their late hours of sunlight, taking leisurely walks in a nearby park. But now I felt an almost constant urge to be monitoring the doings on the dating site – checking to see who had, or had not, been viewing or winking or messaging me. Browsing through the never-ending parade of prospective matches. Checking the mobile for texts from my conquests (I use that word with irony) and if possible indulging in lengthy, risqué texting sessions, sometimes into the small hours, with any who were around.

It was as if I could never let things slow down, much less come to a standstill, I had to keep them moving, moving, moving. I always had to feel those wheels spinning underneath me. And I wondered whether this was only a temporary character adjustment or had I been altered for good. Was this me, or was it the Raven?

I started to receive messages from a tall, grey-haired Aussie in his mid-fifties called Bob. An academic. Jovial but highly articulate (so refreshing), he displayed an agreeable touch of self-irony.

BOB: You are right. We men are indeed rascals, so nice that you appreciate us on our own terms. You understand us far too well, which removes any advantage of surprise. Not sure why you women put up with us…although I suppose we have our uses!

RAVEN: Yes, you have your occasional uses. Jump-starting car engines, checking tyre pressures…

BOB: And cuddling and other such delights.

RAVEN: Let's leave those for later, shall we?

BOB: Of course, women can be temperamental and irrational. While men are simply horny. But I will practise being charming.

RAVEN: Keep practising. You never know, it might work.

BOB: Less likely with someone who recognises men for our inherent shallowness and villainy! ‘Tis all that testosterone washing about, an antidote to reasonable and rational decisions at times.

RAVEN: Ain't that the truth!

Once we had begun communicating on our mobiles, away from the sharp, supervisory eye of the site administrators, he seemed to go into libido overdrive, telling me how horny he was and that he would definitely have to ‘cum' very soon. Hullo, I thought, here we go.
Et tu
, Bob? I had hoped for more. Then again, he was from Oz.

We set up a date. Bob lived in Chiswick and offered to drive over and pick me up to take me out for drinks and dinner somewhere nearby. A real, old-fashioned date. These old guys really did have their advantages. Cars, money, their own property, language skills. And the ability to drink and drive without hitting anything.

Bob turned up in one of the larger Mercedes models. Nice. I could get used to it. Must tell Vanessa.

It was a balmy evening so I proposed we have a drink in my tranquil back garden rather than at a crowded local bar. He readily agreed. I opened a bottle of chilled white, got out the olives, and we sat down at the garden table.

He was gregarious, in characteristic Aussie style, and enthused about my vine-covered pergola, the exotic palm tree, the row of towering bamboos along the rear fence and the fish pond. As we sipped the wine he regaled me with tales of his life and times. He was a fluent, intelligent talker and I was pleased that we agreed on the major political issues of the day, because life is so much easier when I am not compelled to leap into those predictable right vs. left battles in order to ‘stand up and be counted'.

A divorcee, Bob and his ex-wife now communicated only through their respective PAs, and he did not often see his teenaged kids, who had moved abroad with their mother. But (unlike most Englishmen in his position, I imagine) he didn't seem too weighed down by these personal tribulations. And on the upside, as he pointed out, his present family arrangements left him free to follow his horny instincts on London's freewheeling dating scene.

He told me that one of the women he had met through the dating site and gone out with a few times later killed herself. ‘Nothing to do with me. Apparently she'd been clinically depressed. Bit of a shock, though, to open the paper one day and read about her suicide.' Even the memory of this tragic incident failed to dampen his spirits, though. He simply popped another olive in his mouth and poured more wine.

He had also had dates with a couple of ‘gold-diggers', attractive young foreign women (one Korean, one Nigerian) in search of a sugar daddy. Naturally he was shrewd enough to see through them early on, and his only regret was that he felt obliged to give them the heave-ho before managing to get his leg over. They were ‘ravishingly sexy', he said.

Bob was likeable. How could you not like someone who can reel off the names of half-a-dozen eminent Hungarian scientists (and pronounce their names properly) while also telling you that you have a great ass? But I doubted there would be any hanky-panky between us, because I wasn't sufficiently attracted physically. I'd become spoilt. The seemingly inexhaustible supply of men online, including many splendid specimens, had made me highly pernickety. If a chap was too short, too old, too fat, too skinny, too hairy, too hairless, too big-nosed, too small-nosed, or he had bad teeth or piggy eyes or bandy legs…it was good-bye, Charley.

Bob had referred to the ‘inherent shallowness' of men, but I realised I was being pretty shallow myself. Did the Raven care? No the Raven did not.

Bob had a fairly presentable appearance but his bulging belly put me off. After those firm, muscular Tinder tummies, I'm afraid that belly just leapt out at me in a way it probably wouldn't have done a few months earlier.

After the first bottle of wine he seemed in no hurry to drive off to a restaurant, and as neither of us was starving, I opened more wine and brought out the dips 'n' crisps. We carried on talking as the light faded and darkness set in. Bob could expound engagingly on a variety of subjects and the hours rolled by. It began to look as if we would not be going out anywhere that night, and I just hoped that – despite his none-too-subtle allusions to matters orgasmic – he wasn't working himself up for a seduction attempt.