Age fifty-one. Divorced for seven years now, with a grown-up son settled nearby with his wife. I work as Head Accountant for a retail chain, earning £2,300 a month. Own my own two-bedroom flat and drive a car. I weigh eleven and a half stone at five foot five. Hardly a supermodel but Im comfortable in my skin, properly content with myself.
About nine months ago, mutual friends introduced me to Richard. Sixty-three years old but could easily pass for fifty-five fit, athletic, a head of silver hair that suits him. Ex-army, now retired, and doing the odd security consultancy work.
For seven months, it all went brilliantly between us. He was attentive, a witty conversationalist, a real gentleman. Never split the restaurant bill, always brought me flowers, and his compliments seemed genuine. Not once did he make a comment about my age or figure.
Three weeks ago, Richard said to me:
Claire, were not exactly spring chickens anymore. Why waste time? Move in with me.
So, I did. His place was a spacious three-bed in a good area, tastefully decorated, solid furniture. Looked the part.
But after just eight days, Id had enough. On the ninth morning, I packed up and went back to my own little flat where, should I fancy a cheese and pickle sandwich at eleven at night, nobody sits me down for a lecture about my blood sugar.
Day one: An absent breakfast
At seven a.m. I woke to some unusual noise. Richard wasnt in bed. I wandered to the kitchen and found him at the hob, wearing trackies, stirring a saucepan. He grinned:
Morning, love! Sleep alright?
Fine, thanks. Whatre you making?
Porridge. Made with water. Want some?
I wrinkled my nose. On water? Dont you usually use milk?
He shook his head. Milks loaded with needless calories. At our age, we should be mindful.
Richard, Im fifty-one, not eighty-one. Bit of milk in my porridge wont kill me.
He dished up the porridge.
You can, but why bother? A hundred millilitres of semi-skimmed thats forty-something calories. Adds up to over a stone a year if youre not careful. Nearly three pounds of pure fat.
I looked at the bland mess in the bowl. Any sugar?
Sugar? Claire, thats pure carbs. If you must, have a spoonful of honey.
I dumped three teaspoons in. Without it, the stuff tasted like bird seed.
He walked me to the door, kissed me goodbye. Seemed normal enough. I thought, fair enough, the mans got his quirks Ill manage.
Day three: The plate rule
Came home knackered after work on the third night. Annual review, auditors in, the lot. All I wanted was a hot meal and my bed.
I opened the fridge. There were vegetables, chicken breasts, fat-free cottage cheese, and eggs.
No sausages? I called. He popped his head round the corner.
Sausages? What for?
I fancy a butty.
He came over, opened the fridge and pointed: Theres chicken. Ill boil some up perfect dinner.
Richard, I dont want chicken. I just want a sausage and cheese sandwich.
He sighed. Claire, sausage is all saturated fat, salt, preservatives. Recipe for a heart attack after fifty.
My blood pressures fine, I had a full check-up last month!
Its fine now, but what about in five years? Come on, let me cook you a proper dinner.
He boiled the chicken, made a salad, portioned it all out. Half was salad, a quarter chicken, a quarter brown rice.
Look. This is the plate rule: half vegetables, a quarter protein, a quarter slow-release carbs. Ideal balance.
I eyed my plate hardly enough to fill a hollow tooth.
Can I have seconds?
What for? Its plenty. At our age, smaller portions are a must.
I ate, but was hungry within the hour. Went back for bread. He spotted me.
Where are you off to?
Im hungry.
We finished dinner two hours ago!
Yes, but Im still peckish.
He glanced at the wall clock. Nine oclock. After six, your digestion slows, calories turn straight to fat.
I stood there, bread in hand. Richard, I am a grown woman. If Im hungry, Im eating.
Have a glass of water. Hungers often just thirst.
So I drank my water, and went to bed stomach rumbling. Woke up at two am, crept to the kitchen, and quietly ate an apple.
Day six: The weigh-in
Come the sixth morning, stepping out the shower, and there he was, brandishing his digital scales.
Hop on.
What?
Weigh-in. We have to track progress.
Progress of what?
Weight, of course! I weigh every morning, you should too.
I crossed my arms.
I dont need to weigh myself every day.
Why not?
Because Ive no need! My weights just fine.
He looked me up and down. At your height, best to be nine and a half stone. You must be nearly eleven and a half. Thats an extra stone and a bit not good for your heart.
Something snapped inside me.
In other words, you think Im fat?
Not fat. Just carrying a bit extra! But easily sorted. Morning jogs, gym in the evenings, and my food plan youll drop a stone in three months, look as good as a teenager!
I turned on my heel and left the room, hands shaking.
Day eight: The cake final straw
Two nights ago was a colleagues birthday at work. Brought home a lovely big chocolate cake, one slice for me and one for Richard.
I stroll into the kitchen: Look at this! Lets have a cuppa.
He opened the box, marched straight to the bin.
What on earth are you doing?!
Thats poison sugar, margarine, food dye. Were not twenty-five, Claire.
I stared as he binned the whole thing the gorgeous cake Id been looking forward to sharing with him.
You threw away my cake.
I saved you the calories.
You hadnt the right!
Wiping his hands, he said, Of course I do. We live together, Im looking after your health. Dont be cross, I care about you.
I went straight to the bedroom, sat on the bed. Enough was enough.
Day nine: Packing up
Got up before dawn. Richard still asleep. I quietly packed my bag. The noise woke him.
What are you doing? he asked.
Packing. Im leaving.
Where to?
Home. My place.
He sat up, dazed.
Why?
I faced him, keeping my voice calm.
Because I dont want a life run like an army camp. I dont want dreary porridge, daily weigh-ins, or lessons on bloody glycemic index. I just want to live.
But Im only looking out for you!
No, I said firmly, Youre trying to change me. From day one, its been about fixing me: the weight, the food, your plate rule. Im not your project I dont want to be!
He got up, defensive. At our age, health is everything!
At our age, I replied, enjoyment is everything! Ive spent fifty-one years working hard, caring for everyone, keeping it together. If I want cake after a long week, thats my right.
I took my bag and left, and he didnt even try to stop me.
What I learned after those eight days
Now, Im back home, happily enjoying a sausage sandwich at ten oclock. Tomorrow, meeting my friend at a café Ill order a cheesecake and a cappuccino, extra cream.
And do you know what Ive worked out? Real care is accepting someone as they are not trying to improve, streamline or fit them to some ideal.
Richard didnt see a woman in me. He saw a fixer-upper: a diet to correct, a routine to impose, a project to manage.
But Im not broken. Im alive. If I want cake at fifty-one and dont feel the need to step on the scales every day, that isnt irresponsibility its the right to enjoy life.
When a man polices what you eat, bins your cake for your own good thats not caring, thats control. Where is the line?
If a woman over fifty carries a few extra pounds but feels perfectly fine, does a man have the right to motivate her to lose weight or ought he hold his tongue?
And ladies, would you put up with a man who drew up a strict menu, made you weigh in every morning, and rattled on about every calorie? Or would you show him the door straight off?
What I learnt: you cant build happiness out of constant improvements. Some people are best loved and left just as they are.
