Widow’s weeds

After the death of my husband in 2021, when he was 76, someone described me as the most eligible widow in London.

That’s as maybe. I intend to stay a widow for ever. The world is full of blithering idiots and predatory males who consider me fresh on the market and therefore vulnerable.

I met an old acquaintance in the street recently. He asked me why I was looking glum.

‘My husband’s died,’ I said.

‘But that was months ago!’ he said, bewildered.

I have had more than a year to adjust and have conducted myself with dignity and decorum. Though I don’t want a husband or a boyfriend, I’ve been besieged by offers from predatory males, mostly married, seeking recreational adultery in the name of ‘comforting’ me.

On top of that, people have urged me to get a dog/travel to Bali/go to a Devon spa. My dentist’s receptionist said, reeling with laughter, three weeks after my husband’s death, ‘Get a toyboy.’

Another woman, when I mentioned that my husband died at home, said, laughing, ‘Did you kill him?’

I have braved a few parties, sombrely dressed. I’ve learned not to mention my husband’s death, as most men press their telephone numbers on me, saying, ‘Ring me if you ever want just to talk.’

When I say I don’t want a new partner, plenty of people say, ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to turn into a lesbian.’

Supposed condolences are often offensive. People say, ‘I know exactly how you feel,’ because their father, mother or aunt has died.

While the death of a parent is tragic, I object to the word ‘exactly’. Unless their spouse has died, no one has any idea how I feel. The only acceptable response is ‘How awful. Is there anything I can do?’

Some ask how old he was – code for ‘How many years do I have left?’ Another person asked which COVID vaccine he’d had – hoping to avoid the one he’d chosen.

And so the insensitive remarks keep coming. ‘Are you going to sell your house?’ is a very common question.

I once read that a woman living alone should never allow a man into her house unless he is a paid workman or a plumber, and that seems very sensible. I remember that when my mother was widowed, a creepy bloke had his feet under her table within weeks.

But even that advice isn’t foolproof.

In the summer, I had a telephone engineer round, tidying up cables in my husband’s office.

He asked, ‘Isn’t your husband around any more?’

‘Oh Gawd!’ I thought. Not another one. So I cheerfully said, ‘Of course he is. It’s such a beautiful day that he’s just out riding his horse.’

Invitations from long-standing male friends of my husband’s seemed kind to begin with. Still, the first of these men left an extraordinary message on my answer machine, saying the death of my husband had opened up endless exciting opportunities and possibilities.

After dinner at the Colbert restaurant in Chelsea, he suggested Dukes Hotel in Mayfair for ‘cuddles’.

I gawped and refused his offer.

‘Excuse me while I don’t walk you home,’ he said.

Another reliable friend of my husband’s also asked me to the Colbert. After lunch, he asked if he could come in and give me a hug.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t do hug.’

A few days later, I got an email requesting payment for half the restaurant bill.