Cindy Blake

    The first time I went out to dinner on a date, I was 17 years old. The 18-year-old boy in question took me to a fancy restaurant and, at the end of the meal, paid the bill with a flourish. I was thrilled. He seemed fairly pleased himself. It didn't occur to me to offer to split the bill. In those days, life was simple. And wonderful. Men paid.

    Then what was once called Women's Lib came along and females of my generation claimed that we wanted equality. We didn't want doors opened for us, we didn't want bills paid. Suddenly, being wined and dined was considered insulting, part of the male conspiracy to keep us in our places. So we got out our chequebooks and went Dutch. What a huge mistake that was. If I had carried on assuming I'd be paid for, I would not only have saved a lot of money, but a lot of worry as well. I used to spend entire meals wondering what to do when the bill arrived. Should I offer to pay half? If I don't, will he expect me to kiss him or ...? And if he's paying, can I still have the lobster? How fair is it of me even to offer to pay half when I know I'll be disappointed in him if he accepted? And what if he's got less money than me, should I pay for it all?

    My unattached female friends, who all used to believe in the shared-bill policy, now say that the only time they would pay for themselves is if they were out with one of those men you meet through dating agencies. “Sometimes I think about saying I'll put in my share,” one of them told me, “But paying for yourself is one way of signaling that you don't fancy the man. Of course, if he asks me to, I'll split the bill with him, but I'm afraid that signals something to me: the fact that he's tight-fisted.”

    Women my age have double standards where money is concerned. We want equal treatment and equal opportunities, but we have a deep-rooted, illogical and romantic desire to be taken care of emotionally and financially. We hide this feeling because we know it's old-fashioned and sexist, but it exists nonetheless, even among women who are highly successful earners.

  During my university days, I started getting tired of political correctness. I hated splitting the bill for two pieces of takeaway pizza, and secretly longed for some man to whisk me away to restaurant. So I was thrilled when I was asked out to dinner by one of the heirs to the Rockefeller fortune. This was my dream come true. I wouldn't have to worry about what I ordered, or who paid. He was a nice man in his late twenties; a nice man with millions in the bank. When he told me that he'd booked an expensive French restaurant, all I could think of for days was how romantic the evening would be.

    Shortly after we sat down, he began talking about how many people took advantage of his wealth. “Everyone just assumes I'll pay for everything,” he frowned. I frowned along with him. I knew I'd have to offer to split the bill. At the time, I had a low-paid job in a book-shop. If he accepted my offer, I calculated that I'd effectively lose two weeks' salary. By the time the bill arrived, I had heard so many stories of how difficult it was to be rich, that I wildly offered to pay for the entire meal. I was sure he would politely refuse and pull out his credit card. He very politely accepted and, to my horror, handed me the bill.

    My 14-year-old daughter is regarded by her brothers as a junior feminist. But when I asked her recently if she would expect a boyfriend to pay for dinner out, she replied, “Absolutely, that's his job.” Sorry, men, but she's right. That is your job -- at least on the first date.