The Inevitable Choice
Emily jumped at the sharp shout:
“Oi, you little scoundrel!” Victor raised a heavy shopping bag over a trembling puppy before rounding on her. “Have you lost the plot? Feeding strays with my groceries?”
One spring day, Emily had been struck by a sudden longing for love.
She stood before the mirror, studying her reflection with quiet contemplation. “Time flies, doesn’t it?” she sighed. “Seems like only yesterday I was young as a daisy, and now… well, more like a seasoned rose. Still lovely, but with a hint of autumn. Soon it’ll be winter, and then—Blimey, better take matters into my own hands!”
Thirty-seven—the age when wisdom has settled in, but beauty hasn’t quite packed its bags. Perfect for bold decisions! But where to find love? Her office was all women, random street encounters weren’t her style, and dating apps felt dodgy.
Still, they say fortune favours the brave.
And then, luck smiled. A new bloke joined HR—Andrew Stevenson. Tall, slightly portly, with a warm grin and stern glasses. Around her age. Emily noticed his calm demeanour and quiet confidence straightaway.
Competition was fierce, mind you. Take Lucy, the junior HR assistant—young as a spring lamb, legs for days, plump lips, and lashes that could summon a hurricane with a flutter.
Emily nearly lost heart. How could she, cosy and unassuming, compete with such dazzling youth? Surely Andrew would fall at Lucy’s feet without so much as glancing her way, blinded by all that bold charm.
But she was wrong. Lucy preened around Andrew like a peacock, flashing cleavage and endless legs, yet he remained unmoved.
“Lucy, need something? I’ll help once I’m done,” he’d say, locking eyes without so much as a peek downward.
Then one day, Emily brought in her famous apple pie. Andrew perked right up.
“Emily, you’re a proper sorceress! This tastes just like my nan’s. Takes me straight back to childhood!”
An odd compliment. Emily hadn’t set out to remind a grown man of his nan. She wanted a partner, not a nostalgic schoolboy. Still, she decided it was a start. Better that than silence.
She also realised: Andrew was a sucker for home cooking. Lucky for him, she loved baking—though her waistline begged to differ. Once a size 10, now comfortably a 14. So she kept bringing treats—less for her, more for the office (mostly).
Through pies and stews, Emily found her way to Andrew’s heart. Clichéd? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely. Soon, flowers and late-night chats followed.
“It’s mad, Andrew,” she admitted once. “I’d just started dreaming of love, and there you were. Proper decent, too. And here I was thinking I stood no chance—especially with Lucy fluttering about.”
“Lucy?” Andrew laughed. “Nah, not my type. Lasses like her are a penny a dozen—falsies, talons, legs always on display. Think blokes fall for that? No thanks. I like a woman who’s real—kind, cosy, knows her way round a kitchen. Like you, Em.”
“My luck’s finally in!” Emily rejoiced. “Took its sweet time, but it found me!”
Andrew seemed perfect. But—spoiler—no one is.
Six months in, wedding bells loomed. They might’ve rung, if not for one grim November evening.
The weather had thrown a tantrum—rain, sleet, wind switching directions on a whim. Emily and Andrew hurried home, huddled under an umbrella.
“Look, a kitten!” Emily stopped under a streetlamp where a tiny black ball of fluff shivered, sodden and pitiful.
“Leave it, Em. I’m freezing and starving,” Andrew tugged her sleeve.
“Just a sec.” She crouched. “Come here, little one.”
“Are you serious?” Andrew snapped. “Your fiancé’s soaked and hungry, and you’re fussing over strays!”
“We’re taking him,” Emily said firmly, tucking the kitten into her coat. “Stop grumbling. He’s worse off than us.”
“Mad cat lady,” he muttered, stomping ahead.
At home, Andrew’s patience vanished.
“Feed it if you must, then chuck it out!”
“Chuck him out? It’s freezing! He’s tiny, defenceless!”
“Em, don’t be daft. Streets are full of strays. You can’t adopt ’em all! Do your good deed and leave it at that. I’m hungry!”
“No, Andrew. I won’t abandon him.”
But Andrew wasn’t having it.
“I can’t stand cats!” he barked. “Pets should earn their keep—meat, milk, wool. Yours? Useless vermin. Not in my house!”
Emily saw a different man then. Cold. Selfish. Calculating.
“First, *my* house. Second—blimey, Andrew, did you pick me for ‘usefulness’ too?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” he spluttered. “I want a wife who keeps house, not just paints her nails. Normal, innit?”
“Ah. So I’m ‘useful.’ Lucy’s too ‘self-loving’ for you. You just want everything to revolve around you. Sod off, Andrew.”
“No dinner, then?” He smirked. “Fine. Enjoy dying alone with a cat army.”
“*Go.*”
He left, expecting her to cave. She didn’t.
New Year’s Eve, Emily toasted with Smokey—the kitten, now a sleek mini-panther. He soothed her blues, purring on her lap whenever sadness crept in.
By spring, hope had dimmed—until new neighbour Greg moved in.
Greg was Andrew’s opposite: stocky, balding, gruff. Post-divorce, he took the flat across the hall.
“Alright, love?” he’d grunt. “Need help? Handy with most things.”
Emily declined at first, until her kettle broke.
“Any good with appliances?”
“Mate, I’m a bloody wizard. What’s up?”
Soon, the kettle lived again (despite Greg’s creative cursing). Grateful, Emily invited him for dinner. A romance bloomed.
“You cook proper nice, Emily,” Greg praised. “But I’m no slouch either—cook, clean, fix stuff. Ex-wife never appreciated it…”
*So I’m not just a housemaid,* Emily mused. Plus, Greg adored Smokey:
“Proper lad, this one,” he’d say, scratching the cat’s ears.
She took it slow, watching. They were opposites—but maybe that worked?
Then, one supermarket trip, she spotted a ginger pup cowering nearby. She broke off some sausage and crouched:
“Here, boy.”
Greg stormed over.
“Get lost, mutt!” He swung his bag, then scowled at Emily. “Lost your marbles? Feeding strays *my* sausage? It’ll bite you, then what? Rabies jabs?”
The pup ducked under a bench. Emily stood, gripping the sausage.
“You *what*, Greg? You like Smokey, but scream at this pup?”
“Are you thick?” he roared. “Smokey’s *yours*. This one’s a bloody stray! Ought to be put down, not fed!”
Rage boiled over. Emily eyed the sausage, strode to Greg—mid-rant—and shoved it into his mouth.
“Here’s your sausage. And I’m done. Won’t date an animal hater.”
She scooped up the pup—who didn’t resist. Greg’s shouts faded behind her.
Now, they were three: Emily, Smokey, and Biscuit—named for his golden curls and tail like a cinnamon roll. Greg tried apologising, failed, called her a daft bint, and vanished.
“No luck with men,” Emily sometimes sighed to her pets.
“Poor sod,” Biscuit whined.
“Cheer up,” Smokey purred. “She’ll find the right one.”
“How d’you know?”
“Cat intuition,” Smokey smirked.
He wasn’t wrong. Next spring, Emily met a man who loved her—and animals—without hidden agendas. Their future? Likely grand. But that’s another tale…
