The Best Husband Is No Husband at All
Marina had long stopped believing in miracles. Six years had passed since her divorce—six endless winters, springs, summers, and autumns. Her daughter had married and moved to London a year ago, rarely calling, and when she did, it was just to say, “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked if *Marina* was fine. She was only forty-two—an age when a woman ought to blossom, to learn to breathe again. But what good was blooming if there was no one to see it?
She could do anything—cook delicious meals, pickle cucumbers and tomatoes so well her neighbours drooled. Her balcony was lined with jars of preserves, like an exhibition of her solitude. “I can’t just rot away in this flat, looking this good!” she joked to her friends. They’d laugh and say, “Don’t rot! Look around—plenty of men out there!”
Then someone whispered, “Try a matchmaking agency. They say they find the perfect match. There’s one called *The Best Husband*.”
Marina scoffed. “How ridiculous. Like shopping—pick one, try him, return if defective!” But then she remembered her forty-two years and the relentless ticking of Granny’s clock on the wall. So she went.
A woman in a scarlet blazer and heart-shaped glasses greeted her.
“We take this seriously,” she smiled. “We select candidates, assign one for a week. Keep him if you like, return him if not.”
“*Assign* him? Really?” Marina snorted.
“Exactly! He lives with you. You’ll know right away if he’s the one. Saves time. No lunatics—strict vetting.”
Against her better judgment, Marina felt a spark of hope. They chose five candidates. She paid. The first was due that evening.
She dug out her emerald dress—”the colour of hope,” her mother used to say—and put on the cubic zirconia earrings kept in an old perfume box. Her heart fluttered with nerves.
*Ding!* The doorbell rang. Peeking through the peephole, she saw roses. A massive bouquet. Her pulse raced. She opened the door. The man was as handsome as his photo—suit, confident smile. Dinner was ready—salads, roast beef, a Victoria sponge…
He tasted the salad. “Too salty.”
The meat. “Chewy.”
The wine. “What’s this plonk?”
Then he stood, surveying the flat like a critic. “Furnishings are basic. Kitchen needs a refurb.”
Marina handed back the bouquet. “I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But four more remained.
The second arrived the next evening, already smelling of whiskey.
“Celebrating already?” she asked carefully.
“Relax, love! Put the telly on—match is starting!”
“Watch it at home,” she said flatly, shutting the door.
The third came two days later. No looker, in scuffed shoes and a faded jacket. She nearly turned him away but fed him out of politeness.
He ate hungrily, praising every bite. When he tried her pickles, he gasped, “Bloody masterpiece, love! Never tasted better!”
Her grandmother’s clock chimed. “That racket!”
Soon, he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen minutes later, it ticked perfectly. Marina stared. “This is it. My man. Not handsome—but handy. Third time’s the charm.”
That night, she stepped out of the bathroom in her favourite rose-patterned lingerie. He… was already asleep. Fully clothed. On his side. Snoring like a tractor in winter.
She spent the night battling the noise—pillows, shoving, silent curses. Not a wink of sleep. At breakfast—
“So, should I move in tonight?”
“No. Sorry. You’re lovely… but no.”
The fourth was straight from a bohemian film—beard, guitar, free-spirited gaze. Lit a fag in the kitchen, flicked ash into a plant.
“Just so you know—I love my freedom. No calls, no ‘Where are you?’ And I like women.”
“As in, multiple?” she clarified.
“Too right. I’m a man, aren’t I?”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed like a hangover. She felt drained. Didn’t even wash up. Slept like the dead.
Morning. Sunlight. Silence. No footsteps, no voices, no stranger’s scent. Just Marina, her coffee, and sparrows outside.
“How lovely to be alone…”
Then the phone rang.
“Marina Thompson! This is *The Best Husband* agency. Your fifth candidate arrives today! Trust us—he’s *the* one!”
“Take me off your list!” she yelled. “Delete my file! The best husband is *no husband at all*!”
Laughing with pure relief, she threw open the curtains like she’d unlocked a new dawn of freedom.
