**The Best Husband is No Husband at All**
I’ve long stopped believing in miracles. Six years have passed since the divorce—six endless winters, springs, summers, and autumns. My daughter married a year ago and moved to Manchester, barely calling except for the occasional, “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked if *I* was fine. Forty-two—supposedly the age a woman blossoms, learns to breathe again. But what’s the point of blooming when there’s no one to see it?
I could do anything—cook a roast to make the neighbours envious, jar jams and pickles till the pantry groaned under their weight. The shelves were lined with jars, a museum of my solitude. “Better this than rotting away alone, looking like *this*!” I’d joke with the girls. They’d laugh and nudge, “Then *find* someone! Plenty of blokes about!”
Then someone whispered, “Try a matchmaking agency. They pair you with the perfect fit. It’s called ‘The Best Husband.’”
I scoffed. “Like shopping for a dress—try it on, return if it doesn’t suit?” But then I remembered the ticking of Gran’s ancient clock, counting down my forty-two years. So I went.
A woman in a scarlet blazer and heart-shaped glasses greeted me.
“It’s all very proper,” she beamed. “We select candidates, loan them for a week. Keep him if you like, return him if not.”
“Loan him? Like library books?” I snorted.
“Exactly! Lives with you. Saves time. No psychopaths—strict vetting.”
Against my better judgment, I agreed. We picked five. Paid the fee. The first was due that evening.
I pulled out my emerald-green dress—”the colour of hope,” Mum used to say—and clipped on the cubic zirconia earrings tucked in an old perfume box. My pulse fluttered somewhere between anticipation and dread.
*Ding-dong!* Peering through the peephole, I saw roses. A massive bouquet. Heart racing, I opened the door. He was handsome, just like his photo—sharp suit, confident grin. Dinner was ready: salads, roast beef, pudding…
He took a bite of salad and winced. “Too salty.”
The beef? “Tough.”
The wine? “Cheap swill.”
Then he wandered around, surveying the flat like an inspector. “Furniture’s a bit plain. Kitchen needs updating.”
I handed him the bouquet. “I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, I shed a few tears. Stung a bit. But three more chances remained.
The next evening, Candidate Two reeked of lager. “Celebrating already?” I asked dryly.
“Relax! Put the telly on, match’s starting!”
“Watch it at home,” I said, shutting the door.
Candidate Three arrived two days later. Not handsome—scuffed shoes, faded jacket. I nearly turned him away but fed him out of politeness.
He ate like a man starved, praising every bite. At the first taste of my chutney, he gasped, “Bloody *art*, this! Never had better!”
Gran’s clock chimed, rattling. “What’s that racket?” Minutes later, he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen ticks later, the clock ran smooth. I watched, thinking, *This is it. Not a looker, but a man who can fix things. Third time’s the charm.*
That night, I stepped out in my best lace. And him? Already snoring. Fully clothed. Like a lorry engine in winter.
I battled the snores all night—pillows over my head, shoving, silent curses. Not a wink. By morning:
“So, should I move in tonight?”
“No. You’re lovely… but no.”
Candidate Four was straight out of a bohemian daydream—beard, guitar, rebellious smirk. Lit a fag right at the table, flicked ash into my geranium.
“I’ll say it now—I cherish freedom. Don’t ring me a hundred times, don’t ask where I’ve been. Oh, and I adore women.”
“All of them, I suppose?” I said.
“Course. A man’s got needs.”
After he left, I aired the kitchen for hours. My head throbbed like a hangover. Even the dishes stayed piled. I collapsed into bed.
Morning. Sunlight. Silence. No footsteps, no strange voices, no alien smells. Just me, a cuppa, and sparrows outside. *Bliss.*
Then the phone rang.
“Eleanor! ‘The Best Husband’ agency. Your fifth candidate’s coming today—he’s *the one!*”
“Cross me off your list!” I barked. “The best husband is *no husband at all!*”
Laughing, I threw open the curtains—like swinging wide the gates to my own, glorious freedom.
