**Unexpectedly Married**
Margaret dashed through the shopping centre, arms laden with bags, elbowing past shoppers on the escalator, muttering curses under her breath at that hopeless bloke, John, who didn’t even own a car to fetch her and haul all her shopping home. She’d had to book a taxi through the app, and of course, one arrived too quickly. Now she was sprinting in heels across the entire mall to the car park, her expensive leather shoes rubbing blisters into her feet.
She fumed. Not only was she left to fend for herself, but her blasted shoes were ruining her day.
“Watch where you’re going, love!” snapped a woman on the escalator as Margaret’s bag clipped her head on the way down.
“Maybe keep your eyes open instead of gawping about!” Margaret shot back without so much as a glance.
“Rude cow!” the woman spat, but Margaret couldn’t care less.
She burst through the mall doors, finally checking the taxi number—only to find the driver had cancelled. The fare had nearly doubled. Furious, she cancelled the booking, stuffed her phone into her pocket, and spotted an empty bench. She flopped onto it, dumping her bags beside her and yanking off the wretched shoe.
“Bloody hell! Everything’s against me today!” she swore, shoving a shopping bag so hard its receipt fluttered to the ground.
Leaning back, she shut her eyes. Lately, life seemed determined to spite her.
***
Margaret had always aimed high, never settling for less. If it was a phone, it had to be the latest model. Manicures? Only at the poshest salons. Shoes? The finest leather. She applied the same standards to her suitors. Yet, instead of wealthy, handsome gentlemen, she ended up with what she called “discount stock”—older, dull, paunchy, or penny-pinching. She’d searched long and hard, but no one measured up.
“You’ll end up alone if you keep this up,” her mother often warned. “A man’s worth isn’t in his looks or wallet.”
“Should I just admire his good deeds in the dark, then?” Margaret, now twenty-five, would retort. “Besides, good deeds need funding.”
Her mother sighed. Margaret always had a sharp answer, as if she’d rehearsed them. One might’ve thought her a wit, though she was just a restaurant hostess.
It all started—or rather, spiralled—three years ago. She’d watched well-heeled ladies draped in furs, escorted by wealthy men to lavish dinners, and thought: *Why not me? I deserve that life.*
But life had other plans. Rich men overlooked her, somehow sensing she was just a girl from an ordinary family with middling education. Yet she dreamed of a man of influence, sharp suits, luxury cars, and high salary.
Time passed, suitors came and went, but her ideal never appeared. Eventually, she settled for John—a bank clerk four years her senior with modest means. He was plain—brown hair, grey eyes, average height, neither fit nor flabby. But he owned a mortgaged two-bed flat in London. No car, though—John believed public transport sufficed in the city.
He was kind but persistent, showering her with flowers, dinners, attention. After months of her mother’s nagging—”He worships you! A bird in the hand…”—Margaret relented.
Grudgingly, she admitted life with John wasn’t bad. He spoiled her—holidays (though never five-star), dinners cooked, coffee in bed, shopping trips with her mates. He even planned to propose.
A year passed. Margaret grew used to him—but never stopped dreaming. She still complained to friends that John fell short, though… well, she had little real cause.
***
“Why is everything against me?” she muttered, eyes closed.
“I’m certainly not,” a smooth voice said beside her.
Margaret jolted upright. Behind the bench stood Andrew. Years ago at uni, he’d fancied her, but she’d publicly humiliated him in front of her friends.
At first, she didn’t recognise him. Gone was the scrawny, spotty student—before her stood a handsome brunet with a stylish beard, broad shoulders, and a leather jacket.
“Blimey,” she breathed. “You’ve… changed.”
“Been a while,” he agreed. “You’re still as striking as ever. What’s wrong?”
Flustered, Margaret explained her woes—omitting John, of course.
“Let me drive you home,” Andrew offered, nodding at a gleaming black Range Rover.
Within minutes, he’d helped her in, stowed her bags, and they were off.
“Tell me your secret,” she purred. “How’d you turn out so well?”
“Luck and the right connections,” he chuckled.
Dinner followed at a chic café, where Andrew detailed his rise—dropping out, retraining in IT, leading AI projects, now running his own firm. Margaret listened, enchanted.
“You’re brilliant,” she gushed.
“And you? Married yet?” he asked lightly.
Margaret shook her head. Suddenly, John—still at that same dull job—seemed pitiful beside Andrew’s success.
Over food, Andrew spoke of lavish projects, European holidays, expensive hobbies. Margaret melted. *This* was the man she deserved.
As they left, he sighed. “Shame to end such a lovely evening.”
“My day’s free,” she said quickly. “We could…?”
They caught a film, strolled, laughed. Andrew hinted he’d been single for a while. She ignored John’s texts, lying about being with a friend.
When the evening chilled, Andrew suggested coffee in his car. Margaret agreed.
Then he kissed her. And more.
“That was magic,” she murmured later, fixing her lipstick as the car raced through foggy streets.
“I’ll call you,” he said, dropping her home.
Giddy, she floated inside, mind swirling with triumph and shame.
Next day, she dumped John.
“You don’t measure up,” she declared, packing.
John, hurt but proud, let her go.
Margaret returned to her mother’s, smug with plans. Her mother disapproved, but arguing was pointless.
Days passed. A week. No call.
Finally, she rang Andrew. Silence.
Frowning, she searched social media—and froze.
Photos showed Andrew with a woman and two toddlers—park outings, beach trips, family gatherings.
“But… he said he was single!” she gasped.
She called again. He answered impatiently.
“Yes?”
“You lied! You’re married!”
“We had fun,” he sneered. “That’s all.”
“I’ll tell your wife!”
“Go ahead. Got proof?”
Slamming the phone down, Margaret realised—she’d been used. Crawling back to John was impossible now.
She collapsed onto her bed, weeping. Her dreams of luxury had given her nothing but a bitter slap. A damned hard one.
