“No Wedding After All”
“Oh, my dear Poppy, you’re finally getting married!” Beatrice said to her daughter with a radiant smile. “I’m so pleased Arthur proposed! Men these days—so unreliable, always dodging commitment. But Arthur’s different. Hold onto him, love.”
“Mum, I’m hardly a charity case,” Poppy teased. “I’m a catch—bright, beautiful, and quite deserving of a proper prince, thank you.”
“Prince? Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Beatrice chuckled. “You’re thirty-five, darling. Let’s call this your *final opportunity*.”
Poppy winced at “final opportunity.” But arguing was pointless—her mother had spent years fretting over her only daughter’s single status. No queue of suitors had ever formed, and Beatrice dreaded Poppy ending up alone, with no grandchildren to dote on.
The wedding was set for two weeks later. Everything was arranged: the posh London restaurant booked, guests invited, outfits chosen. Though Poppy still dithered over her dress, planning another fitting that week.
The doorbell rang, and Beatrice exclaimed, “Arthur’s here!” before rushing to welcome him.
“Good evening, Beatrice! Hello, Poppy!” Arthur greeted them. “Brought a little something—chocolates for you, Beatrice, and flowers for Poppy.”
“You shouldn’t have!” Beatrice beamed. “Honestly, I still marvel at how Poppy landed such a marvellous man. Flawless, you are! Poppy’s waiting in her room—do go through.”
They’d only been together six months. Poppy couldn’t fathom why Arthur, a high-flying civil servant, had even glanced at a humble music teacher like her. But from the start, he’d made his intentions clear—he wanted a wife, and Poppy fit the bill.
Serious, dependable, and (as Beatrice put it) “solid as a rock,” Arthur was only five years older, yet Poppy often felt like calling him “Mr. Pembroke” out of sheer formality.
“Tulips for you, Poppy,” he said, almost managerial. “See? Always thinking of you. Now—wedding plans. Everything sorted?”
“Thank you. Yes, nearly done. Just the dress and shoes left.”
“Make sure you impress my family,” he said sternly. “Spare no expense—buy whatever you need.” He pulled out his wallet and left a stack of banknotes on the dresser.
“For the wedding. Also, pop round to my mother’s next week. She’s got recipes for my favourite dishes. Best avoid domestic squabbles early on—take a few homemaking lessons.”
“Arthur, I *am* thirty-five,” Poppy said lightly. “Most women my age can boil an egg without tuition. Can’t we enjoy the romance first?”
“No, Poppy. Mum’s home is spotless, her cooking sublime. Imagine the shame if she visits and finds dust on the mantelpiece.”
Poppy promised to visit, and Arthur left, citing work. Oddly, she felt deflated. Where was the fun? The affection? Arthur was all efficiency, zero warmth.
The next day, she dragged herself to the dress fitting, listlessly agreeing to the first gown suggested.
*This is fine*, she told herself. *Arthur’s stable, well-off—exactly what I wanted. Half of London would kill for this. Mum’s thrilled. What more could I want?*
Exhausted, she wandered toward the Tube when a voice called out:
“Poppy? Blimey, it *is* you! Remember me?”
Of course she did. James. Her first real love. The one who’d left her for someone else years ago. Now here he stood, grinning as if no time had passed.
“Hello, James,” she said, steadying her voice. “Fancy bumping into you. How’ve you been?”
“Not bad. Got an office nearby. Work’s grand, but the divorce last year? Brutal. Anyway—you? Married yet?”
“Not quite. Seeing someone, though.” She fibbed, cheeks flaming.
“Ah,” James mused. “You free now? Fancy a coffee? Just off to lunch myself.”
Against all sense, she agreed. Memories rushed back—their long talks, the effortless joy of being with him.
James was everything Arthur wasn’t: tall, fit, with mischievous brown eyes instead of Arthur’s bland features.
An hour later, James paid the bill and said, “I’ll call you. Don’t read into it—just… really good seeing you.”
Poppy floated home. This *had* to be fate—meeting James on her dress-fitting day?
Beatrice pounced the moment she walked in.
“Well? The dress? Shoes? Show me!”
“Mum, there won’t be a wedding,” Poppy said flatly, vanishing into her room.
Beatrice gaped. “*What?* Did Arthur cancel? Did you argue? Poppy, *speak!*”
“I don’t want it. Or him. D’you think he *loves* me? He wants a live-in housekeeper with benefits.”
“Have you lost your mind? Arthur’s a *catch*! You’d want for nothing!”
Poppy sat down, almost smiling.
“Mum, I saw James today.”
“*James?!* The one who *dumped* you? And now you’ve ruined everything for *him*?”
Poppy barely heard her. Her mind was made up—no force on earth would make her marry Arthur.
Beatrice, ever pragmatic, rang Arthur at once, hoping he’d talk sense into Poppy.
But Arthur exploded:
“Raised her well, didn’t you? Mum warned me about your lot. Don’t call again!”
Beatrice crumpled. Her dreams of grandchildren, of Poppy’s “happy ending”—gone. Yet Poppy felt lighter. She’d dodged a bullet. Now she just waited for James’s call.
Days passed. Nothing.
*He’s busy*, she told herself. *Building courage.*
A week later, she cracked and dialled his number. Voicemail.
He rang back hours later.
“Poppy? Sorry, swamped at work. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing. Just… called.” *Brilliant.*
“Right. Bit tied up. Chat later?”
“Fancy coffee tomorrow? Same place?” she blurted.
Silence. Then:
“Look, Poppy… it was great seeing you. But why dredge up the past? There’s no future here. You didn’t… *misread* things, did you?”
“Of course not,” she lied, tears pricking. “Just bored. And—I’m getting married soon.”
She hung up, humiliated. How could she have been so *stupid*? She’d torpedoed her wedding for *nothing*.
But Beatrice, ever wise, softened.
“Better this way, love. Who wants a life with someone they don’t adore? And forget James—he’s not worth it. You’ll find your person.”
Poppy never saw Arthur or James again. And despite it all, she knew—somehow, someday—she’d find her happy ending.
