A Lone Woman with Baggage
For over a decade, Evelyn had raised her son alone. Her husband had walked out on her, leaving behind an unpaid mortgage on their London flat and their little boy. All these years, he had dutifully sent child support, proud of his unimpeachable conscience and legal compliance—or so he claimed. Not once had he visited, never a birthday card or gift.
“Probably charmed some other naive fool by now,” her mother would sigh. “Men like him run from responsibility until they’ve nothing left to give. I told you not to take that mortgage—but no, you wouldn’t listen. Now you’re shackled to it for life.” Never mind that it had been her parents’ idea in the first place.
And so Evelyn lived, stretched between paychecks, working two jobs while raising her son. Thank goodness, Alfie was an easy child.
After her second shift, exhausted and numb, she would stop at the supermarket before dragging herself home, longing to shed her aching shoes, sink into a chair, and close her eyes. She felt like one of those pitiful carousel horses—decked out in ribbons and glitter, trotting in circles for the amusement of children. That was her life: work, errands, home.
Her wardrobe consisted of durable, plain clothes from budget shops. Rarely did she buy anything new, and when she did, she saved it for special occasions—few and far between. Everything she owned had long since gone out of style.
Trudge, trudge. What to make for supper? Was Alfie home? Her bulging handbag hung from her shoulder, one hand clutching the strap, the other a heavy grocery bag. If Alfie was in, she’d rest for five minutes before boiling pasta and bangers.
She hadn’t always been like this. Once, she’d had thick hair, bright eyes, a figure to turn heads. Like every young woman, she’d dreamed of love—and it had come in the form of Daniel. How could she resist? Handsome, charming, full of promises. A grand life, a flashy car—a Jaguar or, at the very least, a Mercedes. Two children, he’d said.
He got the car, all right. Drove off in it toward his bright future, leaving Evelyn with the flat, the mortgage, and the baby.
Evelyn kept her eyes on the pavement. One misstep, and she’d twist an ankle or step into a puddle. The roads were dreadful. And God help her if some reckless driver splashed her from a soggy curb.
“Evelyn!” A stylish, vibrant woman blocked her path.
It took Evelyn a moment to recognize Sophie, her old schoolmate. Back then, Sophie had been plain—now she looked like a magazine cover. Evelyn, in her worn-out jumper and sensible shoes, felt shabby in comparison.
“Just the person I hoped to see! I’m visiting Mum, but all our old crowd’s scattered. Evie! How *are* you?”
*How do I look?* she thought. But aloud, she said, “Fine. Same as everyone.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and Alfie. You?”
Sophie closed her eyes dreamily. “I married a Spaniard. Live in Barcelona now—just popped back for a week. Listen, we *must* catch up. Fancy a cuppa? Or invite me round—where do you live?”
“Just… nearby. But the place is a mess. Dishes from last night still in the sink.”
“Doesn’t bother me. I’m English, remember?”
Evelyn unlocked her flat and called out, “Alf, you home? We’ve company.”
A lanky teenager appeared.
“Blimey! *This* is your boy? Handsome devil,” Sophie cooed. “What year are you in? Any uni plans?”
“Still deciding. Mum, I did the dishes—got revision to do,” he mumbled before vanishing.
“Goodness, what a little grown-up,” Sophie said, envy creeping into her voice.
“You have kids?” Evelyn asked, swelling with pride.
“No. My husband’s older—grown children from before. No interest in nappies and night feeds.”
While Evelyn threw together supper, Sophie prattled about Barcelona.
“So, why’d you split? He a drinker?”
“No. Everything was fine until Alfie came. Poor sleeper, fussy. I was on maternity leave, we had the mortgage, car payments… He said he was tired of it. Drove off.”
“What a *git*,” Sophie spat. “Ditched you with a baby and debts!”
Evelyn didn’t elaborate. Without her parents’ help, she’d have lost the flat.
“Never mind. Your luck’s about to turn. Loads of single men in Spain—older, but still fit. Mad for English women. Strong, capable, all that. Couple of our friends might suit you. I fly back in three days—let me set you up!”
“Me? With baggage? A ‘Single Mum’—SM.”
“A what?”
“That’s what men call us. ‘Single Mum.’ Soon as they hear ‘kid,’ they scarper.”
“Rubbish! Better an SM than a DB.”
“A what?”
“*Deadbeat Dad.* Those bastards deserve branding.”
“Spanish men don’t ditch their kids?”
“Some do. Men are men. But your boy’s nearly grown. You’re perfect. I’ll start hunting when I’m back. You’ve got Skype? Brilliant. Let’s toast your new life!”
Evelyn fetched a half-finished bottle of wine—leftover from her birthday.
“First, spruce yourself up. New haircut, smarter clothes,” Sophie advised.
Too ashamed to admit she couldn’t afford it, Evelyn said nothing.
Sophie left. Evelyn waited. Imagined quitting her jobs, moving abroad, living in a villa with a doting husband. Alfie at a posh university… She smiled more. Got a trim. Bought two dresses and heels—on credit, but it’d pay off.
“Invest in yourself, love. Men adore well-kept women,” Sophie had said.
Evelyn tried. A week passed. Then another. No word. On the third, Sophie called.
“Found you a match! Not handsome, mid-fifties—but owns a shop. Dress up tomorrow; I’ll Skype. You *didn’t* learn Spanish, did you? Knew it. Fine, I’ll translate.”
“What, marrying a Spaniard now?” Alfie asked from the doorway.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“I’m happy here. Sophie’s filling your head. We eating tonight?”
Apologising, she reheated leftovers.
The next day, Evelyn fussed over her hair, squeezed into the new dress, and perched before Alfie’s computer (banished to his tablet). No call came. Just as she reached for her dressing gown—*ping.*
She forced a smile. Onscreen: a bald man, seventy if a day. Sophie’s face appeared in a corner.
Evelyn rattled off a rehearsed Spanish greeting. The man beamed, babbling.
“He likes you,” Sophie translated. “José’s his name. Say it often—flatters him.”
They ‘chatted.’ Then José vanished.
“He wants to visit,” Sophie said.
“Here? I thought I’d go to him.”
“Your passport’s expired. José’s impatient. Just a short trip. Well? Do you fancy him?”
“You said fifties. He’s *seventy.*”
“So? Want Spain or not?”
“I—yes. Fine.”
She prepped for José’s arrival, splurging on fancy snacks. Alfie peeked in the fridge.
“Hope he visits often. We’ll eat like kings,” he joked.
A week later, Evelyn met José at Heathrow. Alfie was at Gran’s—sworn to secrecy.
They fumbled through basic English and gestures. Relieved he booked a hotel, she dined with him, refusing to go upstairs.
“Tomorrow,” she lied in English.
All the way home, she plotted escape.
No luck. José was pushy. She drank too much at dinner to numb the dread. In his room, she hid in the bathroom—emerging to find him asleep. Gratefully, she scribbled a note (*”Thank you for a lovely evening”*—translated via phone), hailed a cab, and fled.
Next day, José flew home. Alfie returned, and they feasted.
A week later, Sophie called.
“Sorry, love. José met some twenty-five-year-old on the plane. Smitten. Never mind—I’ve another lined up.”
“Don’t bother. I’m fine alone.”
“*That’s* obvious.”
They hung up, mutually annoyed. Sophie never rang again.
Next day, Evelyn wore the new dress and heels to work. Why waste them?
By day’s end, her feet were bloody. She slumped on a bench, kicked off the shoes, and cursed herself. No way she could walk home in them.
“Blisters?”
A handsome bloke stood beforeShe slipped the ruined shoes into her bag, stood barefoot on the warm pavement, and felt the first stirrings of hope as he smiled and offered her his arm.
