A young woman with a flat of her own dreams of getting married…
“Well, another one’s been married off. That’s one more happy person in the world. Hope they make it to their golden wedding anniversary!” said Margaret Davies, the senior accountant and the oldest in the office, raising her glass of bubbly.
“Is that all? They might as well last till their diamond anniversary,” chirped the lively Tracey.
“Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” sighed Auntie Pam, the cleaner, lingering in the doorway. “One minute he’s all lovey-dovey, next thing you know, he’s down the pub every night. Oh, girls, what’s wrong with staying single?”
“Auntie Pam, do us a favour—” Tracey waved her off irritably. “Just ’cause you had bad luck doesn’t mean the rest of us should swear off men. Our Lizzie’s landed a good one. Handsome, got a car, proper prospects. Don’t listen to anyone, Lizzie—just be happy!” She saluted with her glass.
Lizzie had just come back from a week’s leave after her wedding. She’d brought chocolates and fizz to share with the accounts team. She glowed like a polished kettle, smiling nervously. She’d told her new husband she’d only be an hour, just a quick toast with the girls. But three hours later, the first bottle was long gone, they’d dashed to the shop for more, and nobody looked ready to leave. Her husband had texted several times, asking when she’d be back, saying he missed her and was ready to come fetch her.
“Right, girls, carry on. Clear the table, and I’ll wipe it down tomorrow,” said Auntie Pam.
“Go home, Auntie Pam, don’t worry—we’ll clean up,” promised Margaret. “Ladies, one last drink, then we’re off. Just need to get Sophie hitched, then we’ll have a full set.”
“Speaking of—Sophie, why are you still single? You’re pretty, got your own place—no one caught your eye, or are you waiting for Prince Charming?” Tracey, well into her cups, nudged her.
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sophie asked.
“Everything! How old are you? By your age, I’d already had two kids—my eldest was in school. Me and my husband had our ups and downs. Nearly divorced twice. But I told him, ‘You helped make ’em, you help raise ’em—then you can clear off if you want.’ Now he’s under my thumb.” Tracey clenched her fist.
“People marry for passion or by accident. Passion fades, then it’s just endless chores. And kids? Forget it. Sleepless nights, frayed tempers, one row after another. Next thing you know, you’re divorced.”
“If he’s decent, he’ll leave the flat to the wife and kids and enjoy his freedom in some rented dive or a bedsit. Won’t last. All his mates are married—nowhere to go. So what’s he do? Looks around for a single woman, no kids, her own place. Because if he’s run from his own kids, he won’t want someone else’s. And there you are—young, dreaming of marriage, with a flat. Jackpot. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re still single.”
“That’s a funny way of looking at it,” Sophie said, affronted. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with nowhere to live? At thirty, I’ve got no chance with someone who isn’t saddled with child support, is that it?”
“Don’t listen to her, Sophie—she’s drunk, talking rubbish. Men these days aren’t in a hurry to settle down. Building careers. Still, you’ve been single a while,” sighed Margaret. “Don’t worry, we’ll sort you out.”
“Exactly my point!” Tracey jumped in. “Successful single blokes know their worth—they want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t so picky. For them, it’s all about finding someone nice with her own place. Who wants to live in rented rooms or with their mum forever?”
“Everyone’s got their own path. Some marry young—some more than once. Others find happiness late. It’s fine. My friend’s got a son—thirty-six, never married, far as I know. Clever, well-educated, good job, just unlucky with women,” said Margaret.
“What, he’s ill or a drinker? Or maybe he’s—” Tracey caught Margaret’s warning glare. “What? My mate’s brother—”
“Tracey, enough! You’ve got a mouth like a foghorn. It’s vile. Life’s complicated. Think about it, love. He’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why’d you even bring this up? I don’t believe in set-ups. Everyone bigs them up, then it’s not what you expected. I’ll manage on my own.”
“Exactly—’manage.’ Where’ll you meet anyone? Our office is all women, you don’t go clubbing. If you don’t hit it off, fine—no one’s forcing you. Especially since he’s got his own place. Worth a try, isn’t it? What if you like him?” Margaret pressed. “Right, girls, we’ve overstayed—our husbands’ll have changed the locks.”
They cleared up quickly and scattered.
“Don’t say no yet,” said Margaret, walking Sophie to the bus stop. “I didn’t bring it up for nothing. My husband’s birthday’s on Saturday. I’ve invited my friend and her son. You come too. See how you get on—might work out. We’ll see.”
The next two days, Sophie agonised. She hated the idea—doubted it’d work. Still, she picked an outfit and freshened her nails.
“How many times have I promised to diet? Can’t lose weight in two days,” she groaned at the mirror. “Who’ll love me if I don’t love myself? This is daft. I’m not going.”
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, curled it, did her makeup, chose a dress. The gift? She couldn’t turn up empty-handed. She rang Margaret, who said not to fuss—just come. But if she must bring something, a bottle of wine. What else do you buy a stranger?
Time to spare, Sophie went shopping. The local corner shop had a poor selection, so she headed to the supermarket two stops away. She picked wine, then grabbed chocolates, cheese, and a loaf. Just in case. If things went well, he might walk her home, hint at tea—she’d need something to serve. She hadn’t bought treats in ages, trying to lose weight.
Buoyed by hope, Sophie headed to checkout. Just as she started unloading her basket, a man cut in, slapping down a bottle—the same one she’d chosen.
“I was here first,” Sophie snapped.
“Sorry, genuinely. I’m in a rush. Just the wine—you’ve got a full basket. By the time you unload, I’ll be done,” he said calmly.
“What, the pub’s closing? That desperate for a drink? Cheeky sod.” The cashier had already scanned his bottle. “You saw I was first—why serve him? Is it ’cause he’s a bloke?”
“Look, I apologised. No need to shout. I’m leaving.” He took his wine and left.
The cashier gave Sophie a filthy look as she rang up her items.
Sophie’s mood soured. She regretted spending the money, buying all that food. For who? Some selfish tosser who thought the world revolved around him? She wouldn’t invite anyone over—wouldn’t even go to the party. All the way home, she cursed the man, the cashier, herself for dreaming…
“Better single than stuck with that,” she decided. Then rain splattered her hair, ruining it. Just her luck. Home, she changed into a dressing gown and slumped in front of the telly, fuming.
Margaret called, as if sensing her mood. Sophie ignored it. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
“I knew it,” Margaret said, stepping in. “Guests’ll arrive soon, and my husband’s alone. Get dressed—taxi’s waiting downstairs. No excuses.”
Sophie gave in. Margaret was her boss, after all. “My hair’s wrecked, my mood’s shot. Fine. If he’s not keen, even better. I’ll leave early.”
“Margaret, where’ve you been? Guests are here—I don’t know what to do with the meat…” her flustered husband fretted.
“The meat! Forgot all about it!” Margaret dashed to the kitchen.
Sophie wished him happy birthday, handed over the wine (he gave it a odd look), and was shown to the lounge. A pleasant woman Margaret’s age satAs Sophie took her seat at the table, she caught Val’s eye—the same man from the shop—and to her surprise, they both burst out laughing, realizing fate had played its hand after all.
