A young woman with her own flat dreams of getting married…
“Well, another one married off. One more happy woman in the world. May you live together to the golden anniversary!” said Barbara Thompson, the head of accounting and the oldest in the office, raising her glass of champagne.
“Too modest—shoot for the diamond anniversary!” piped up the lively Sarah.
“Marriage isn’t all sunshine,” sighed the cleaner, Auntie Marge, lingering in the doorway. “These days, men marry one year and drink themselves silly the next. Girls, why can’t you just stay single and happy?”
“Oh, Auntie Marge, do push off,” Sarah snapped. “Just because you had bad luck doesn’t mean marriage is doomed. Our Emma’s hit the jackpot—handsome, with a car, and going places. Ignore her, Emma—be happy!” Sarah raised her glass again.
Emma had just returned from a week off for her wedding, bringing chocolates and bubbly to celebrate with her coworkers. She glowed like a polished teapot, smiling but nervous. She’d warned her new husband she’d be an hour late, but three hours later, the champagne was long gone, another bottle fetched, and no one seemed eager to leave. Her husband texted, asking where she was, saying he missed her and would come rescue her if needed.
“Right, girls, have fun. I’ll tidy up in the morning,” said Auntie Marge.
“Go home, we’ll manage,” Barbara promised. “One last drink, then off we go. Only Lucy left to marry off, and we’ll have a full set!”
“Honestly, Lucy, what’s the holdup? Pretty, got your own place—no one catches your eye, or are you holding out for Prince Charming?” teased Sarah, well into her cups.
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Lucy asked.
“Well, how old are you? At your age, I had two kids—my eldest was already in school. My husband and I had our rows—nearly divorced twice! But I told him, ‘You helped make them, you’ll help raise them. Then scram if you like.’ Now he’s wrapped round my finger.” Sarah smirked.
“Why do people marry? Passion or accidents. Passion fades, then comes the grind. And kids? Sleepless nights, endless bickering—then boom, divorce. A decent man leaves the flat to his ex and kids, then bounces between rentals, lonely as a cloud. Soon he’s sniffing around for a single woman—young, dreamy, and with her own place. Jackpot, right? Surprised you’re still single.”
“That’s a grim take,” Lucy frowned. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with nowhere to live? At thirty, I’ll never find a man without baggage?”
“Don’t listen to her, she’s drunk,” Barbara sighed. “Men these days aren’t racing to settle down—they’re building careers. Still, you’re cutting it fine. We’ll fix that.”
“Exactly!” Sarah jumped in. “Successful single men want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t picky—just want someone kind with a roof over their head. Better than flatshares or living with Mum!”
“Fate’s different for everyone,” Barbara said. “Some marry young, some late. My friend’s son—thirty-six, never married. Smart, earns well, just unlucky with women.”
“What’s wrong with him? Sick? Alcoholic? Or—” Sarah caught Barbara’s warning glance. “Just saying—my mate’s cousin…”
“Enough, Sarah! You’ve a tongue like a floor mop. Life’s complicated. Think it over, Lucy. He’s a good lad—I’ve wanted to introduce you for ages.”
“Why’d you even start this? Arranged setups never work—people oversell each other. I’ll manage on my own.”
“‘Manage’ how? Where’ll you meet anyone? Our office is all women, and you don’t go clubbing. If it doesn’t click, fine—no one’s forcing you. Besides, he’s got his own place. Worth a shot? Might like him!” Barbara insisted. “Right, girls, husbands’ll lock us out.”
The women cleared up quickly and left.
“Don’t write it off yet,” Barbara said, walking Lucy to the bus stop. “I’ve a plan. My husband’s birthday’s Saturday—invited my friend and her son. You come too. See how it goes. No pressure.”
The next two days, Lucy wavered. The plan felt forced, but she picked an outfit and freshened her nails.
*How many diets have I failed? Two days won’t fix it.* She sighed at the mirror. *Who’ll love me if I don’t? Ridiculous. I’m not going.*
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, curled it, did her makeup, chose a dress. The gift? She rang Barbara, who said not to fuss—just bring wine if she must.
Time to shop. The corner shop’s wine was dismal, so she trekked to the supermarket. She grabbed wine, chocolates, cheese, and bread—just in case he walked her home and fancied tea. She rarely bought treats, always dieting.
Buoyed by hope, Lucy queued at the till. Just as she started unloading, a man cut in with the same wine.
“I was first,” she snapped.
“Sorry—I’m in a rush. Just this, while you unload.”
“Thirsty, are we? Rude.” She noticed the cashier scanning his bottle. “You saw me first—why serve him? Because he’s a man?”
“Miss, I apologised. No need to shout.” He left.
The cashier eyed Lucy scornfully as she rang up her items.
Lucy’s mood soured. Why’d she splurge for some entitled prat? She fumed all the way home.
*Better alone than with that.* Rain ruined her hair. She changed into a robe and sulked in front of the telly.
Barbara called, sensing her mood. Lucy ignored it. Half an hour later—a knock.
“Knew it,” Barbara said, barging in. “Guests are arriving—taxi’s waiting. No excuses.”
Lucy gave in. *Hair’s wrecked, mood’s foul. Good—he’ll hate me. I’ll leave early.*
“Barbara, where’ve you been? The meat—” Her flustered husband met them at the door.
“The meat! Right!” Barbara dashed to the kitchen.
Lucy handed him the wine. He eyed it oddly and ushered her in. A pleasant woman Barbara’s age sat on the sofa. By the window, a man stood with his back turned.
“This is Lucy, from work. And Anna, her son.”
*So this is the setup.* The doorbell rang. The host added her wine to two identical bottles and left.
The man turned. It was the queue-jumper.
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You’ve met?” Barbara asked.
More guests arrived. At the table, he sat beside Lucy.
“Still cross?” he whispered, pouring her wine. “Had I known you’d be here, I’d have shopped elsewhere.”
“Jumped the queue, then cheeky.”
“Feisty. Careful—might bite.”
“What?”
“Figure of speech. Don’t tempt fate.”
“Don’t need your fingers near my mouth,” she shot back.
The host toasted. Lucy clinked with her other neighbour, ignoring him.
“I can feel your glare,” he said, setting his glass down.
“Val, what’s wrong?” his mother asked. “Lucy, has he upset you?”
“He’d regret it,” Lucy said.
“Why do you hate me? Always this prickly?”
“Enough.” Lucy stood.
“Lucy, help me in the kitchen,” Barbara intervened. Inside, she sighed. “You really don’t like him? Pity, I’d hoped…”
“Barbara, I told you—these things never work. I’m going.” Lucy slipped out.
Outside, he was smoking.
“Stalking me now?”
“Just calming my nerves.”
“Nervous? How tragic.” She stormed off.
Walking to the bus, she thought: *In another life, I’d fancy him. Confident, handsome—just my type. But I acted like a harpy. The cashier did serve him faster. Barbara’s guests must think I’m unhinged.*
Next morning, Lucy slept in, stewing in shame. She stuffed herself with chocolates, abandoning diets.
A knock interrupted her binge. *Barbara’s here to scold.*
It was him.
“Morning. Came to apologise. I don’t usually queue-jump—don’t know what got into me.”
*I’m the one who should apologise.*
Six months later, the office celebrated another wedding.
“Told you blind dates work. Knew you’d like him. My friend’s over the moon,” BarbaraAnd as the last toast was made, Lucy glanced at her husband and realized that fate often works in the most unexpected ways—sometimes a little rudeness, a little rain, and a little patience are all it takes to find happiness.
