The young woman with her own flat dreamed of getting married…
“Well, another one tied the knot. One more happy couple in the world. May you live to see your golden anniversary!” said Evelyn Carter, the head of accounts, the eldest in the office by rank and age, raising her glass of bubbly.
“Is that all? Make it diamond—go the whole hog,” chirped cheeky Tamsin.
“Married life’s no picnic,” sighed Auntie Pam, the cleaner, lurking in the doorway. “One minute he’s Mr. Right, next he’s down the pub night after night. Oh, girls, why can’t you stay single and be done with it?”
“Auntie Pam, do us a favour—sod off,” Tamsin snapped. “Just because your bloke was rubbish doesn’t mean marriage is a washout. Our Lizzie lucked out—handsome, drives a nice car, got prospects. Don’t listen to her, Lizzie, be happy!” Tamsin saluted with her glass.
Lizzie had just returned from a week off for her wedding. She’d brought chocolates and fizz to celebrate with the accounts team. She glowed like a polished teapot, smiling but edgy. She’d told her new husband she’d be an hour—just a quick toast with the girls. Three hours later, the first bottle long gone, someone had dashed to the offie for more, and no one looked ready to leave. Her husband kept texting—*When are you coming home? Miss you. Shall I come fetch you?*
“Right, girls, carry on. Clear the table, I’ll mop up tomorrow,” said Auntie Pam.
“Go home, Auntie Pam, don’t fret, we’ll tidy up,” promised Evelyn. “Ladies, one for the road. Time to call it a night. Just Sophie left to marry off, then we’ve got the full set.”
“Honestly, Soph, what’s taking you so long? Pretty, got your own place. No one tickling your fancy or holding out for Prince Charming?” Tamsin slurred, well on her way.
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sophie asked.
“How old are you? At your age, I’d had two kids—my Steve was already in school. Me and my husband had our rough patches. Nearly divorced twice. But I said, you helped make ’em, you’ll help raise ’em, then bugger off if you like. Now he’s wrapped round my little finger.” Tamsin flashed a fist.
“Why do folk marry? Passion or accidents. Passion fizzles, then it’s bills and bickering. Don’t get me started on kids. Sleepless nights, frayed nerves, rows—next thing you know, you’re divorced.
“If he’s decent, he’ll leave the house to the wife and kids, then bugger off to some rented hovel or bedsit. Won’t last. All his mates are settled—nowhere to go. So he starts eyeing up single women—no kids, please, he’s done with nappies. Then there’s you—young, itching to wed, with a flat. Jackpot. So colour me shocked you’re still single.”
“That’s a grim way of putting it,” Sophie huffed. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with nowhere to live? At thirty, I’m doomed to a man with alimony, is that it?”
“Don’t listen to her, Soph, she’s pickled, talking rot. Men these days aren’t in a rush—busy climbing the ladder. Though, you *have* left it late,” sighed Evelyn. “Never mind, we’ll sort you out.”
“See? What’d I say?” Tamsin jumped in. “Successful single blokes know their worth—they want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t so choosy. Just wants someone nice… with a flat. Better than rented rooms or mum’s sofa, innit?”
“Fate’s funny. Some marry young, some marry twice. Others find it late. No matter. My friend’s got a son—thirty-six, never married. Clever, good job, but no luck with women,” said Evelyn.
“What, is he ill or a pisshead? Or—” Tamsin caught Evelyn’s glare. “What? My mate’s bloke turned out—”
“Tamsin, enough! You’ve got a mouth like a motorbike. Life’s messy. Think about it, Soph. He’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why’re you even on about this? Blind dates are rubbish. Talk them up all you like, reality’s a letdown. I’ll manage on my own.”
“*Manage*? Where’ll you meet someone? Office is all women, you don’t club. If you don’t click, no one’s forcing you. He’s got his own place, mind. Worth a shot? Might fancy him,” Evelyn pressed. “Right, girls, we’ve overstayed—hubbies’ll bar the door.”
The girls tidied, then scattered.
“Don’t write it off yet,” Evelyn said, waiting at the bus stop with Sophie. “I didn’t bring it up for nothing. My hubby’s birthday’s Saturday. Invited my friend and her son. You come. Suss him out—might work. We’ll see.”
The next two days, Sophie vacillated. The plan irked her—doubted it’d work. Still, she picked an outfit, freshened her nails.
*How many diets have I sworn to start? Two days won’t shrink me. Who’ll love me if I don’t? Bollocks. Not going.*
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, curled it, did her face, chose a dress. The gift, though? Couldn’t turn up empty-handed. She rang Evelyn, who said not to fuss—just come. But if she *must*, bring wine. What else for a stranger?
Time to kill, she popped to the shops. The local Co-op’s selection was dire, so she trekked to the Sainsbury’s two stops away. Picked wine, grabbed chocolates, cheese, a loaf. Just in case. If it went well, he might walk her home, hint at tea—and she’d nothing to offer. She hadn’t bought bread or sweets in ages—trying to slim.
Buoyed, she queued. Just as she unloaded her basket, a man cut in, slapping down a bottle—same wine.
“I was here first,” Sophie bristled.
“Sorry, love. Rushed. Just the wine—you’ve a full trolley. By the time you unload, I’ll be done,” he said evenly.
“World on fire? Thirsty, are we? Rude sod.” The cashier *had* already scanned his bottle. “You saw me first—why serve him? Bloke privilege?” Sophie fumed.
“Love, I apologised. No need to shout. I’m off.” He took his bottle and left.
The cashier shot her a look, bagging her things.
Sophie’s mood soured. Regretted spending. And for what? Another arrogant tosser? No one’s coming over. Not going. All the way home, she cursed him, the cashier, herself for dreaming…
*Better alone than with that.*
Rain spat as she reached her door—hair ruined, spirits sunk. Everything conspired. Home, she yanked on a dressing gown, flopped before the telly.
Evelyn rang—as if sensing her mood. Sophie ignored it. Half an hour later—a knock.
“Knew it,” Evelyn said, barging in. “Guests are arriving—hubby’s flapping. Get dressed, taxi’s downstairs. No excuses.”
Sophie caved. Evelyn *was* her boss.
“Eve, where’ve you been? Guests are here—what do I do with the beef?” her flustered host-husband fretted.
“The beef! Forgot!” Evelyn bolted to the kitchen.
Sophie handed him the wine—he gave it a odd look—then was ushered in. A pleasant woman, Evelyn’s age, sat on the sofa. By the window, back turned, stood a younger man.
“Meet… What was your name?” the host whispered. Sophie murmured it. “Sophie, works with my Eve. This is Margaret, her son, Val.”
*Ah. The set-up.*
The doorbell rang. The host plonked her bottle beside two identical ones and vanished.
The man turned. *Him.*
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You’ve met?” Evelyn asked, sweeping in. More guests arrived, seats shuffled. Val ended up beside Sophie. Predictable.
“Still cross?” he murmured, pouring her wine. “Had I known you’d be here, I’d’ve avoided that shop.”
“Pushed in, still cheeky,” Sophie shot back.
“Feisty. I’d keep my fingers clear if I wereAs Sophie finally let herself laugh at Val’s teasing, she realized sometimes love barges in when you least expect it, just like a rude stranger cutting in line—only to become the reason your whole world changes.
