Elizabeth stepped out of the office building and took a deep breath of crisp autumn air, scented with fallen leaves. It was a sunny, dry afternoon—the tail end of an Indian summer. The nights had grown chilly, but the days still allowed for light dresses and cardigans.
As she walked, she debated her next move: pick up Oliver from nursery first and drag him along for groceries, or dash to the shop before collecting him? The local Tesco sold cheap little toys near the till, and Oliver would inevitably whine for something. Money was tight before payday, and whatever he begged for would be forgotten in five minutes.
Elizabeth checked her watch. If she hurried, she had just enough time to grab the shopping, drop the bags at home, then fetch Oliver. She quickened her pace, lost in thought, mentally listing what she needed. Salt—mustn’t forget the salt! It always ran out unexpectedly. Two days ago, she’d gone shopping specifically for it, bought everything else, and still forgotten. Now she chanted it like a mantra: *Don’t forget the salt. Carrots, milk, butter…*
“Liz, Lizzie Bennett!” A voice called out.
Elizabeth took a few more steps before stopping and turning to face a woman.
“Don’t recognise me? And who swore we’d be friends forever?” The woman smiled.
Elizabeth heard the word “swore” and placed her—Charlotte Lucas, her old school friend. Before her stood not the lanky, dark-haired girl she remembered, but a polished, stylish woman.
Charlotte had transferred to their school in Year 3, sat next to Elizabeth, and they’d been inseparable until graduation. In Year 9, they’d made a pact: friends for life. But life had pulled them apart. Nothing lasted forever, not even friendship—let alone love.
“You look frazzled. Like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Charlotte observed, taking in Elizabeth’s tired eyes and plain office wear. Elizabeth suddenly felt self-conscious.
“You seem like you’re doing well,” she deflected, avoiding further scrutiny.
“Can’t complain. Second marriage. No kids yet, though. You?”
Elizabeth caught the wistful note and steered clear. “Not married, but not alone. I have a son,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.
“Secondary school? Or uni by now?”
“Nursery, actually.”
“Blimey! You were always the pretty one—thought you’d be first down the aisle. Most of our lot have kids in uni or off doing their National Service, and yours is still in nappies! Then again, you were always glued to your books, too proper to glance at boys.”
Elizabeth stiffened. Charlotte caught herself.
“Oh, don’t sulk. You know me—always putting my foot in it.”
“I should go. Oliver’s waiting.” Elizabeth moved to leave.
“Wait—” Charlotte fished out her phone. “Give me your number. Let’s meet up properly.”
Elizabeth rattled it off just to escape, then hurried toward the nursery.
True to her word, Charlotte called the next day, proposing Saturday at a neutral spot—a café. Elizabeth reluctantly agreed, then groaned. *There goes my day off. Fine. One coffee, then done. We’ve nothing in common anymore.*
Saturday arrived. The café was trendy, somewhere Elizabeth would never go—not since Oliver was born. She felt out of place until Charlotte ordered wine. It helped. They reminisced about school, classmates. Charlotte knew all the gossip: who married whom, who had kids, who’d climbed the career ladder.
Elizabeth sipped her wine. When the memories dried up, Charlotte turned the spotlight on her.
“Listen, my colleague’s son—our age, decent bloke. Software engineer, earns well. Bit shy, stuck behind screens all day. His mum’s desperate for grandkids. Fancy meeting him?”
“No.” Elizabeth set her glass down sharply. “Do I look like I’m hunting for a man? Even one his own mother can’t palm off?”
“Don’t knock it. You haven’t even seen him.”
“If he’s so great, why’s he single? What’s wrong with him?”
“Got his heart broken. Scared of another mistake. Sound familiar?”
“Not my problem. I won’t be set up like some desperate—”
“Think about Oliver. He needs a father figure.”
“He has me. Drop it.”
Charlotte sighed. “Fine. But you’re withering away. A man would do you good.”
Against her better judgment, Elizabeth caved. *Why not? One date.*
The following Sunday, she dropped Oliver at her mum’s, dressed neatly but plainly—no effort to impress. Then she realised: she didn’t even know his name.
“Bloody hell,” Charlotte muttered when Elizabeth called. “Matthew? Maybe? Biblical, I think.”
“You’re useless.”
“I’ll check—”
“Don’t bother. He’ll be the lone bloke at the bar.”
The café was quiet. Two men sat alone—both in jeans and leather jackets. One near the entrance smiled. She approached.
He had a glass of wine. Nerves hit her. He signalled the waiter, and soon she was sipping courage. The wine softened the edges. She talked endlessly, about Oliver, her parents, Charlotte, their childhood pact—everything. The room swayed.
“I should warn you… I’m not alone. I’ve a son, Oliver. Five years old. If that’s a deal-breaker, just say.” She stood, dizzy, and he steadied her.
“Let’s get some air.”
Outside, she babbled freely. At her doorstep, she didn’t invite him up. “Not on a first date.”
Inside, she peered out the window. No lingering Romeo below.
Her phone rang later—Charlotte, furious. “You stood him up?”
“I went! He was lovely!”
“Who exactly did you meet?”
Elizabeth froze. She’d never asked his name.
“Matthew waited an hour. Who were you with?”
Horror dawned. The wrong man.
Charlotte sighed. “Well? Was he fit at least?”
“Yes…”
“If he doesn’t call, there’s always Matthew.”
“No more setups.”
Days passed. She’d resigned herself when the phone rang.
“Hello, Elizabeth.” A warm voice.
“Who’s this?”
“Paul. From the café.”
“Paul? Matthew’s cousin?”
“Who? No, my mum’s name is Margaret. Fancy another coffee?”
She agreed, warning him about Oliver.
“I’d like to meet him. You talked so much about him.”
“God, I’m mortified. I must’ve confused you with—”
“I figured. But I’ve never met someone so… unguarded.”
They met at the park. To her delight, Paul and Oliver hit it off—carousels, ice cream, laughter.
Sometimes, a mistake isn’t a mistake at all. Life has a way of steering hearts where they belong—even if it takes a wrong turn to get there.
