Polly smoothed her dress in front of the mirror, swiped rosy lipstick across her lips, then fluffed a stubborn curl. She stepped back, giving herself a critical once-over. “Not bad,” she murmured, smiling at her reflection.
Her husband, James, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Blimey! Where’re you off to, all dolled up like that?”
“Work. Jealous, are you?” Polly widened her already-large, perfectly lined eyes.
“Course I am. Let me drive you—those buses are packed. You’ll get crushed.”
“Sit tight. Where’re you going with that plaster cast?” Polly zipped up her quilted coat, adjusting her scarf snug under her chin.
“I’m off, then.” She paused at the door. “Oh, nearly forgot. I’ll be late—Ellie’s getting married. Sort of a girls’ night at the café. Don’t wait up.”
“Hold on, let me pick you up later—” James pushed off the frame.
“No need.” Polly blew him a kiss and slipped out.
James shuffled to the window, watching Polly hurry across the courtyard.
“Should’ve got your licence by now. Wouldn’t have to cram onto that ruddy bus,” he muttered, as if she could hear him.
At the café, music hummed. Six women huddled around pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and swapping wedding disaster stories, laughter ringing. A waiter appeared, setting an expensive bottle of wine before Polly.
“From the gentleman over there. Shall I open it?”
Polly turned. The man—tall, polished—nodded and smiled. Her heart skipped, then raced. Heat flushed her cheeks, her smile vanishing like frost under morning sun.
She knew him. How could she forget? Paul had been the university heartthrob, senior year. Girls trailed after him. Before summer exams, she’d failed a test. Crying on the wrought-iron staircase, mascara streaked—no exam entry without passing.
“What’s the waterworks for? Flunked?”
She looked up. Paul. Talking to *her*? Now, of all times—red-nosed, a mess.
“Failed my test,” she sniffed, swiping tears.
“Big deal. You’ve smudged your mascara.”
Polly gasped, fumbling for her compact. He handed her a handkerchief.
“Should’ve cried in front of the tutor. Thought all girls knew how to guilt-trip. Go on—catch him before he leaves. Say you studied all night, your head’s scrambled.”
“D’you think that’ll work?”
“Won’t know till you try. Scoot.” He nudged her, and she scrambled upstairs, footsteps clanging.
When she emerged, beaming, Paul waited.
“Smiling suits you,” he said.
He walked her home, chatting. She barely listened, dizzy with *He’s here. With me!* Women’s lingering glances at him filled her with pride.
After exams, they dated briefly. Cinema, beach days… She knew his reputation, but her heart overruled logic. Then—vanished. No address, no one to ask. She ached, convinced herself he’d return… Until she missed her period.
“Been floating on air, now you’re moping. You ill?” her mum asked.
“Just a cold,” Polly coughed unconvincingly.
“See a doctor, then.”
Next day, she went private—too scared of bumping into someone at the clinic. The test was positive.
“Mum’ll kill me… My degree… And he’s *gone*…” Sobs wrecked her in the doctor’s office.
The doctor took pity: early enough for a pill, but costly. Polly spun a lie—expensive meds, bad results—and her mum, none the wiser, handed over cash.
Two days of cramps like barbed wire. She bore it silently.
At term’s start, she longed to see Paul. He strode past arm-in-arm with a fresher, ignoring her. Girls crowed he was engaged—*finally settling down*. Polly bit her lip raw to keep from crying.
In lectures, James slid beside her. Unremarkable, quiet. She knew he fancied her. No heartthrob—girls only bothered him for notes.
“Cheer up. Fancy a film tonight?”
She shrugged. Better than crying over Paul. After, they wandered London. James recounted a book he’d read—so engrossing, she forgot Paul entirely.
With James, she could be herself. No pretending. At her door, she blurted:
“James… d’you like me? Marry me.”
He gaped. “You serious? I *adore* you. But not like this.” He walked off.
*Even him.* Her self-worth bottomed out.
Next day, mid-lecture, James whispered with the professor, then faced the class:
“I’d like to propose to Polly—promise to love her forever, make her the happiest.”
The room erupted. “Polly! Polly!” Chants dragged her forward. James knelt, ring glinting, flowers materialising in his hands.
“Well, Polly?” he shouted over cheers.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Later, he confessed he’d wanted it memorable—not her desperate plea. The tale became uni legend.
Their marriage was steady, calm—more friendship than fire. No babies came. James never pried.
Now, five years later, Paul stood before her. Even handsomer. She compared him to James—sweatpants, sling, softening belly. *Could hit the gym,* she thought irritably. Girls ogled Paul, the wine-sender.
He pulled her onto the cramped dance floor. Under stares, she stiffened. The song ended mercifully. Paul offered a lift home.
Outside, snow dusted her hair like diamond chips under streetlamps. His flashy car purred to the kerb. He boasted—divorced, two kids, his own firm—doling compliments.
Polly asked him to stop at the far entrance. James would be watching. Paul’s chatter grated. *Vain as a peacock. What did I ever see in him?*
She thanked him, reaching for the door.
“Your number?” He brandished his phone.
She thought of James, of Paul’s abandonment, and stepped out wordlessly. Footsteps crunched snow.
Two hooded figures lunged. One yanked her handbag.
“Help! Paul!” she screamed.
Tires screeched—his car sped off.
Her attacker gasped, releasing her. The other sprawled sideways.
Before her stood James—slippers, T-shirt, clutching a walking stick.
“You all right?” His breath fogged the air.
“James!” She buried her face in his chest, feeling him shiver.
“Inside, quick. You’ll catch your death.” The muggers had vanished—so had Paul’s car.
“Were you watching for me?” she asked, home at last.
“Having tea. Heard you shout.”
She flushed. She’d called for *Paul*—who’d fled. James had charged out, broken arm and all. She stared at him, truly seeing him.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Right. No more solo outings. And *learn to drive*.”
“Yes, love.”
That night, curled into him, she melted. It’d been years since such passion. Three weeks later, the test showed two lines.
Sunday morning, James emerged from the bathroom, holding the stick.
“Did I read this right?”
She pouted playfully. “Wanted to surprise you.”
“Bloody brilliant surprise.” He kissed her softly.
Polly marvelled. *When did I fall for him? He’s steady, brave—everything Paul wasn’t. Put up with me for years. Ran out to save me, cast and all. Pretty boys like Paul? Nothing but trouble.*
Sometimes, the quiet ones are the ones who stay. And that’s worth more than any fleeting spark.
