“Mum Set It All Up”
“I can’t believe it! I just can’t!” Emily shrieked, waving her arms. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Emily, love, calm down, please,” Margaret tried to take her daughter’s hand, but she snatched it away. “Let’s talk properly.”
“Calm down?” Emily’s voice rose to a screech. “After what you’ve done? Do you realise the whole town’s laughing at me now?”
“Don’t exaggerate. What town? We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” Emily clutched her head. “Are you pretending to be thick, or do you really not get it?”
Margaret sank onto the sofa with a sigh. At sixty-two, she still considered herself spry enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s love life, but for the first time in years, she felt old and weary.
“I was only trying to help,” she murmured. “You’ve been cooped up ever since the divorce. Barely go out.”
“That’s my business!” Emily exploded. “Mine! I’m a grown woman, forty-one years old!”
“Exactly why I worry. Time’s passing, and you—”
“And I what? Unwanted? Some old hag?”
Margaret shook her head.
“You’re lovely, darling. Clever, too. Just too proud these days. Men are scared to approach you.”
Emily paced the room, fiddling with her dressing gown belt. Morning sunlight poured into the modest lounge, but the tension was suffocating.
“Mum, how could you put an ad in the paper?” she said wearily. “And one like that…”
“What’s wrong with it?” Margaret frowned. “It was perfectly nice.”
“Nice?” Emily pulled a crumpled newspaper from her pocket. “Listen: ‘Seeking respectable gentleman for beautiful, homemaking daughter, 41. Works as accountant, doesn’t drink or smoke, loves cooking. Contact her mother.’ Her mother, for God’s sake!”
“What’s the issue?”
“The issue? I’m not a piece of meat in a shop window! And why contact you, not me?”
“Because you’d find fault with anyone. Always do.”
Emily dropped into the armchair opposite and buried her face in her hands.
“Mum, my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Yesterday, some seventy-year-old asked if I could make roast dinner and move to his farm to tend his sheep.”
“Well, he’s a no,” Margaret conceded. “What about the others?”
“What others? Mum, this is humiliating! Like I can’t find a man myself.”
“Can you?”
The quiet question hit home. Emily stayed silent, knowing her mother was right. Four years since splitting with David, and she hadn’t met anyone who sparked her interest.
“Still doesn’t mean resorting to a newspaper ad like it’s the nineties,” she grumbled.
“How else, then? Online? You barely know how to turn the laptop on.”
“I’d learn.”
“Oh, like you’ve ‘learned’ in four years.”
Margaret stood and headed to the kitchen.
“Tea? Or shall I fetch the valerian drops?”
“Don’t mock me,” Emily followed.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking—Margaret’s stress remedy. Today, the table bore sausage rolls, apple crumble, and shortbread.
“Up all night again?” Emily cracked a smile.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Margaret admitted. “Thinking how to talk to you.”
“Should’ve thought before placing the ad.”
Margaret filled the kettle and fetched two mugs.
“Emily, love, think. Your office is all women. You’re always home with books and telly. Pop to Tesco in joggers, hair a mess—”
“I look fine!”
“For lounging. But for men? When did you last wear a dress?”
Emily paused. Post-divorce, she’d abandoned femininity—jeans, jumpers, trainers, that was it.
“Still no excuse for the ad,” she muttered.
“What is, then? Waiting for Prince Charming to knock?”
The kettle whistled. Margaret poured tea and slid the biscuits forward.
“Mum… how many calls were there?” Emily ventured.
“Lots. Wrote ’em all down. Want to see?”
From the drawer, she produced a school exercise book labelled “Emily’s Suitors” in looping script.
“Seriously?” Emily snorted. “Like we’re eleven.”
“Organised, though. Look—this Michael seemed decent. Forty-five, engineer, divorced, no kids. Polite on the phone.”
Emily skimmed the pages. Margaret had logged names, ages, jobs, even red flags: “drinks,” “lives with mum,” “wants a maid,” “married, liar.”
“Mum, you interviewed all of them?”
“Course. You think I’d hand you off to any Tom, Dick, or Harry? Asked about jobs, salaries, houses—”
“Like an interrogation,” Emily smirked.
“Exactly. Need to know who you’re dealing with.”
Reading, Emily stifled a laugh. Margaret’s thoroughness was almost admirable. One entry was crossed out: “Asked about sex straight off. Rude.”
“Why’s this Peter crossed out?”
“Widower, forty-three, construction foreman. Own flat. Daughter’s grown, married.”
Emily set the book down.
“Mum, you really think this’ll find someone decent?”
“Why not? Matchmakers worked for centuries.”
“That was then. Times change.”
“Times do. People don’t. Everyone wants love, family.”
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up.
“Hello? Yes, about the ad… Thirty-eight? And your job? Divorced? Kids? Why none, if I may?”
Emily rolled her eyes and retreated to her room. Margaret could grill callers for hours.
At her desk, Emily checked emails. Amid work spam were messages from strangers. Margaret hadn’t stopped at the paper—she’d gone online too.
“Mum!” Emily yelled. “Get in here!”
Margaret appeared, phone still in hand.
“What?”
“You posted ads online?”
“Neighbour Janice helped. Said it’s better.”
“Which sites?”
“All the free ones.”
Emily googled her name. The results stunned her—her face stared back from a dozen dating sites, different photos but the same blurb.
“Mum, where’d you get these pictures?”
“Your laptop. Janice showed me how.”
“Which ones?”
“Your holiday in Spain, the office Christmas do.”
Emily blinked—Margaret had chosen her best shots: smiling, glowing.
“How many replies?”
“Loads. Look at your inbox.”
A hundred unread messages.
“Mum, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh! See how popular you are?”
The phone rang again. Margaret answered eagerly.
“Hello? Name? Forty-six? Job? Lorry driver? Personality? Easygoing? Good… Any vices? Smoke? Drink? Special occasions only? Fine… Earnings? That’s low, lad. My girl’s used to better—”
“Mum!” Emily hissed. “Stop scaring him off!”
Margaret covered the mouthpiece.
“What? Need to know if he can provide.”
“Not on the first call!”
“When, then? Too late after.”
Ten more minutes of grilling—blood type, shoe size, the lot.
“Well?” Margaret hung up. “Fancy him?”
“Dunno. Didn’t speak to him.”
“Shall I set up a meet?”
“Where? A café?”
“Here. I’ll do roast and trifle. Chat properly.”
Emily pictured it—her, a stranger, and Margaret hovering, firing questions.
“No, Mum. If we meet, just us.”
“Why? I found him!”
“Because I’m not a museum exhibit. I’ll talk to him myself.”
Margaret pouted.
“Ungrateful. I’m trying—”
“I am grateful. But your methods are… intense.”
“Effective, though. Look how many called.”
“Quantity’s not quality.”
“How d’you know? Your soulmate might be in there.”
The phone rang a third time. Emily grabbed it first.
“Hello?”
“Hi, about the ad,” a warm male voice said.
“Go on.”
“I’m James. Forty-two. Fancied meeting your daughter.”
Emily paused. His voice was kind, neither pushy nor grovelling.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Construction project manager. Divorced three years. No kids. Flat in Chelsea.”
“Why reply to Mum’s ad?”
“Honestly? Liked that her mum posted it. Means she’s from a close family.”
Margaret mimed “ask his salary!” Emily waved her off.
“You’re fine with me being forty-one?”
“Course. I’m past chasingThey met the following Saturday, and as they laughed over shared stories and lingering glances, Emily realised that sometimes, the most unexpected beginnings lead to the happiest endings.
