Dinner
Simon.
Five years after his divorce, Simon decided he was ready to dip his toe into a serious relationship again. On paper he was a decent catch he owned a flat in Manchester, had a steady job at an engineering firm, and people described him as pleasant, kindhearted and reliable. Yet, reality turned out to be messier than a Sunday roast.
He wasnt exactly invisible to the opposite sex: colleagues had been eyeing him for ages, and the single ladies in his block thought he was a solid bloke, no bad habits, a real gentleman. He even had a teenage son, James, whom he looked after on weekends, and he got along civilly with his exwife, Claire. All the boxes seemed to tick in his favour.
When the romance front finally nudged forward, conversations were smooth, dates were enjoyable a play, a cinema outing but the moment the talk turned serious, Simon froze. He would shrink back, avoiding eye contact, as if the very idea of commitment made his stomach do somersaults.
Useless, ladies, one of his mates muttered later. I told him Im a decent cook, earn a decent wage about £35000 a year not a burden. He caught the hint and bolted home, claiming an emergency.
Another friend chimed in, I tried to play matchmaker, thought Id at least have a roof over my head. The moment I asked him to move in, he vanished like a puff of wind.
A junior colleague, overhearing the gossip, snorted and offered his two cents: Why bother? A man whos already tasted the sour of marriage knows better. Hes better off with a pint at the local, a night of fishing, or a quiet night in front of the telly. No need for extra drama.
There was a grain of truth in the youngsters words. In the first three years after his split, Simon often wondered why hed married so young, why hed dived headfirst into domestic woes at twentyfive. Hed spent evenings in strip clubs, random flings, and brought strangers home. After about a year, that frantic lifestyle lost its sparkle; a few bad experiences a pickpocketing lady, a scuffle with a rival finally nudged him to curb his reckless habits. He resolved to keep dates short, avoiding any longterm entanglements.
Life went on, neither spectacular nor terrible. Then, one night, a startling realization hit him like a cold splash of water: his exwife Julie wasnt such a bad person after all. Hed been angry that shed polished herself up after the split, remarried, and seemed to be doing well. Yet, looking back, he saw that shed been trying to make the best of things, just as he was.
Now, at forty, Simons silvertinged hair gave him a dash of sophistication, his cheeky grin still worked, but deep down he felt a strange emptiness. The women around him were attractive, yes, but none sparked that warm, genuine feeling. It was as if his heart had gone on holiday without a return ticket.
So, whats a man to do? Time isnt waiting, and he still dreams of building a proper family perhaps even a little one. He doesnt want to fling himself at anyone just because the market seems open.
Fate, or perhaps a welltimed office chat, presented an opportunity. A colleague, Mark, mentioned his sister Emily, whod just moved from London to Manchester. Shes classy, drives a sleek little hatchback, and is fed up with the hustle of the big city. She wants a decent bloke, someone stable. Think you could be her match?
Simon, halfjoking, replied, Ive been trying to find a wife myself. Lets see how well I can play cupid for my own sisterinlaw.
Mark laughed, Youre a master of matchmaking, you know that? Ill set it up. Heres Emilys number. Shes a bit shy, though shell probably need a few nudges.
Emily turned out to be elusive. She missed his first call, returned it two days later, then postponed their meeting three times, citing work and busy schedules. When Simon finally called a fourth time, saying he wouldnt hog her line any longer, she finally agreed to meet.
Alright, tomorrow evening at The Ivy. No window seats, please I dont enjoy watching traffic, she texted.
Simon arrived fifteen minutes early, shed his coat, grabbed a coffee, and watched the door. The Ivy was a cosy, upscale place not the cheapest on a Tuesday, mostly filled with couples tucked into quiet corners.
Half an hour later, feeling a bit peckish, he ordered two Caesar salads, just in case. He asked the waiter for a bottle of white wine and set the table as though a lady might appear any minute.
When the clock struck the agreed time, his phone buzzed Emilys number was dead. He glanced at the entrance again; there was no sign of her. A girl briefly peered in, caught his eye, but vanished before he could wave.
Better that she didnt show up. Id have been left with an awkward evening and a nervous heart, he muttered, sighing as he opened a kebab shop app and sipped his wine.
Just then, a chair scraped back, and a drenched girl in a rainspattered coat plopped into the seat opposite him. Her hair clung to her face, droplets sparkling, and a puzzled look danced in her eyes.
Simon, instinctively, rose and offered his coat. She hesitated, then slipped it into his hands, looking slightly embarrassed.
Emily? Simon asked, trying to make conversation, Would you like a salad? Ive already ordered two.
She smiled weakly, I was waiting outside, watching the street. Could I have some chips, please?
Sure thing, he replied, Let me check if the menu has fried potatoes.
He sent the coat to the cloakroom, then turned back to her. She lunged at the salad, chugging wine as if it were orange juice, and talked animatedly to the waiter, who struggled to keep up with her enthusiasm.
Simon watched, amused, as the plate emptied faster than a pubs pint glass on a Friday night. He thought, What a character! Shes like a burst of sunshine in a drizzle.
She was barely thirty, with a plain, honest face no heavy makeup, natural hair, and a figure that was surprisingly curvy in all the right places. Her dress was modest yet flattering, and she carried herself with a confidence that made Simon forget his earlier doubts.
She devoured the food, then sighed contentedly, Honestly, life is cheap when youre starving! Money is for paying the rent and buying a decent bag of chips. You dont need a sports car to be happy, just a decent meal now and then.
Simon, feeling a rare flutter, tried to keep his composure. I work long hours, so I usually just grab a quick dinner at home. Sometimes Im happy with a bowl of chips in front of the telly.
She rolled her eyes, Thats because youre welloff. If you were broke, youd talk about budget meals differently. Look at that price tuna for twenty pounds? Where does the money even go?
Simon didnt answer; he just smiled, enjoying the absurdity of the moment. Emilys laughter was infectious, and he found himself genuinely amused by her candidness.
After she finished, she stood, thanked him profusely, and said, Thank you for the food, for the coat, for everything. Youve been wonderful.
Hold on, Simon blurted, Would you like to meet again tomorrow?
She hesitated, Ive lost my phone why would you call?
I just cant seem to get your number, he replied, Ive been waiting for you since yesterday.
She blushed, cheeks pink, and said, Alright, Ill think about it.
She left, and Simon watched her disappear into the rainy night, feeling a mix of disappointment and hope.
Emilys backstory unfolded later. Shed moved to Manchester from London, lured by the promise of higher wages £45000 a year, you say? Thats better than the twentythousand I was earning back home. Shed left a deadend job at a hospital, hoping for a glamorous city life, only to discover that the reality was skyhigh rents, a cramped flat, and a bank account that barely covered the bills.
Shed tried to make ends meet by working in a bakery, buying a decent phone, and even flirting with a few mates, only to see them vanish one by one. By the end of the year, she was alone, paying a hefty £800 rent, and juggling a parttime shift at the bakery with nights at a call centre.
One night, exhausted and hungry, she wandered into The Ivy, peering through the window at the polished plates, dreaming of a steak she could never afford. A welldressed woman with bleached hair and towering heels slammed her car door, snarled, Ugh, another poor soul! and sped off, leaving Emily to stare at the affluent diners inside.
She lingered a moment longer, then, with a sigh, turned toward a lone gentleman at a corner table, who was quietly sipping wine and watching the street. She thought, Maybe hell notice the desperate look in my eyes.
That gentleman turned out to be Simon, who was still chuckling at his own misadventure of trying to set up his own sisterinlaw. He offered her a bag of groceries, walked her back to her tiny room, and vanished without leaving a phone number.
Emily felt a strange mix of gratitude and melancholy. A bloke from the city, kind enough to help a village girl, yet Im just an ordinary lad, she thought, wiping a tear.
In her modest flat, she opened a crumpled piece of paper shed found in her bag. It wasnt a receipt, but a handwritten note in tidy pen: Meet me tomorrow for dinner, same place, 7p.m. Simon.
