The office buzzed with the constant rumble of casual chats. The manager entered, bringing with her a rather plain-looking girl.
Ladies, do get acquaintedthis is Alice, shell be working with you now, taking over for George. Hes been promoted. I trust youll get along splendidly, said Mrs. Thompson, then swept out of the room.
Alice settled at Georges old desk, producing a fine china mug and a small, charmingly framed photograph of a man. She dived straight into paperwork as if shed been there for years already.
The lunch bell chimeda gentle trill, oddly reminiscent of a country churchs belland everyone rose, drifting toward their usual sandwich and tea at the corner bakery, save for Marina, whose curiosity kept her glued to her seat. She eyed the photograph. The man stared back, handsomely enigmatic, a twist of a smile gracing perfect teeth.
Who on earth is that? Marina wondered. An actor? A pop singer? She snapped a quick picture with her phone and left for lunch.
Gathered around a weathered wooden table, the girls plied Alice with questions. She began, foggy-eyed as if swept off by a sudden wind, and her memories tumbled out, surreal and slippery:
We met three years ago under the most peculiar circumstances. Honestly, you wont believe it.
Go on! the girls chorused, sipping their Earl Grey.
Her mind slid back three years. Shed been with a large London distribution firm. Some confusiondid she mix up a spreadsheet, or was it the warehouse chap? Either way, the wrong crate had been sent to her future husbands company. She was the one sent to sort it out, thanks to her boss knowing her gentle, cunning way with people. Outwardly, she was plain and nearly invisibleno make-up, limp haira mouse in the city. But in negotiations, she transformed into a python: slow, firm, persuasive.
She arrived at the officethird floor, Room 312. The receptionist barely looked up. Youll want Mr. SmithRoom 312.
Alice entered without knocking. Alice Taylor, from Davies & Sons. Theres been a mix-up in the deliverylogistics got their wires crossed.
Mr. Smith watched her, eyes wide, as if shed stepped from a half-remembered dream. Her auburn hair twitched like fox fur, her green eyes steady and earnest. She spoke in measured, velvet tones.
She was ready for battle, but Mr. Smith smiled disarmingly. Alice, theres no need for formal complaints. It wont happen again, Im sure.
She thanked him, nodded, and left.
Two days later, he waited by the antique brass lift as Alice was leaving. She was last out, clutching her bag.
Alice! he called, hand raised. We spoke two days ago!
She didnt bat an eyelid. Good evening, Mr. Smith. I remember.
Ive got tickets for the theatre tonight. Would you care to join me? My mothers unwellan empty seats a shame.
Alice tilted her head. When does it start?
Two hours. I can drive you home if youd like to change first.
Deeming it a clever ruse, she agreed.
That evening, she emerged in a fitted black dress, low heels clicking on the cobbles, transformed into another-worldly beauty. Mr. Smith nearly missed her in the duskher understated make-up and poise made her a striking figure, a shadow from a gothic tale. Sitting beside her, he stole glances throughout the play; she clearly knew the story inside out.
Afterwards, he suggested dinner, but she declined with a businesslike smile. Challenging meetings tomorrow, Im afraid. He drove her home through foggy streets, yellow lamplight flickering in the car.
By weeks end, another walk, then another. For months, he waited after work, and their walks stretched through parks and along the Thames.
Two months later, he waited with a near tremble. Mum would love to meet youare you free this Sunday?
I was hoping to meet her, too, Alice replied.
Her mother greeted them warmly at a semi-detached in Richmond, offering tea, scones with clotted cream, and a home-baked Victoria sponge. Alice charmed Mrs. Smith with a tale of her grandmothers apple preserve and stories of her late father, whod been lost during RAF testing, and her history-teacher mother.
On the drive home, Mr. Smith confided, Mum really likes you. Im so pleased.
From there, the world melted; they saw each other nearly every evening. In a year, they married.
As Alices story trailed off, the girls exchanged silent glances, torn between envy and awe. Except Marina, who fumed inwardly.
How did she catch him? Marina stewed. A plain Janeand I, with my long legs, get men who either want a quick fling or are married by the next week.
The bell rang. The girls drifted back to their computers. Marina sidled to Susan, whispering, Lookits him! Her husband. Do you believe it? I dont. Shes making it up. Someone like him wouldnt go for her.
That evening, as dusk pinked the sky, the workers emptied out. A car beeped; the same man called, Alice, here I am! and she slipped gracefully to his side.
Really? Marina seethed. Why not me? Im the obvious choice.
The women watched the couple stroll away, each cloaked in her own reverie.
People often wonder when they see such pairswhat did he see in her? Perhaps exactly what he was looking for. Beauty is not always what attracts men; they may flirt with the pretty ones, but its often someone else they choose to marry. Why is that? Perhaps we should ask them…
