The Mistaken Date
Emily stepped out of the office building and inhaled deeply, the crisp autumn air laced with the scent of fallen leaves. It was that rare stretch of warm, golden weather—Indian summer—where evenings turned chilly but afternoons still allowed for light dresses and cardigans.
As she walked, she debated her next move. Should she pick up Oliver from nursery first and drag him along to Tesco, or dash to the shops before collecting him? The toy aisle at Tesco was a minefield—Oliver would whine for some plastic trinket, and money was tight before payday. Besides, he’d lose interest in five minutes flat.
She checked her watch. If she hurried, she could buy groceries, drop them at home, then fetch Oliver. She quickened her pace, eyes fixed ahead, mentally listing essentials. *Don’t forget salt.* It always ran out unexpectedly. Two days ago, she’d gone shopping specifically for salt and returned with everything but. Now it played on loop in her mind. *Carrots, milk, butter, salt…*
“Emmy! Emily Whittaker!”
The voice cut through her thoughts. Emily took a few more steps before stopping, turning to face the woman calling her.
“Don’t recognise me? Who swore we’d be friends forever?” The woman grinned.
Emily blinked. The oath rang a bell, but the face—polished, stylish, nothing like the scrawny brunette she’d known. Then it clicked: Cara Sinclair, her primary school best friend. They’d met in Year 3, shared a desk until GCSEs, and pledged eternal friendship at fourteen. Life had pulled them apart. Nothing lasted forever, not even friendship—let alone love.
“You look frazzled, like you’ve got seven kids at home,” Cara remarked, eyeing Emily’s tired expression, her plain office wear. Emily felt self-conscious under the scrutiny.
“You seem well,” she deflected.
“Can’t complain. Second marriage. No kids yet. You?”
Emily caught the wistful note and steered clear. “Not married, but I’ve got a son.” She couldn’t hide the pride.
“At uni already?”
“Nursery,” Emily laughed.
“Bloody hell! You were always the pretty one—thought you’d be first down the aisle. Most of us have grown-up kids now. But you were always buried in books, too sensible for boys.”
Emily stiffened. Cara winced. “Oh, don’t sulk. You know me—mouth before brain.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to fetch Oliver.” Emily stepped aside.
“Wait.” Cara fished out her phone. “Give me your number. Let’s meet up properly.”
Emily rattled it off, eager to escape, then hurried towards the nursery.
True to form, Cara didn’t dawdle. She rang the next day, proposing Saturday at a café.
“I’ll check if Mum can watch Oliver,” Emily said, already dreading it. *There goes my day off.* She dialled her mother, grumbling inwardly. *We’ve nothing in common anymore.*
Saturday arrived. The café was posh—somewhere Emily hadn’t set foot in since Oliver was born. She felt out of place until Cara ordered wine. The first sip was smooth, loosening her tongue as they reminisced about school. Cara knew *everything*—who married whom, who’d moved where, how many kids they had.
When nostalgia dried up, Cara pivoted. “Listen, my colleague’s son—our age, single. Decent bloke, programmer, earns well. Bit of a hermit though. Fancy meeting him?”
Emily slammed her glass down. “I’m not some desperate case!”
“He’s lovely. Just got burnt before. Like you, eh?”
“His problem. I won’t be set up like some… *transaction*.”
“You’re wound too tight. A date’s just a date.”
Emily exhaled. *Fine.*
Next Sunday, she dropped Oliver at her mum’s, tousled her hair into something presentable, and dressed plainly—no illusions here. Then she froze. *What’s his name?*
“Ethan? Noah? Something biblical,” Cara mumbled.
“Twelve apostles, Cara. Could be *anyone*.”
“Whatever. Men don’t drink alone—he’ll be the lone bloke.”
The café was quiet. Two men sat alone, both in jeans and leather jackets. The nearer one met her gaze and smiled.
She approached, nerves fluttering.
He had wine. She eyed it longingly. He signalled the waiter.
One glass turned to two. The room swam pleasantly.
“You’re handsome. I pictured someone… different.”
“Did you?” He smirked.
“More wine,” she blurted.
Words tumbled out—her life, Oliver, the *mortifying* overshare about her son.
“I should warn you—I’m not alone. Oliver’s five. If that’s a deal-breaker, just say.” She stood too fast, swayed.
“Let’s get air.” He steadied her outside.
The cold cleared her head. She babbled about her parents, Cara, childhood promises. At her flat, she didn’t invite him up.
Inside, she peered down. No lingering Romeo below.
She scrubbed off mascara and sank into bed, buzzing with foolish hope. Then her phone rang.
“Where *are* you?” Cara snapped.
“Home. You woke me.”
“You chickened out?”
“I went! He was lovely—attentive, handsome—”
“Who the hell did you meet?”
Emily’s stomach dropped. *His name. I never asked.*
Turns out, Ethan-no-Noah had waited an hour.
Meanwhile, she’d poured her heart out to a stranger.
“You gave him your *number*? Christ, Emmy!”
“He was nice,” she sniffed.
“Did he ask you out again?”
“I… don’t remember.”
Cara groaned. “Well, there’s always Ethan—”
“No more setups!”
Days passed. No call. She shoved the memory aside.
Then—
“Hello, Emily.” A smooth voice.
“Who’s this?”
“James. From the café.”
“James? Milly’s son?”
“Who? My mum’s Theresa. Fancy another coffee?”
Blushing, she agreed.
They met at the park. To her shock, James bonded instantly with Oliver—carousel rides, arcade games, ice cream.
A happy accident. Or perhaps not an accident at all.
People think they choose their paths. But somewhere—up there—someone watches, waiting to nudge kindred hearts together.
