The bus stalled at a crossroads in the heart of a Yorkshire town when James caught sight of her lips. The girl brushed a tuft of dandelion fluff from her sleeve. That delicate movement, as if her lips were kissing the wind, struck him like a shaft of sunlight in a darkened room.
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, not understanding why her hazel eyes suddenly reflected the entirety of his life.
She turned slowly, her gaze not frightened but icy, as if assessing not a man but a cracked canvas:
“You’re mad.”
“I’ll be the best husband you’ll ever have. Say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly uneven teeth.
“Why on earth would I? I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s fix that. Meet me again,” he said with a theatrical bow, not letting her object. “James Prescott, engineer with grand ambitions. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Emily,” she replied, as if in a dream. “Artist. Maybe famous someday. Maybe not.”
“Perfect pair—a man of logic and a dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other out.”
“No, thank you,” she said flatly. “I’m already whole on my own.”
“That’s exactly why I love you,” James felt his pulse quicken. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight by the fountain in the park. I promise you an evening you won’t forget.”
Emily didn’t like him. She had no intention of going. But the next morning, boasting to her friend, she recounted how a stranger had proposed, swearing undying love.
“And you turned him down?” gasped her friend. “Have you lost your mind? When a man falls for you at first sight, you milk it! What if he’s loaded? Let him wine and dine you.”
“He’s expecting me tonight,” Emily shrugged. “Fancy a laugh? Come with me. Let’s see how deep his pockets really are. I’d die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely—let’s go!”
One evening wasn’t enough. James clung to them like a shadow, sparing no expense on the two art students. He knew what young women wanted—cinema tickets, cosy cafés, expensive paints, premium brushes. A seasoned engineer in a cutting-edge tech firm, he could afford it.
Emily made no secret of her indifference. She told him outright she was seeing him out of boredom until real love—with someone else—came along. In short, she was doing him a favour.
James watched her like a petulant child, and after every date, he repeated:
“You’ll be my wife.”
She laughed. Who’d want a wife who eyed other men? But James didn’t back down. He wasn’t wooing her—he was besieging her.
He waited after lectures, took her to galleries, bought her jewellery, memorised her habits. He tracked down her would-be suitors and “removed” them (one ended up “accidentally” roughed up in an alley). He called her mother: “Your daughter deserves better than these boys.”
Emily fumed, shouting she wasn’t his property, that this wasn’t the Dark Ages. Out of spite, she dated classmates. One poor literature student caught her eye—but he was broke. A wealthy philosophy undergrad looked down his nose at her. A musician from the next street loved passionately—until he chased another girl a week later.
After each disappointment, James materialised like a spectre:
“I told you—they’re not for you.”
Her mother swiftly took his side. When Emily rebelled or cut contact, she sighed. “You’re being stubborn, love. Marriage isn’t about fireworks. He worships you—with a man like that, you’ll never want for anything.”
“Jazz tonight,” he said, holding up club tickets when she was dressing for another date.
“He isn’t worthy of you,” he declared a week later when that boy vanished.
Emily never asked how he arranged it. Secretly, she was touched by his obsession—like some old-fashioned novel where the heroine was worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of hawthorn in bloom—her favourite. “I’ve got land. I’ll build us a house. You’ll have your own studio.”
“I don’t love you,” she exhaled. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t tried yet. I’ll make myself impossible not to love.”
Suddenly, she felt exhaustion—not from him, but from herself. From chasing something that, by twenty-six, she suspected didn’t exist. Every “maybe” had crumbled to dust. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it was time to surrender.
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up like a man seeing dawn after endless night.
He was the perfect husband. Flowers, never a cross word, shelves built, home renovated to her sketches, carrying her in his arms before guests. But the bedroom became duty (“Come here, darling, I’ve missed you”). Children never came.
Emily didn’t live. She endured his love. She never got used to his sudden kisses on the back of her neck as she chopped salad.
Friends envied her. She wanted to scream, “Take him!” Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never argued—there was nothing to fight about. Once, Emily hurled her mother-in-law’s porcelain figurine against the wall. James didn’t flinch.
“Not to worry, love. We’ll glue it.”
She realised—he’d never let her go. She bought a train ticket, packed a bag. Then James brought home the Siamese kitten she’d always wanted.
“You’ve been so down… maybe he’ll help?”
Emily stayed.
Years later, he found the ticket tucked in a book. Understood everything. Over supper, he asked:
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” She fumbled for the words. “Loneliness scares me more.”
James smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Emily knew the truth: she’d grown used to his devotion—and feared he was the only man who’d ever love her.
