A Lonely Woman with Baggage
Rachel raised her son alone. Her husband had left her over a decade ago. All this time, he’d dutifully paid child support, his conscience and the law perfectly clear—or so he insisted.
He took his belongings and the car, leaving Rachel with an unpaid mortgage on their flat and their son. In all those years, he never once visited, never once wished the boy a happy birthday or sent a gift.
“Probably made some other fool happy by now,” her mother sighed. “He’ll keep running from responsibility until he’s lost what little manhood he has. Serves him right. I told you not to take out that mortgage. But you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ll spend your life paying for it.” Never mind that it had been her parents who pressured Rachel into buying the flat in her name.
And so Rachel lived, paycheck to paycheck, working two jobs while raising her son. Thank goodness Alfie wasn’t much trouble.
After her second shift, numb with exhaustion, she’d stop by the shop, trudge home, dreaming only of dropping the heavy bags, kicking off her shoes, sinking into a chair, and closing her eyes. She felt like one of those sad horses at the fair, plodding in circles with kids on their backs, ribbons braided into their manes, tinsel crowns on their heads—bright but lifeless. That was her now. Work, shop, home. Round and round.
She wore sturdy, nondescript clothes from the bargain store, rarely buying anything new and saving her best for special occasions that never came. By the time she wore them, they were outdated.
Walking home, she wondered what to make for dinner, if Alfie was home already… Her oversized handbag hung heavy on her shoulder, one arm clutching it while the other carried groceries. If Alfie was in, she’d rest for five minutes before boiling pasta and sausages.
But she hadn’t always been like this. Thick hair, bright eyes, a figure that still turned heads. Like any girl, she’d dreamed of love—and it had found her in Marcus. How could she not fall for him? He promised forever, swore they’d have a flashy car—a Jaguar, at the very least. Two kids, a perfect life.
He got the car. Then drove off into his bright future, leaving Rachel with the flat, the mortgage, and their son.
She kept her eyes on the pavement. One wrong step and she’d twist an ankle or soak her shoes in a puddle. The roads were terrible here. And she had to watch for reckless drivers splashing through puddles, soaking pedestrians.
“Rachel!” A stylish, polished woman blocked her path.
It took Rachel a moment to recognise Sophie, her old schoolmate. Never a beauty, yet now she looked like she’d stepped off a magazine cover. Rachel suddenly felt shabby in her worn-out coat.
“Fancy seeing you here! I’m visiting Mum, but none of the old crowd’s around. Everyone’s moved away. Rach! How’ve you been?”
*Isn’t it obvious?* Rachel thought. Out loud, she said, “Fine. Same as always.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and my boy. You?”
Sophie’s eyes lit up. “I married a Spaniard. Live in Barcelona now. Just popped back for a week. Listen, I’m not letting you go. Let’s grab a drink—or invite me over. Where do you live?”
“Nearby. But the place is a mess. Didn’t even wash last night’s dishes.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m easy. I’m English, after all.”
Rachel opened her flat door and called out, “Alf, you home? We’ve got company.”
A lanky teenager appeared.
“Blimey! This is your son? Handsome!” Sophie cooed. “What year are you in? Any uni plans?”
“Still deciding. Mum, I washed the dishes. Got homework,” he muttered before disappearing into his room.
“So responsible,” Sophie said, a hint of envy in her voice.
“You got kids?” Pride swelled in Rachel’s chest.
“No. My husband’s older. Grown kids already. No nappies for him, thanks.”
Rachel threw together dinner while Sophie gushed about Barcelona.
“So why’d you split? He a drinker?” Sophie finally asked.
“No. Things were fine until Alfie came. He never slept, always crying. I was on maternity leave, and we had the mortgage, the car payments… Marcus said he was tired of it. Then he left. Drove off in his precious car.”
“What a prick!” Sophie spat. “Ditched you with a kid and a mortgage!”
Rachel didn’t explain how bad it had really been. Sophie wouldn’t understand. Without her parents’ help, she’d have lost the flat.
“Don’t worry, love. Your bad luck’s run out. Plenty of single men out there—older, but still fit. They love English women. Why settle? Half of them can barely look after themselves. We raise kids alone, hold down jobs—honestly, we’re saints. My husband’s got loads of mates. I’ll find you a rich one.”
“With my baggage? No man looks twice when they hear ‘single mum’.”
“What nonsense! Better a single mum than a deadbeat dad.”
“And Spanish men don’t walk out on their kids?”
“Some do. Men are the same everywhere. But your boy’s nearly grown. You’re perfect. I’ll ring you in a few days. Got Skype? Brilliant. Cheers to your new life!”
Rachel dug out a half-finished bottle of wine from her last birthday.
“Just tidy yourself up. New hair, new clothes,” Sophie advised.
Rachel hid her shame—money was tight, and she couldn’t justify the expense.
Sophie left, and Rachel waited. She imagined quitting her job, moving away, everyone envying her. A big house, a doting husband. Alfie at university…
She even smiled again. Got a haircut, bought a dress and heels—went into debt, but Sophie insisted it was an investment.
“Men like polished women,” Sophie said.
So Rachel polished. Weeks passed. No call. Then, finally—a prospective husband.
“Not a looker. Mid-fifties. But he owns a shop. Dress up tomorrow—Skype call. You didn’t learn Spanish, did you? Thought not. I’ll translate.”
“You’re marrying a Spaniard now?” Alfie had appeared in the kitchen.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“I’m good here. That Sophie’s brainwashed you. We eating tonight?”
The next day, Rachel fidgeted in her new dress. What if he didn’t like her? She sat at Alfie’s computer, shooing him out with his tablet.
No call. She nearly changed back when Skype chimed. A bald man in his seventies appeared. Sophie popped up beside him.
Rachel had practised a greeting in Spanish. The man grinned and babbled something fast.
“He likes you. That’s José. Say his name often—he’ll love that,” Sophie translated.
José wanted to visit.
“Me? I thought I’d go to him,” Rachel said, disappointed.
“You? With no passport? He’ll come for a day or two. Not scared, are you?”
“You said fifties. He’s seventy!”
“So? Want Spain or not?”
“I—yes. Fine.”
Rachel prepped for José’s visit, splurging on fancy treats. Alfie peeked in the fridge and grinned.
“Hope he visits often. I’ll eat like a king.”
A week later, Rachel met José at the airport, sending Alfie to her mum’s—with strict orders not to blab.
They stumbled through broken English and wild gestures. Thankfully, he booked a hotel. Over dinner, he invited her upstairs.
“Tomorrow,” she lied in English.
All the way home, she plotted escape routes. But José was persistent. She drank too much at dinner just to endure it. In his room, she locked herself in the bathroom, emerging to find him snoring. Relieved, she scribbled a note on hotel paper— *Thanks for a lovely night*—and slipped out.
José flew home the next day. Alfie returned, and they feasted on the fancy food.
A week later, Sophie called.
“Sorry, love. José met some twenty-five-year-old on the plane. Smitten. But I’ve got another bloke—”
“Stop. I’m done.”
They hung up, annoyed with each other. Sophie never rang again.
The next day, Rachel wore her new dress and heels to work—no point wasting them. By evening, her feet were bleeding. She slumped on a bench, yanking off her shoes, cursing herself. No way she could walk home in them.
“Feet killing you?”
A handsome bloke stood there. No point pretending.
“Yeah. New shoes.”
“Don’t move. Pharmacy’s close—I’ll get plasters.” He dashed off.
Silly man. Where would sheShe slipped the shoes back on, wincing but smiling, because for the first time in years, someone had noticed her pain—and done something about it.
