A young woman with a home of her own dreams of getting married…
“Well, there goes another one off the market. One more happy woman. May they live together till their golden anniversary!” declared Margaret Higgins, the head accountant and the oldest in the office by both rank and age, raising her glass of bubbly.
“That’s not enough—let’s wish them a diamond one!” chimed in lively Tanya.
“Easier wed than kept,” sighed Auntie Pam, the cleaner, hovering in the doorway. “These days, a man marries and within a year is drowning in ale. Oh, girls, why can’t you just stay happy on your own?”
“Honestly, Auntie Pam, would you just…?” Tanya waved her off impatiently. “Just because you had rotten luck doesn’t mean marriage is a bad idea. Our Lizzie struck gold—good looks, a car, and prospects. Don’t listen to anyone, Liz—be happy!” Tanya saluted with her champagne flute.
Liz had just returned from a week off for her wedding. She’d brought chocolates and prosecco to celebrate with her colleagues. She glowed like a freshly polished kettle, smiling nervously. She’d promised her new husband she’d only be an hour or so—just time for a quick toast. But three hours later, the first bottle was long gone, they’d made a mercy run to the shop for more, and nobody seemed in any hurry to leave. Her husband kept texting, asking when she’d be home, missing her, even offering to come rescue her.
“Alright, girls, have your fun. Leave the mess—I’ll tidy up in the morning,” Auntie Pam grumbled.
“Go on home, don’t fret, we’ll clean up,” Margaret assured her. “Right, ladies—one last glass. Time to call it a night. Just Sonia left to marry off, then we’ll have the full set.”
“Speaking of, Sonia, why *are* you still single? Pretty, got your own flat—no one catches your eye, or are you holding out for Prince Charming?” Tanya, now pleasantly tipsy, prodded.
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sonia asked.
“Well, how old are you? At your age, I already had two kids, with young Steven in school! Me and my husband had our ups and downs—nearly split a few times. But I told him, ‘You helped make ‘em, you help raise ‘em. After that, do what you like.’ Now he knows his place.” Tanya brandished her fist.
“Why do people marry? Passion or accidents. Passion fades, then it’s just grey weekdays. Don’t even get me started on kids—sleepless nights, frayed nerves, rows over nothing. Next thing you know, divorced.”
“If the bloke’s decent, he’ll leave the missus the house and kids, then off he goes to some rented shoebox or back to Mum’s. Doesn’t last. All his mates are married—nowhere to turn. So he starts eyeing up single women—no kids, preferably. He didn’t bolt from his own to raise someone else’s. Then he spots you—young, keen to wed, *with property*. Jackpot. Frankly, I’m shocked you’re still single.”
“Bit of a grim outlook,” Sonia muttered. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with nowhere to live? At thirty, I’ve no hope for a man without alimony, is that it?”
“Don’t listen to her, she’s sloshed and talking rubbish,” Margaret sighed. “Men these days aren’t in a rush to settle—too busy climbing the career ladder. Though, you *have* been single a while…”
“*Exactly*!” Tanya pounced. “Successful, single blokes know their worth—they want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t so picky. For them, it’s ‘decent person with a roof over their head.’ Better than flatshares or living with Mum.”
“Fate works in odd ways. Some marry young—some more than once. Others find happiness later. Doesn’t matter. My friend’s got a son—thirty-six, never married, sharp, good job. Just no luck with women,” Margaret said.
“What, ill or boozy? Or is he…?” Tanya caught Margaret’s warning glare. “What? My mate’s cousin—”
“Tanya, *enough*. You’ve got a mouth like a foghorn. Life’s messy. Sonia, love, he’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why even bring this up? I don’t believe in set-ups. Everyone oversells, then reality bites. I’ll manage on my own.”
“*That’s* the spirit. Where exactly will you meet someone? Office is all women, you don’t club. If you don’t click, no one’s forcing you. Plus, he’s got his own place. Worth a shot, no? What if you fancy him?” Margaret pressed. “Right, girls—we’ve overstayed. Husbands’ll bar the doors at this rate.”
The ladies tidied hastily and scattered.
“Don’t write it off just yet,” Margaret said as she and Sonia waited for the bus. “I didn’t bring this up for nothing. My husband’s birthday’s Saturday. I’ve invited my friend and her son. You come too. Suss each other out—who knows?”
The next two days, Sonia wavered. The plan rankled—nothing would come of it. Still, she picked an outfit, freshened her nails.
“How many diets have I promised myself? Two days won’t fix this,” she groaned at the mirror. “Who’ll love me if I don’t? Bollocks. I’m not going.”
Come Saturday, she washed her hair, styled it, did her makeup, chose a dress. Oh—the *gift*! She rang Margaret, who told her not to fuss—just turn up. But if she *had* to bring something, a bottle of wine. What else do you get a stranger?
Time to spare, Sonia nipped to the shop. The corner shop’s selection was dismal, so she trekked to the supermarket two stops away. She grabbed wine, then chocolates, cheese, and a loaf—just in case. Maybe he’d walk her home, angle for a cuppa, and she’d have nothing to offer. She’d been avoiding bread and sweets—trying to shrink.
Buoyed, Sonia headed to checkout. Just as she started unloading her basket, a man cut in, plonking down a bottle—the *same* wine.
“I was here first,” Sonia snapped.
“Sorry, love. Rushing. Just the wine—you’ve a full shop. You’ll be ages.” He was infuriatingly calm.
“Burning urge, is it? Rude git.” The cashier *had* already scanned his bottle. “You saw me first—why serve him? Because he’s a *bloke*?”
“I *apologised*. No need to shout.” He took his wine and left.
The cashier shot her a withering look as she rang up Sonia’s items.
Mood soured, Sonia regretted spending at all. And for *what*? Another self-important tosser? She’d invite *no one* over. The whole walk home, she seethed—at him, the cashier, herself for even *hoping*…
“Better alone than with *that*,” she concluded. Then the drizzle ruined her hair. Just her luck. Home, she changed into a dressing gown and flopped in front of the telly to simmer down.
Margaret called—like she *knew*. Sonia ignored it. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
“Knew it,” Margaret said, barging in. “Guests’ll arrive soon, and my husband’s hopeless. Get dressed—taxi’s waiting. No excuses.”
Sonia caved. Margaret *was* her boss. “Hair’s wrecked, mood’s rotten. Fine. I’ll sit quietly, then leave.”
In the taxi, Margaret fretted. “Gone half the day, and no word about the roast—!”
“The *roast*!” Margaret gasped and bolted for the kitchen.
Sonia gave her host the wine. He eyed it oddly, then led her to the lounge. A pleasant woman Margaret’s age sat on the sofa. By the window, back turned, stood a man.
“Meet… What *was* your name?” the host whispered.
“Sonia,” she murmured.
“Sonia—works with my Maggie. This is Anna, and her son, Val.”
*So this is the man*, Sonia realised. Just then, the doorbell rang. The host plonked her bottle beside two identical ones and left to greet more guests.
The man turned—*him*.
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You’ve *met*?” Margaret asked.
More guests arrived, and soon they were seated—Val right next to Sonia. *Of course*.
“Still cross?” he murmured. “One year later, as Sonia balanced her toddler on her hip while slicing into their anniversary cake, she couldn’t help but laugh at how wrong she’d been about love at first sight—or in their case, love at first argument.
