**A Date by Mistake**
I stepped out of the office building and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp autumn air, tinged with the scent of fallen leaves. It was one of those golden September days—warm in the afternoon but with chilly nights, the kind where you could still get away with a light dress and a cardigan.
As I walked, I debated what to do first—pick up little Alfie from nursery, then grab groceries, or dash to the shop before collecting him? Morrisons always had those cheap little toys by the till, and Alfie would inevitably beg for something—money was tight before payday, and whatever he wanted would hold his attention for all of five minutes anyway.
I checked my watch. If I hurried, I had just enough time to get the shopping done, drop it at home, then fetch Alfie. I quickened my pace, my mind racing through the mental list: *Don’t forget the salt. Why does it always run out without warning?* The other day, I’d gone specifically for salt and left with everything except it. *Right—carrots, milk, butter…* Lost in thought, I barely noticed the voice calling my name.
“Emily? Emily Whitaker!”
I took a few more steps before stopping, blinking at the woman who’d spoken.
“Don’t recognise me? Who was it that swore we’d be best friends forever?”
The mention of the childhood oath clicked. Standing before me wasn’t the scrawny, dark-haired girl I remembered but a stylish, confident woman—my old schoolmate, Claire Hartley. She’d transferred to our primary in Year 3, sat next to me, and we’d been inseparable until graduation. At fourteen, we’d made that silly vow of eternal friendship. Life had pulled us apart. Nothing lasts forever, not even friendship—let alone love.
“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Claire said, eyeing my tired expression and plain office attire. I could feel how dull I must seem in comparison.
“You seem to be doing well for yourself,” I deflected.
“Can’t complain. Second marriage—though no kids yet. You?”
I caught the wistfulness in her voice and steered clear. “Not married, but I have a son.” There was pride in that.
“Oh! Secondary school, then? Or uni?”
“Nursery, actually.”
Claire laughed. “Blimey! You were always the pretty one—I thought you’d be snapped up first. Most of our lot have grown kids by now. You were always so studious, though, never bothered with boys.”
The comment stung, and I didn’t hide it. Claire backpedalled. “Oh, come off it. You know me—foot in mouth, as usual.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to pick up Alfie,” I said, stepping around her.
“Wait!” She fumbled for her phone. “Give me your number. Let’s catch up properly.”
I rattled it off just to escape, then hurried towards the nursery.
Claire didn’t waste time. She rang the next day, suggesting coffee on Saturday—neutral ground.
“I’ll have to see if Mum can watch Alfie,” I said, already dreading it. *There goes my day off. Fine—one meeting, then she’ll leave me be. We’ve nothing in common anymore.*
On Saturday, we met at a trendy café—somewhere I’d never been. Honestly, I hadn’t been *anywhere* since Alfie was born. I felt out of place. Claire noticed, ordering wine to loosen me up. It worked. We reminisced about school, classmates—Claire seemed to know everything about everyone: who married whom, how many kids, where they worked.
When the nostalgia ran dry, Claire turned the conversation to me.
“Listen, my colleague’s got a son—about our age. Decent bloke. Software engineer, makes good money. Just… hopeless with women. His mum’s desperate for grandkids. Fancy meeting him?”
“No, thank you.” I set my glass down sharply. “Do I look like I’m desperate for a relationship? With some bloke even his own mother can’t palm off?”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“If he’s so great, why’s he single? There’s always a catch.”
“Bad breakup. Scared of getting hurt again. Sound familiar?” Claire smirked.
“His problem, not mine. I’m not interested in arranged meetings. If it happens, it happens naturally.”
“Think about it. Alfie could use a dad—”
“He *has* a father. Drop it.”
Claire sighed. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
But somehow, I caved.
The following Sunday, I dropped Alfie at Mum’s, straightened my hair, dabbed on mascara, and dressed simply—no fuss. No intention of impressing anyone.
As I was leaving, I realised—I didn’t even know his name. How would I recognise him? I called Claire.
“Bloody hell—Matthew? John? Something biblical.”
“*What?*”
“I remember names by association!”
“Could’ve been Peter or Paul, then,” I muttered.
“I’ll ask my colleague—”
“Don’t bother. He’ll be the only bloke alone.”
At the café, I hesitated. Midday, it wasn’t crowded. Two men sat solo—both in jeans and leather jackets.
The nearer one caught my eye and smiled. I approached.
“Hi.” I sat opposite him, nerves fluttering.
He had a glass of wine. I could’ve used one myself. He signalled the waiter.
The first sip steadied me. By the second glass, the room buzzed pleasantly. He studied me, quiet but attentive.
“You don’t like me, do you?” I blurted. “I don’t usually drink—just nerves. I hate setups. Meetings should be spontaneous—like fireworks.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” he said.
“You’re handsome. Shouldn’t have trouble meeting women.” The words tumbled out. “I imagined you differently.”
“How?”
“Another drink first.”
I prattled on—about myself, Alfie, my parents. He listened, amused.
“Stop staring. You’re embarrassing me.” (I wasn’t embarrassed at all.) The room swayed.
“I should warn you… I’m not single. I’ve got a son. Alfie, five. Lovely boy. If that’s a deal-breaker, say so.” I stood—too fast. The room spun.
“Let’s get some air.”
Outside, the cool breeze cleared my head. I babbled about my life, our childhood oath, music lessons… By my door, I said, “I won’t invite you up. Not my style.”
He waited until I was inside. Peeking through the curtains, I was oddly disappointed he hadn’t lingered.
I washed my face and collapsed into bed, drifting into romantic daydreams—until my phone rang.
“Where *are* you?” Claire snapped.
“Home. You woke me.” My voice was thick.
“You chickened out?”
“I went! Just got back.”
“And?”
“He was lovely. Handsome, attentive—”
“*Who* did you meet?”
I froze. I’d never asked his name.
“…No idea.”
“Christ, Emily! My colleague just rang—*Matthew* waited an hour! Who the hell did you talk to?”
I remembered the two men. I’d chosen… whom?
“Oh god. I’ve made a fool of myself. What if he’s a conman? Should I change the locks?”
“Did you give him your keys?” Claire hissed.
“No, but my number—”
“You’re clever, but *so* daft. No wonder you fell for that deadbeat who left you with a kid.”
I sniffled into the phone, the last dregs of wine leaking out as tears.
“Alright, stop crying. Was he at least fit?”
“Yes…”
“Did he ask you out again?”
“I don’t think so. I was drunk.”
Claire sighed. “If he doesn’t call, there’s always Matthew.”
“No more setups.”
“Suit yourself.” She hung up.
Days passed. No call. I forced him from my mind—until my phone rang.
“Hello, Emily.” A warm voice.
“Hi… Who’s this?”
“Paul. We met at the café.”
“Paul? The colleague’s son?”
“No, my mother’s name is Theresa. Fancy meeting again?”
I agreed—but warned him about Alfie.
“I’d love to meet him. You talked about him so much.”
“God, I’m so embarrassed. I must’ve confused you with—”
“I figured. And I’m glad. You were refreshingly honest.”
We met at the park. To my relief, Paul and Alfie got on instantly—carousel rides, shooting games, ice cream.And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over their laughter, Emily realised that sometimes the best things in life begin with a happy accident.
