Walton Merritt

Someone Else’s Bride Val was in high demand. He’d never advertised in papers or on TV, but his name and number spread by word of mouth – the kind of old-fashioned grapevine you can’t buy. Need an MC for a concert? No problem! Want someone to host a birthday or a wedding? Brilliant! He’d even once hosted a graduation at a local nursery school, charming not just the children but the mums as well. It all started simply enough. A close friend was getting married, but the hired toastmaster never showed – as it turned out later, he’d simply gone on a bender. No time to find a replacement, so Val took the microphone himself. Back at school he’d been involved in amateur dramatics, acted with the “Logos” theatre troupe, and at university was a mainstay of Student Spring and the comedy league. The impromptu hosting was a hit, and right there at the reception, two people came up and asked him to lead their own events. After uni, Val took a job at one of the city’s research institutes, earning peanuts. His first gigs on the side inspired him; the pay was good and it was fun. Soon, event work was bringing him almost ten times his researcher’s salary. After a year, he quit the institute, spent his savings on quality AV gear, set himself up as a sole trader, and launched officially into showbiz. At the same time, he started singing lessons – he already had the voice and ear. Soon he was a singing MC, gigging three nights a week as a singer in a restaurant. So by 30, Val was handsome, fairly well-off, known as a talented singer, DJ, and all-around master of ceremonies who could liven up any event. He wasn’t married – why bother? Women practically threw themselves at him; any girl, a snap of the fingers, and she’d agree to anything. But his mates started settling down, kids arrived, and Val slowly began to yearn for the love and comfort of a family. Only trouble was, he just didn’t know where to look! The easy-come crowd was only ever good for one thing; he wanted a wife for life. “You need to meet a girl at school age,” he’d joke to his friends, “raise her up just right, and marry her when she turns eighteen. The perfect wife!” He started taking school graduation gigs, hoping to find the right girl, but the modern young ladies disappointed him – not at all how he’d pictured his future match. But Val wasn’t downhearted, always surveying the young crowd, “on the hunt for rare game,” as he put it. That’s when fate, or the gods, decided to play a little trick on my cousin once removed… At first, nothing seemed unusual. A woman rang, name-dropping some mutual acquaintances: “We need someone to host our wedding. Are you free on June 17? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They did. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life, he knew what it meant for the ground to vanish from under your feet. Introducing herself as Xenia, the woman was dazzling; he’d never seen anyone like her in real life. Articulate, clever, self-assured. Not just beautiful, but clearly intelligent – a rare combination! At first glance, he thought she was about 25, maybe a bit older, but the conversation revealed she’d been a Young Communist League member – so she had to be at least 40. They discussed everything, came to an agreement, signed a contract (despite Xenia’s protests that she trusted him based on references). Val always kept things official – not just for his own security, but for tax records too. While they chatted, a text pinged on Xenia’s phone: “Aha! My fiancé’s here to pick me up. Need a lift?” Val declined but saw her out – partly out of habit, partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of jealousy. The groom, he’d imagined, would be a mature man in his forties. But from the car jumped a lad, clearly younger than Val himself. “Xenia, everything alright?” he called. She smiled: “When is it not?” She climbed in, and her fiancé turned: “Are you the MC for our wedding? Brilliant! I’ve heard you’re the best – Slava told me. Sorry, I’m Robert – the groom.” Val shook his hand. From that day on, Val barely slept. He found excuses to ring Xenia, to hear her voice, see her. The wedding drew closer; Val was beside himself. His mate, the only one he confided in, teased him: “What about all those schoolgirls you wanted to raise as the perfect wife?” Val waved him off: “Forget schoolgirls, Xenia is perfect. I need no one else.” “So tell her!” his mate said. “Are you mad? She’s getting married. Clearly she loves him. Why would she want me with my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would pop in, grinning ear to ear: “Here, Xenia asked me to drop this to you…” Val seethed, barely civil. He considered dropping out as host – but then he’d never see Xenia again. He always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Xenia came round to ‘polish off the script’ – at Val’s flat, since his office was being refurbished. They chatted, laughed, everything agreed. Val poured some fizz: “To a perfect wedding.” Xenia grinned, “With pleasure!” The champagne fuelled courage; he kissed her, she kissed him back. The world spun. Val woke up in confusion. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But her perfume lingered on the pillow – it had really happened. Now what? The wedding couldn’t possibly go ahead? He rang Xenia. “Hi,” she answered breezily, “Sorry I slipped out – so much to do, the big day tomorrow and all!” “So…the wedding is still on?” Val asked, hollow-voiced. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s perfect!” Were all women this cynical? How could she go through with the wedding, look her fiancé in the eye after last night? Val was in torment – should he call it all off, ruin the wedding? But he knew he’d take her, even if she was an ice queen. Next day, Val arrived early to the hotel. Decorators gave him sly little glances. And then… Xenia appeared. “Hi. I dashed here right after the register office – I just had to see you,” she beamed. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it,” mumbled Val. “You had the registry? And then ran off?” “Well, obviously, silly. Why ride round town with all the youngsters when I’d rather be with you? Or would you rather I left?” “Wait, what youngsters? I thought you were the bride?” Xenia stared, dumbfounded, then burst into pure, bubbly laughter. Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter’s the bride – Katie! She just flew back from uni in Edinburgh yesterday,” she sobered, “Did you really think I was marrying? And slept with someone else two days before my own wedding? Cheers for the high opinion!” Finally, Val twigged. Xenia had never said “I” or “we” – always “the bride and groom.” Robert never called her Katie, always Xenia, always in the polite form. How had he never noticed? Then came the real question: “And you? Are you single?” She nodded, and he blurted out, “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was a triumph; the MC outdid himself, the guests raved. The happy couple thanked him: “We don’t know how to thank you enough!” Xenia joined them, “I’ll take care of him. Off you go, your limo’s waiting. I’ll handle things here.” Word soon spread that Val was marrying a woman nine years older than himself. Some were doubtful at first, but then they met the bride. “Who could *not* fall in love with her?” Katie and Xenia gave birth just two weeks apart.

Another Mans Bride Harry was in constant demand. He never once put out an advert in the paper or on TV

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Friends Turned Up Empty-Handed to Our Housewarming Feast, So I Shut the Fridge and Ended the Party – A Lesson in Hospitality, Boundaries, and Finally Standing Up for Myself

The friends turned up empty-handed to a groaning table and I shut the fridge door. Simon, are you absolutely

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The Sunday Dad: A Heartfelt Tale

Wheres my daughter? Rebecca repeated, her teeth chatteringmaybe from fear, maybe from the cold.

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Two Blue Lines on a Test Were Her Ticket to a New Life — and a Descent into Hell for Her Best Friend. She Married to the Applause of Traitors, But the Final Chapter Was Written by Someone They Dismissed as a Foolish Pawn

Two lines on the test proved her ticket to a new life and sent her closest friend straight into the heart of chaos.

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The Lost Letter: A Snowy Evening, a Crying Boy, and the Christmas Wish That Changed Everything

The Letter David was walking home from work, the snow underfoot crunching just right, making him oddly

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Julia Waits at the Flats: The Loyal Dog of Number 22 and Her Incredible Journey Through Small-Town England in the Early ’90s It all began one early June morning in a quiet English provincial town, when a stray dog was left injured by the bookshop’s doorstep. With the courage and kindness of Vera and her friends, Julia—the dog—found shelter, experienced heartbreak, and showed unimaginable faith and perseverance. From being taken in by the bookshop staff, cared for through crippling injury, and finally, returning each time to wait faithfully outside the door of her absent family’s flat, Julia won the hearts of the whole community. Through summer holidays on the allotment, vet trips, tearful goodbyes, and ultimately traveling with her family across the country, Julia demonstrated a devotion that overcame every obstacle. Spanning thirteen extraordinary years, this is the unforgettable true story of Julia, the dog whose love never faltered, and the English neighbours who rallied around her.

Julia sat by the entrance to the flats. All the neighbours knew the family from number 22 had gone away

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Who Slept in My Bed and Creased the Sheets… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Just Older Than Our Daughter—Chubby Cheeks, Innocent Eyes, Nose Piercing (He Forbade Our Daughter Ever Getting One)—Standing There Bare-Legged in a Cropped Jacket, and I Wanted to Snap: “If You’re Planning on Having Children With That Idiot, Buy a Coat and Wear Tights Under Your Jeans.” Of Course, I Said Nothing. I Just Handed Over the Keys, Grabbed My Bags of Leftover Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mum, Who’s Slept in My Bed and Creased My Sheets?”—When My Daughter Came Home Early, She Found the Young Nymph Drinking Cocoa From Her Favourite Mug, Wearing Her Slippers, While Her Dad Was in the Shower. It Was Just Like a Fairytale, But With Extra Betrayal. Unlike My Daughter, I Took It Calmly—Of Course, My Ego Was Bruised Seeing Such Youthful Beauty, But Mainly I Felt Relief After Years of Late-Night Calls and Coffee Shop Receipts From Places He Never Took Me. Even So, He Lied Shamelessly: “It’s Just the First Time—A Comet Fell From the Sky,” Yet That ‘Comet’ Turned Out to Be a Twenty-Year-Old Hotel Worker Who Chased Him All the Way to London. Sergei’s Flat Was His Before We Married, and Once I Filed for Divorce, My Daughter and I Had to Move Across Town to My Gran’s Old Place—She Hated The Daily School Commute, but Eventually We Settled in, New Jobs and Exams Keeping Us Busy and Distracted from Sadness. Sergei’s Mistress, Arianna, Phoned for Baking Advice and Turned Up Once With Forgotten Photos. She Marvelled at Our Faded Wallpaper—Not “Chic,” but It Was Home. Then, About a Year Later, Arianna Appeared at Our Door in Tears, Mascara Streaming: She’d Just Stumbled on Sergei With His Secretary Instead. Clutching Her Sports Bag, She Asked to Spend the Night and Borrow Train Fare Home. My Daughter Was Furious—It Was Her or Arianna. I Kept the Peace, Brewed Tea for the Distraught Mistress, and Eventually Put Her on a Train, Having Lent Her Money and Listened to Her Promise Never to Fall for Married Men Again. Sergei Called Later, Swearing He’d Changed and Wanted Us Back—“Running Out of Clean Laundry?” I Asked. I Didn’t Take Him Back, but I Didn’t Gloat Either—Instead, I Discovered a New Joyfulness, Adopted a Dog, Took Evening Walks, and Began to Smile More. I Even Befriended the Handsome Neighbour, Ten Years Older. Life, At Last, Moved On.

Whos been sleeping in my bed and left it rumpled A diary entry. My husbands mistress was only a few years

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The Waiter Offered to Take Away the Kitten, But the Six-Foot-Two Gentle Giant Scooped Up the Fluffy, Crying Baby and Sat Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Only Your Finest Steak!” — Let’s wear something daring, nearly as bold as the young nymphs, and head to the poshest restaurant in town. Time to flaunt ourselves and size up the gents… So declared one of the three friends—a headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school, always armed with clever words as her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, they believed, for miniskirts and blouses that highlighted their charms more than they concealed them. Deep necklines, flawless makeup—ready for battle. The venue was chosen accordingly: only London’s most exclusive, status-defining, and extremely expensive restaurant would do. Booking was easy, and soon they were catching admiring glances from the men and sneers from the men’s companions. Conversation, as always, revolved around the chief subject—men. Dreams, hopes, requirements. Each was waiting for her ideal—tall, fit, handsome, and, of course, rich. A man to sweep her off her feet, fulfill every whim, never chatter needlessly, nor burden her with chores. Nobility a bonus. — But absolutely not like those lot… The friends exchanged glances, nodding towards a trio of cheerful, slightly portly men with receding hairlines at a nearby table. Beer, crisps, and mountains of steak, football and fishing stories. Their laughter was loud, genuine, completely uninhibited. — Disgraceful. — So tasteless. — Ugh. Their verdict unanimous: scruffy, coarse, without a whiff of nobility—utterly wrong for such sophisticated ladies. And then, in a blink, everything changed. In came The Man—arriving in a scarlet Ferrari, the latest model. — Lord Coburg Saxon! — announced the waiter with great pomp at the entrance. The friends straightened like hounds catching a scent. Tall, sculpted, salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly tailored suit that cost a fortune, diamond cufflinks, dazzlingly white shirt—the full package. — Oh my… — This is it… — Mmm… Necklines dipped even lower, eyes turned openly seductive. — Now that’s a real man, — one whispered. — A Lord, a stunner, and a millionaire, — crooned the second. — I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a child. The third said nothing, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lordly table. They walked tall, faces set in subtle disdain for the rest—including the three beer lovers. Lord Coburg was charming, sparkling in conversation, regaling tales of ancient lineage, ancestral estates, and rare art collections. Tension brewed—the invitation for the rest of the evening would go to just one. For now, gourmet distractions: lobsters, trays of seafood, aged wine. The ladies feasted, casting smouldering glances at the lord, their daydreams already far from the dinner table. Cheeks flushed—their beauty at its peak. Lord Coburg dazzled—joking, sharing high society stories. It mattered little where he might invite them next. At the restaurant, a small garden gave off tempting aromas even outside. Soon, a tiny, grey kitten emerged—skinny, hungry—and scooted under tables to sit at Lord Coburg’s feet, pleading for mercy. In vain. Lord Coburg’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he kicked the kitten away. The tiny creature flew across the floor and smacked into the table leg of our trio. A hush fell over the restaurant. — I despise filthy, mongrel creatures, — he declared loudly. — In my estate, we have pedigreed hounds and champion horses. The waiter rushed to soothe the situation: — Right away, sir, apologies… He aimed for the “beer” table, but one of the men was already on his feet. Huge, nearly six-foot-two, face flushed, fists clenched. Friends tried to hold him back. He silently picked up the kitten and sat him on a chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. — Only the very best steak. Now. The waiter turned pale and dashed to the kitchen. Applause erupted across the restaurant. One of the “nymphs” silently rose, approached the gentle giant and declared: — Move over. And order a lady a whisky. Lord Coburg was struck dumb. A minute later, the other two friends joined, sparing Lord Coburg a scornful look. When the evening ended, not everyone left together. One new group—man, woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the gentle giant—owner of a leading investment firm. The other two wed his mates, both famous lawyers. All three weddings happened on the same day. Now, the ex-“nymphs” lead a very different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning. Almost simultaneously, each welcomed a daughter. And, to sneak out for beloved dinners, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the babysitter and reunite to talk about life—the female kind and, of course, men. And Lord Coburg Saxon? A year later, he was arrested. Big scandal—serial conman preying on gullible women. As for real men? They’re the ones with bellies and thinning hair, no glitz or glory, but hearts of true nobility. That’s just the way it is. There’s no other way.

A waiter hurried over, suggesting to take away the kitten. But the towering gentleman scooped the weeping

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Julia stepped off the coach, heavy bags in hand, and made her way to her family home. “I’m home!” she called as she opened the door. “Julia, darling!” her family rushed to greet her. “We just knew you’d come!” That evening, as they gathered at the big family table, a knock sounded at the door. “Must be the neighbours dropping by to say hello,” Mum shrugged, heading to answer it. But she returned not alone, but with unexpected ‘guests’. Julia stared at the newcomers entering the room, unable to believe her eyes.

Julia stepped off the coach and, struggling a bit with her heavy shopping bags, made her way towards

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“So, is he going to live with us now?” he asked his wife, glancing at their son…

And is he living with us now, then? asked Nigel, casting a sceptical look at his wife while eyeing their