So anyway, there Marianne and I were at this little cafe near Waterloo, right? And she slams her hand down, rattling the cups, and goes, “Helen, have you lost your mind? He’s treating you like a doormat! Come today, don’t bother tomorrow, suddenly needed again next week!”
I just stirred my tea, exhausted. “Marianne, you don’t get it. Alex is a busy man, proper City bloke, meetings non-stop. We meet up when he’s got a window.”
“Stuff his meetings!” She was practically glowing red, bless her. “You’re thirty-six, love! How long are you going to be his backup plan?”
Ouch. Straight for the jugular, like always. Hard to argue with, even though you wish you could. The truth stings. “What choice do I have?” I asked quietly, staring out at the rain. “There are real stunners out there, Marianne. Me? I’m ordinary. But reliable. No drama, no demands. I’m… convenient.”
“Oh, listen to yourself!” She grabbed my hand. “Convenient? What, like a flipping mop? You’ve got a first from LSE! Senior job, proper salary, own flat outright! Smart, kind, loyal…”
“Just not pretty,” I cut in with a bitter laugh. “Men pick with their eyes first, you know that.”
She slumped back in her chair, shaking her head. Twenty years of friendship, and your own best mate still can’t see her worth. Been like this since uni – always in the background, always ready to bend over backwards, never wanting to rock the boat.
“Remember Oliver? From Brighton Uni?” I asked out of nowhere.
“Vaguely,” she said, wary. “Why?”
“I was mad about him. Followed him around like a puppy for three years. Gave him my lecture notes, ran study groups. He never even *noticed*. Then Jessica bloody Chambers showed up and bam, he was all over her.”
“That was decades ago!” Marianne threw her hands up.
“Feels like yesterday though,” I smiled sadly. “Learned a big lesson: the beautiful ones get the pick, the rest of us have to be useful. Accommodating.”
“Helen, love,” Marianne pleaded, “Oliver ended up a complete mess! Lost his job, drank himself silly. Jessica? Married three times, divorced three, last seen flogging dubious wellness retreats on Instagram. Look at you! Solid!”
“They live,” I whispered. “I adapt.”
Then my phone buzzed. Saw ‘Alex’ light up and instantly perked up.
“Hello? Alex! Yeah, free. Course I can. An hour? Perfect. See you then.” My voice sounded brighter, keen.
Marianne watched, horrified, as the transformation happened – this little girl ready to dash off whenever he whistled. “Helen, don’t,” she whispered. “Tell him you’re busy.”
“Can’t,” I was already grabbing my bag. “He’s got a two-hour gap between meetings. Feels forever since we saw each other.”
“It was five days ago!”
“Yeah, forever,” I insisted, heading out.
Marianne sat alone, watching me disappear down the rainy street. What happened? When did this clever, capable woman become an accessory?
It wasn’t always this way. At uni, even if I wasn’t the looker, I was the life and soul. Cracking jokes, organising trips down to Cornwall, everyone’s study buddy. The lads loved me – not romantically, mind. “One of the lads,” they said. “Helen, mate.” Back then, weirdly, I thought that was ace.
After graduation, landed a top economist job at a finance house, flew up the ranks. Bought my flat near Clapham, got a little Golf. Parents dead chuffed – daughter sorted. Except the whole finding-a-bloke thing? Nada.
First proper boyfriend at twenty-eight. Colleague called Andrew. Steady, reliable. Thought I’d cracked it – finally, a man who valued me. Not my face, but me. For my personality, my kindness.
Two years together. I started browsing wedding magazines, dreaming of dresses. Then he met this new grad – Emma. Sweet little thing.
“Look, Helen,” he’d mumbled, looking tortured, “you’re amazing. But with Emma… it’s different. Passion, fireworks…”
“Whereas with me it’s calm? Comfortable?” I asked.
“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “Too comfortable, maybe.”
That’s when it really hit home: beauty sparks fire; reliability just breeds routine. And routine gets boring.
After Andrew, a few more blokes. All the same pattern: they’d turn up when life was rubbish – divorce, sacked, illness. I’d patch them up, listen, be their rock. Once they were back on their feet? Off they’d trot, snared by some sparkly youngster.
“Helen, you know I adore you,” the last one explained, “but the spark… it just isn’t there. You know?”
Oh, I knew. Believe me.
Then there was Alex. Successful property developer, divorced with a teenage daughter, Amelia. Met by chance – I helped him sort a nightmare VAT return.
“Saved my skin,” he said. “You’re a true professional. Good sort.”
‘Good sort’. There it was. Not stunning, not desirable. A good sort. Useful. Convenient.
But when he asked to meet up again, just for a drink, something fluttered. Maybe *he* would see the woman?
First date was lovely. Alex was interesting, attentive. Talked property, plans, even Amelia who blamed him for the divorce.
“She adores her mum,” he sighed. “Ex was a right looker, model briefly. Temper, though? Christ. Toxic.”
Listening, I thought, ‘He’s learned! Beauty isn’t everything. Maybe he’ll appreciate substance now.’
At first, seemed so. Daily calls, theatre trips, nice restaurants. Flowers, compliments. Though the compliments were… off.
“You’re so easy-going, Helen. Dead relaxing.”
“You just get me. No impossible expectations.”
“Love that a woman exists who doesn’t kick off over every little thing.”
I lapped it up, blind to what was missing – no talk of love, desire, me mattering *to him*. Just… convenience.
Settled into a rhythm. Alex called when a gap appeared in his diary. Showed up when Amelia was with her mum. Quiet evenings in: takeaway or a film, talking work.
“You’ll introduce me to your lot?” I asked once.
“No rush, eh?” he dodged. “Perfect as we are. Why complicate things?”
‘Complicate things’. That’s what he called me meeting his mates. Didn’t click then.
Clicked later. Saw him in Westfield. Arm in arm with this stunning brunette. Laughing, animated. A glow I’d never seen. He was attentive, buying her perfume in Space NK. Not his usual chilled, ‘Helen-will-fix-it’ self.
That evening, he rang as normal:
“Alright, Helen? Can I pop over? Knackered. Need a bit of peace.”
Peace. After passion? Peace. After the party? After the stunner? Reliable Helen.
“Course,” I said, automatic.
He came. Moaned about his stressful day, whinged he was shattered. I made pasta, listened, sympathised. Routine. Only now, I knew. I was his downtime between real life. His comfort blanket.
“Alex,” I finally dared, “let’s go away? Weekend? Brighton, maybe?”
“Helen, why?” He looked baffled. “Cosy
She gazed out at the London rain streaking the taxi window, a slow, determined smile spreading across her face as she whispered, “Right then, time I learned what makes Helen truly happy.”.
