A young woman with a dream home longs to marry…
“Well, that’s another one off the market. Another happy woman. May they live to see their golden anniversary!” said Margaret Hughes, the head of accounting, senior not just in position but in age, raising her glass of champagne.
“Come on, that’s not enough! Let them live to see their diamond anniversary,” chirped the lively Charlotte.
“Easy to marry, harder to stay happy,” sighed the cleaner, Auntie Peggy, lingering in the doorway. “These days, a man’s sober when he weds, and a drunk by the next year. Oh, girls, why can’t you just stay single and spare yourselves?”
“Auntie Peggy, for goodness’ sake—” Charlotte snapped, waving her off. “Just because you had no luck with men doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t bother. Our Lucy’s struck gold—handsome, drives a BMW, and going places. Don’t listen to her, Lucy, be happy!” Charlotte saluted with her champagne glass.
Lucy had just returned from a week’s leave for her wedding, bringing chocolates and bubbly to celebrate with her colleagues. She glowed like a polished silver teapot, though nerves flickered beneath her smile. She’d promised her new husband she’d only stay an hour, but three had slipped by. The first bottle was long gone; they’d dashed to the shop for more. And no one seemed in a hurry to leave.
Her husband had texted—*When are you coming home? Missing you. Shall I come fetch you?*
“Right, girls, carry on. Clear the table, and I’ll tidy up in the morning,” said Auntie Peggy.
“Go home, Auntie Peggy, we’ll handle it,” Margaret assured her. “Ladies, one last toast. Time to head off. Just Sophie left to marry, then we’ll have the full set.”
“Honestly, Sophie, what’s keeping you single?” Charlotte, well-lubricated, pounced. “Pretty, got your own flat. No one caught your eye, or are you waiting for Prince Charming?”
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sophie frowned.
“How old are you? At your age, I’d already had two kids—little Tommy was in school by then. My husband and I had our rough patches. Nearly divorced twice. But I said: you helped make them, you’ll help raise them. Now he’s wrapped around my finger.” She clenched her fist.
“Why do men marry? Passion or an accident. Passion fades; the grind sets in. And kids? Sleepless nights breed resentment, then the rows start. Next thing you know—divorce.
A decent man leaves the house to his wife and kids, then drowns his freedom in rented rooms or some dingy flat. Doesn’t last. All his mates are settled—nowhere to go. So he starts looking around, hunting for some poor, child-free woman with her own place. Because he didn’t bolt from his own kids to raise someone else’s. And there you are—young, desperate to wed, with your own home. Jackpot. Honestly, I’m amazed you’re still single.”
“That’s a rotten way to put it,” Sophie huffed. “So I’m only fit for divorced hobos? At thirty, I’ve no hope for a man without alimony, is that it?”
“Don’t mind her, Sophie, she’s sloshed,” Margaret sighed. “Men nowadays aren’t in any rush to settle. Building careers. Still, you’re leaving it late.” She patted Sophie’s hand. “Not to worry, we’ll fix that.”
“Exactly what I’ve been saying!” Charlotte cut in. “Successful, single blokes know their worth—they want younger, prettier. Divorced men aren’t picky. A good heart and a mortgage-free flat? Gold dust. Who wants to rot in rented rooms or his mum’s spare bedroom?”
“Fate works in odd ways,” Margaret mused. “Some marry young—some more than once. Others find happiness late. A friend of mine has a son—thirty-six, never married. Clever, educated, earns well—just unlucky in love.”
“What’s wrong with him? Alcoholic? Needs checking for *other* inclinations—” Charlotte caught Margaret’s warning glare. “What? My mate’s cousin—”
“Charlotte, enough! You’ve got a mouth like a windmill. It’s disgusting. Life throws curveballs.” She turned to Sophie. “He’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why are you even stirring this pot? Blind dates never work. People oversell each other, then reality bites. I’ll manage on my own.”
“*Somehow.* Where’ll you meet anyone? Office is all women, you don’t do clubs. If you don’t click, no one’s forcing you. Besides, he’s got his own place. No harm trying, eh? Might surprise you.” Margaret stood. “Right, girls, we’ve overstayed—our husbands will bolt the doors.”
The women cleared the remnants of their revelry and scattered.
“Don’t say no just yet,” Margaret murmured as she and Sophie waited for the bus. “I didn’t bring this up lightly. My husband’s birthday’s Saturday. I’ve invited a friend—and her son. Come along. See how you feel. No pressure.”
The next two days gnawed at Sophie. She loathed the plan—what were the odds? Yet she agonised over outfits, refreshed her manicure.
*How many diets have I sworn to start? Two days won’t shrink me.* She scowled at the mirror. *Who’ll love me if I don’t? This is mad. I won’t go.*
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, curled it, applied makeup, chose a dress. But the gift? She rang Margaret.
“Don’t overthink it—just come. If you must, bring wine. What else do you get a stranger?”
Time to spare, Sophie headed to the shops. The corner shop’s selection was dismal, so she trekked to the supermarket two stops away. She grabbed wine, then sweets, cheese, a loaf—*Just in case. If it goes well, he might walk me back, want tea—and I’ve nothing to offer.* She hadn’t bought treats in months, dodging temptation.
Buoyed by hope, she queued. Just as she unloaded her basket, a man cut ahead, slapping down a bottle—the same wine.
“I was first,” Sophie bristled.
“Sorry, love. Rushed. Just the wine—you’ve a full trolley. By the time you’re done, I’ll be sorted,” he said smoothly.
“Emergency thirst? What a prat.” She glowered as the cashier scanned his bottle. “You saw me first—why serve him? Fancy him, do you?”
“Miss, I apologised. No need to shout.” He took his bottle and left.
The cashier shot Sophie a withering look as she rang up the rest.
Sophie’s mood curdled. *Wasted money, wasted effort. For what? Another arrogant tosser? No. No invites, no dates.* All the way home, she seethed—at the man, the cashier, herself for dreaming.
*Better alone than with that.* Rain spat, ruining her hair. At home, she yanked on a dressing gown and slouched before the telly.
Margaret rang, sensing the storm. Sophie ignored it. Half an hour later—a knock.
“Knew it,” Margaret said, sweeping in. “Guests are arriving—husband’s floundering. Get dressed. Taxi’s waiting. No excuses.”
Sophie capitulated. *Hair ruined, mood worse. Good. If he’s put off, fine.*
In the taxi, she stewed. *Stay an hour, then vanish.*
“Margaret, where’ve you been? Guests are here—no idea about the beef—” Her flustered husband greeted them.
“The beef! Blast!” Margaret fled to the kitchen.
Sophie handed him the wine. He gave it a odd look, then ushered her in. A pleasant woman—Margaret’s age—sat on the sofa. By the window, a man stood, back turned.
“Meet… er, your name?” her host whispered.
“Sophie.”
“Sophie—works with Margaret. This is Anna, and her son, Daniel.”
*So this is the setup.*
The doorbell rang. The host plonked her wine beside two identical bottles and left.
The man turned.
*Him.*
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You’ve met?” Margaret reappeared.
More guests piled in. Seated beside Daniel, Sophie simmered.
“Still cross?” he murmured, pouring her wine. “Had I known you’d be here, I’d have shopped elsewhere.”
“Cut in line, still cheeky.”
“Spirited. Careful—bite the hand that feeds you.”
“What?”
“Figure of speech. Don’t tempt fate.”
“Margaret beamed as Sophie and Daniel clinked glasses, their earlier squabbles long forgotten in the quiet hum of newfound happiness.
