Henry Whitfield loved his balcony, especially on Friday mornings when the city below was still grinding through its final work hours. He, a free and successful banking manager, was already anticipating the weekend. The air smelled of ozone after the overnight rain and the sweet pollen of blooming linden trees. Henry took a sip of his cooling coffee and glanced at the neatly stacked fishing gear in the corner—a brand-new rod, a gleaming reel, a tackle box filled with lures of every kind. His pride and joy.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Mum.
“Hello, Mum,” he answered with a smile.
“Henry, darling, are you coming round today? I’ve baked your favourite cabbage pies.”
“Of course I’ll stop by. Just briefly, though—the lads and I are heading to the cottage by the lake.”
“Not another fishing trip?” There was the usual warmth and faint reproach in Margaret Whitfield’s voice. “You could at least bring a girl along. You’re thirty-two, love.”
“Mum, we’ve had this talk a hundred times. When the right one comes along, you’ll know. Anyway, kisses. See you soon.”
He hung up and sighed. This “fishing trip” was a sacred tradition with his mates—Paul’s lakeside cottage, barbecues, sauna sessions, and long talks by the fire. Paul and Greg, his best friends since uni, were long married. Paul had a daughter, Greg’s wife was expecting their first. And without fail, their “lads’ weekend” always began the same way.
“So, the last bachelor standing—ready to surrender?” Greg winked as they loaded bags into Henry’s Land Rover.
“This one’s still dodging the noose like a pro,” Paul laughed, clapping him on the back. “Scared off every eligible miss in town.”
Henry just smirked. He wasn’t dodging. He was waiting.
“I’ll marry, lads, but only for love,” he said seriously as they left the city behind. “The real thing—where you just *know*. To breathe as one, to *belong* together.”
“Bloody hell, mate, you’re a proper romantic,” Greg drawled from the back seat. “That’s fairy-tale stuff. Doesn’t happen in real life. Save it for the storybooks.”
“Well, I believe it does,” Henry said stubbornly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
***
At the cottage, after the sauna and the first round of kebabs, the debate flared up again. Local girls from the village strolled past their plot, casting flirtatious glances at the three handsome city boys.
“Let’s test your ‘one true love’ theory, then,” Paul said slyly. “Staring contest. First one to blink or look away from a passing beauty loses.”
“And what’s the forfeit?” Henry took the bait, grinning.
“The loser,” Greg rubbed his hands, “drives to the motorway and proposes to the first roadside stall girl he sees. Right there on the spot.”
Henry was confident. But whether it was the beer or the sun, he lost. When a tall blonde walked by, he caught her eye, smiled without thinking, and glanced away. His friends roared with laughter.
A bet was a bet. Half an hour later, they were cruising down the A-road. Henry’s heart raced with a mix of shame and stupid adrenaline. A few miles from the village, they spotted a lone figure behind a table of fresh herbs and jars of jam. A slight woman in a simple cotton dress and a headscarf tied low, barely revealing her face.
“Go on, then, groom,” his friends nudged him.
Henry stepped out and approached. The woman looked up—her eyes frightened but clear, an astonishing shade of blue. He noticed her hands, scarred terribly with old burns. When he greeted her, she didn’t speak, just pulled a small notepad from her apron pocket and handed it to him.
*”What would you like?”* was written in neat script.
Henry faltered. Every rehearsed joke fled his mind. He stared at this fragile, silent figure and felt like a complete cad.
“Sorry for the daft question,” he began gently. “My mates and I had a bet. I lost. And now I’m supposed to… to propose to you.”
He braced for anger, tears, scorn. Instead, she stilled—then slowly nodded. Henry blinked. She took back the pad, wrote *”I accept,”* then tore out the page and handed it to him. An address.
The next day, guilt-ridden, Henry drove to the given spot—a tidy little house on the village outskirts, geraniums in the windows, peonies lining the fence. An older woman with a stern but keen face sat knitting by the gate. She set her work aside and fixed him with a piercing look.
“You here for *Alice*?” she asked bluntly.
“Yes. I’m Henry.”
“I’m Beatrice, her gran. What’s your business, young man? She came home yesterday in a proper state.”
Henry’s shame deepened. He sat beside her and tried to explain.
“I acted like an idiot. We were messing about—”
Beatrice sighed heavily.
“City boys,” she muttered. “It’s all a game to you. Her life’s been hard enough. Saw her hands, did you? From the fire. Her parents died in it. I pulled her out. Face was hurt too… lost her voice from the shock. Hasn’t spoken since.”
Just then, Alice stepped through the gate. Seeing Henry, she froze, clutching her notepad to her chest.
“I came to apologise,” he said, meeting her eyes. “And… if you haven’t changed your mind, I’ll keep my word. It’d be a marriage in name only, of course. We’ll wed, live together a while, then divorce. I’ll help however I can.”
Even as he spoke, he didn’t know why he was doing this. Something about her—her quiet strength, her vulnerability—had hooked him.
Alice wrote swiftly, showed Beatrice. The old woman read it, then looked at Henry.
“Right then,” she said at last. “If that’s what she wants. One condition, lad. Don’t hurt her. You answer to me if you do.”
***
The registry office formalities took two days. Henry organised it all briskly, efficiently—just like work. He fetched Alice and Beatrice from the village. Only his bewildered mates, Paul and Greg, stood as witnesses.
Alice wore a simple cream dress, her face hidden beneath a lace veil. It lent her a delicate, mysterious beauty. When the registrar pronounced them man and wife, Henry—on impulse—lifted the veil’s edge and brushed his lips to hers. She shuddered. And he felt something strange and tender catch in his chest.
There was no grand feast. Just a humble supper back at Beatrice’s—roast potatoes, fresh salad. It felt warmer than any posh restaurant.
That evening, as Henry prepared to leave, Alice looked at him—and smiled. Not with her lips, but her eyes. They shone so bright with gratitude, it stole his breath. Suddenly, he didn’t want to go. This odd, sham wife was becoming inexplicably dear.
***
Back in his empty London flat, Henry couldn’t sleep. Pacing, he replayed the last two days—embarrassment, pity, guilt, that puzzling tenderness. At dawn, he went to his mother.
Margaret Whitfield, a GP with decades of practice, listened without interruption to his jumbled tale.
“Mum, what do I do?” he begged finally.
“What’s there to do?” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were sad. “You’ve made your bed. You took responsibility for a living, wounded girl. Acted like a boy—now be a man.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Guilt won’t unspool this, Henry. You gave her hope. Will you leave her there, then? Go. Fetch your wife.”
***
His mother’s words tipped the scales. That same day, he returned to the village. Beatrice needed little persuasion—she’d seen Alice’s face when Henry arrived.
Alone in the bedroom as Alice packed her few things, something unexpected happened. She hesitated, then untied her scarf and unbuttoned her blouse. Henry froze. Angry scars twisted down her neck, her cheek. She watched him, bracing for disgust.
But he felt only piercing sorrow—and protectiveness. He stepped closer, kissed her forehead, just above a scar. A tear slid down her cheek. Their first real moment of trust.
Meeting Margaret went better than Henry dreamed. His mother embraced Alice like a daughter.
“Don’t fret, love,” she murmured. “We’ll fix these scars. I’ll find the best specialists. And you’ll speak again—wait and see.”
That evening, dining at Henry’s flat, he watched Alice smile shyly at his mother—and realised: for the first time in years, she felt part of a proper family. *His* family.
***
Months of treatment followed. Margaret kept her word—top surgeons, therapies. Henry drove Alice to every appointment, held her hand through the pain. Slowly,And as their son laughed in the garden, chased by Henry while Alice watched with shining eyes, Beatrice leaned over to Margaret and whispered, “Who’d have thought a silly bet on the A40 would bring us all this joy?”
