**Diary Entry**
*Monday, 15th March*
Last night, David said something that still rings in my ears. “You must understand, Emily,” he told me calmly, “women like you aren’t the marrying kind. Some are for love and pleasant company. Others keep themselves pure for marriage. Unfortunately, you don’t fall into that category.”
I stared at him, baffled. “What’s wrong with me, David? I cook, I take care of myself, the flat is spotless—I’m everything a man could want!”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he replied. “You’re *used goods*, don’t you see? Men don’t marry women like you. They have fun with them. But a wife? She should be untouched, devoted—the kind who’d wash her husband’s feet and drink the water, as the saying goes.” With that, he rolled over and began snoring.
Just a week ago, I’d been in a café with my friends, talking about my bright future. Yes, I’m 30—not a girl anymore—but my career’s set, I own a flat and a car, and I look fantastic. The perfect time to settle down! Especially since I had the perfect candidate: David, 40, never married, handsome, well-groomed, a high-ranking corporate job—a dream of a man.
We’d met at my dental practice—he came in for a check-up and left with a date. That’s how these things happen. I’d been so busy between the NHS and private clinic shifts that I hadn’t had time for romance. But David changed that. He showed up after work with peonies—in *February*—then took me to a posh restaurant. Just like that, we were a couple.
Still, doubts crept in. Two years in, and no ring. My friends had started dropping hints—time to make it official. So last night, I brought it up. And his answer? *“Women like you aren’t the marrying kind.”*
The next day, I met the girls at a café. “Can you believe it?” I fumed. “He called me *used goods*!”
“What absolute rubbish!” Katherine scoffed. “You’re gorgeous, successful—any man would be lucky to have you.”
“Apparently not. He wants someone *pure*,” I muttered. “I’m *third-rate*, not marriage material. What do I even do now?”
“Dump him,” Liza cut in, laughing. “Before he ruins your self-esteem for good.”
“Or better yet, bring him to our anniversary party this weekend,” Katherine suggested. “Ten years with Michael—we’ll show him what a real marriage looks like.”
To my surprise, David agreed to come. He even drove. At Katherine’s countryside cottage, the atmosphere was lovely—kids running around, a barbecue sizzling, their energetic little spaniel, Biscuit, darting everywhere. The evening wore on, the older guests retired, and soon it was just us, lingering over tea and berry tart.
Then David struck again. “Katherine,” he mused, “you say Emily should marry. But why hasn’t she? You and Michael have a decade together—she’s still single.”
Katherine shrugged. “We married young, stupidly. She was studying—no time for that.”
“But tell me,” he pressed, “were you *pure* when you married?”
Michael bristled. “What kind of question is that?”
David smirked. “She was untouched. That’s respectable. But proposing to a woman with a *past*? Why sully a family name?”
Liza snorted. “What family name? Are you aristocracy? Good luck finding a virgin in this day and age.”
“Your friend should know her place,” David retorted. “And you, Liza—divorced with a child? Practically unmarriageable.”
That’s when Michael stood up. “Out. Now.”
David turned to me. “Emily, I’m leaving. Are you coming?”
I was too busy laughing to answer. Furious, he stormed off.
“Well,” I gasped between giggles, “so much for finding a husband—even a *past-his-prime* one.”
Katherine shook her head. “I’ve never met such a delusional man.”
Life went on. David never called.
Then, weeks later, an envelope arrived at my practice. Inside? A gaudy wedding invitation—gold cursive, doves, the works. Had he really invited me? To rub his triumph in my face?
At the next girls’ brunch, opinions split.
“Don’t go,” Katherine urged. “Why torture yourself?”
Liza grinned. “Oh, I’d go. Let’s see who this *pure* maiden is.”
I hesitated—then decided. I bought a stunning trouser suit, styled my hair, and arrived early.
David stood proud, a bashful girl beside him—no older than 20, drowning in a frilly white dress.
“Emily,” he announced grandly, “meet Alice.”
“And she’s *pure*?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Alice blushed furiously. The ceremony was quick, the reception sparse—mostly his colleagues and distant relatives. Speeches began, then Alice’s father took the mic.
“Ars—*David*,” he boomed, “welcome to the family!” He ushered in two little boys. “Meet Alice’s children!”
I nearly choked on my salad. David recoiled like he’d been scalded. His mother shot up, livid. “*This* is your pure bride? She’s been *married before!*”
“Divorce!” David howled. “Immediate divorce!”
Alice wrung her hands. “Mum and Dad said not to tell you… or you’d never marry me.”
David collapsed into a chair, wailing. Guests scrambled, someone called an ambulance.
I slipped out, stifling laughter. *Karma’s a bitch.*
The divorce was swift. David even tried crawling back to me. I sent him packing.
Funny—now there’s a consultant from work asking me to dinner. Twice divorced. But at least he doesn’t care about *purity*.
