Mum’s Master Plan
“I can’t believe this! I just can’t believe it!” shouted Emily, flailing her arms. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Emily, love, please calm down,” Margaret said, reaching for her daughter’s hand, but Emily snatched it away. “Let’s talk properly.”
“Calm down?” Emily’s voice cracked into a shriek. “After what you’ve done? Do you realise the whole county will be laughing at me now?”
“Don’t be dramatic. What county? We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” Emily grabbed her head. “Are you pretending to be daft, or do you really not get it?”
Margaret sank heavily onto the sofa. At sixty-two, she still considered herself young and spry enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s love life. But for the first time in years, she felt old and exhausted.
“I only wanted to help,” she said quietly. “You’ve been on your own ever since the divorce, shut away like a hermit.”
“That’s my business!” Emily exploded. “Mine! I’m a grown woman—I’m forty-one!”
“Exactly why I worry. Time’s passing, and you—”
“And what? I’m unwanted? Some old spinster?”
Margaret shook her head.
“You’re my beautiful, clever girl. Just too proud these days. Men are afraid to even approach you.”
Emily paced the room, fiddling anxiously with her dressing gown belt. Morning sunlight flooded the small sitting room, but the air between them was thick with tension.
“Mum, how could you put an ad in the paper?” Emily said wearily. “And such an ad…”
“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Margaret asked defensively. “Perfectly ordinary wording.”
“Ordinary?” Emily pulled a crumpled newspaper from her pocket and unfolded it. “Listen to this: ‘Seeking respectable gentleman for my lovely, homemaking daughter, age 41. Works as an accountant, doesn’t drink or smoke, enjoys cooking. Inquiries to Mum via phone.’ To Mum, for goodness’ sake!”
“What’s the matter with that?” Margaret frowned.
“What’s the matter? I’m not some item on clearance! And why should they call you instead of me?”
“Because you’d never pick anyone. You’d find a hundred reasons why they’re not good enough.”
Emily slumped into the armchair across from her mother and buried her face in her hands.
“Mum, my phone’s been ringing nonstop. Yesterday, some seventy-year-old grandad asked if I could make shepherd’s pie and whether I’d move to his farm to tend his three sheep.”
“Well, he’s clearly not suitable,” Margaret conceded. “What about the others?”
“What others?” Emily huffed. “Mum, it’s humiliating! As if I can’t find a man on my own.”
“Can you?”
The question was quiet, but it hit home. Emily fell silent, knowing her mother was right. Four years had passed since her divorce from David, and she hadn’t met a single man who’d caught her interest.
“That doesn’t mean resorting to newspaper ads like it’s the nineties,” she grumbled.
“How else, then? Online dating? You don’t even know how to use those sites.”
“I’d figure it out.”
“Oh, like you’ve figured it out in four years.”
Margaret stood and headed to the kitchen.
“Cuppa?” she called. “Or should I fetch the valerian drops?”
“Don’t tease, Mum,” Emily followed her.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking. Margaret always baked when she was nervous. Today, the table held a plate of sausage rolls, apple crumble, and shortbread.
“Baking all night again?” Emily asked, smiling despite herself.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Margaret admitted. “Kept thinking how to talk to you.”
“Should’ve thought of that before placing the ad.”
Margaret set the kettle on the hob and pulled two mugs from the cupboard.
“Emily, love, think about it. You work with all women—no men there. You stay home with your books and telly. You pop to the shops in joggers, hair in a bun.”
“I look fine!”
“For lounging, yes. But for attracting men? When did you last wear a dress?”
Emily paused. It was true—since the divorce, she’d forgotten her femininity. Jeans, jumpers, trainers—her wardrobe had shrunk to basics.
“That’s still no excuse for the ad,” she muttered stubbornly.
“What is, then? Waiting for Prince Charming to knock unannounced?”
The kettle whistled. Margaret poured the tea and set out the shortbread.
“Mum, how many calls did you get?” Emily asked cautiously.
“Loads. Wrote them all down in my notebook. Want a look?”
She pulled a school exercise book from the drawer. On the cover, in childlike handwriting, it read: “Husbands for Emily.”
“Seriously?” Emily snorted. “Like I’m twelve.”
“But it’s all organised. See, this Michael seemed decent. Forty-five, engineer, divorced, no kids. Pleasant voice, well-spoken.”
Emily took the book and flipped through the pages. Margaret had neatly recorded names, ages, jobs, and brief notes on each caller.
“Mum, did you interview every single one?”
“Course. Think I’d hand my daughter to just anyone? Asked everything—where they work, salary, if they own a home.”
“Like an interrogation,” Emily smirked.
“Well, yes. Got to know who you’re dealing with.”
Emily read the entries, softly laughing. Margaret had been ruthlessly thorough. Notes like “drinks,” “lives with mum,” “wants a maid,” “married, liar” dotted the pages.
“Why’s this Anthony crossed out?”
“Started talking about intimacy right away. Told him my daughter’s a proper lady, and he got rude.”
“Right. What about this Simon?”
“Seemed nice. Forty-three, site manager, owns a flat. Widower, grown daughter married and gone.”
Emily set the book down and studied her mother.
“Mum, do you honestly think this is how people find love now?”
“Why not? They used to have matchmakers. Parents arranged marriages, and folks got on fine.”
“That was ages ago. Times have changed.”
“Times change, people don’t. Everyone wants love, family, someone to understand them.”
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up.
“Hello? Yes, about the ad… How old are you? Thirty-eight? Where d’you work? I see… Ever married? Divorced… Kids? None… Why no kids, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Emily rolled her eyes and retreated to her room. Her mother could grill callers for an hour, dissecting their life stories.
At her desk, Emily opened her email. Amid work messages were several from strangers. Turns out Margaret hadn’t stopped at the paper—she’d posted online too.
“Mum!” Emily shouted. “Get in here!”
Margaret appeared, still clutching the phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“You put ads online too?”
“Well, yes. Mrs. Thompson next door showed me how. Says there’s more choice.”
“Which sites?”
“All the free ones I could find.”
Emily googled her name. The results stunned her. Her dating profile appeared on dozens of sites—same text, different photos.
“Mum, where’d you get these photos?”
“Off your computer. Mrs. Thompson helped.”
“Which photos?”
“Different ones. This one at the seaside’s lovely, and this one in your blue dress from the office party.”
Emily stared. Margaret had picked the best shots—smiling, glowing, nothing like her current frumpy self.
“Any responses?”
“Loads. Look at your inbox.”
Margaret pointed to the “Dating” folder—over a hundred unread messages.
“Mum, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh, love! See how popular you are?”
The phone rang again. Margaret dashed off.
“Hello? Yes… Name? Oliver… Age? Forty-six… Job? Lorry driver… What sort of lorry? Oh… Personality? Easygoing? Good… Any bad habits? Smoking? None? Excellent… Do you drink? Only at weddings? Fine… How much d’you earn? That’s not much, young man. My daughter’s used to proper living—”
“Mum!” Emily cut in. “Stop scaring him off!”
Margaret covered the receiver.
“What? Need to know if he can provide.”
“Not in the first chat!”
“When, then? Too late after.”
The call dragged on ten more minutes. Margaret extracted everything—from blood type to shoe size.
“Well? Suitable?” she asked, hanging up.
“Dunno. I didn’t speak to him.”
“So speak. I’ll arrange a meet.”
“Where? A café?”
“Better here. Cozier. I’ll do a roast, some pudding. You’ll chatEmily sighed, realizing that despite the chaos her mother had caused, perhaps love really did have a way of finding you when you least expected it—even if it took a meddling mum and a dozen newspaper ads to make it happen.
