“I can’t believe this! Just can’t believe it!” shouted Emma, waving her hands wildly. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Emma, love, calm down, please,” Grace attempted to take her daughter’s hand, but she pulled away sharply. “Let’s have a proper talk.”
“Proper talk?” Emma’s voice pitched higher. “After what you’ve done? Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? I’ll be the laughingstock of the whole town!”
“Don’t exaggerate. What town? We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” Emma clasped her hands to her head. “Are you being deliberately thick, or do you honestly not get it?”
Grace sank heavily onto the sofa. At sixty-two, she still considered herself lively and energetic enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s life. But for the first time in years, she felt old and worn out.
“I just wanted to help,” she said softly. “You’ve been so withdrawn since the divorce. Just work and home—nowhere else.”
“That’s my choice!” Emma exploded. “Mine! I’m a grown woman, Mum—forty-one years old!”
“And that’s exactly why I worry. Time’s passing, and you—”
“And what? I’m unlovable? Some washed-up spinster?”
Grace shook her head.
“You’re beautiful, clever—just too proud these days. Men are intimidated.”
Emma paced the room, twisting the belt of her dressing gown. Golden morning sunlight spilled into their small sitting room, but the air between them was thick with tension.
“Mum, how could you put an ad in the paper?” Emma exhaled wearily. “And such an ad!”
“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Grace asked, offended. “It was perfectly normal.”
“Normal?” Emma pulled a folded newspaper from her pocket. “Listen to this: ‘Seeking decent gentleman for beautiful, home-loving daughter, 41. Works as accountant, nonsmoker, excellent cook. Inquiries to mother.’ To mother, for God’s sake!”
“And what’s the problem?” Grace looked genuinely confused.
“The problem? I’m not a second-hand sofa up for grabs! And why should they call you, not me?”
“Because you’d find fault with every single one. You always do.”
Emma slumped into the armchair opposite Grace and buried her face in her hands.
“Mum, my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Yesterday, some seventy-year-old pensioner asked if I could cook a roast and whether I’d move to his cottage in Yorkshire to tend his sheep!”
“Well, he’s out of the question,” Grace agreed. “But what about the others?”
“What others?” Emma scoffed. “Mum, this is degrading! Like I can’t find a man on my own.”
“Can you?”
The quiet question hit home. Emma fell silent. Grace wasn’t wrong—four years since her split with James, and she hadn’t met a single man who sparked her interest.
“That doesn’t mean resorting to newspaper ads like it’s the ruddy 90s,” she grumbled.
“Then how? Online dating? You barely know how to use the internet.”
“I’d figure it out.”
“Like you’ve figured it out in four years?”
Grace stood and headed to the kitchen.
“Tea? Or should I fetch the valerian drops?”
“Don’t take the mickey,” Emma muttered, following her.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking. Grace always cooked when she was anxious. Today, the table held cheese scones, apple turnovers, and shortbread.
“Baking all night again?” Emma couldn’t help but smile.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Grace admitted. “Kept thinking how to talk to you.”
“Should’ve thought of that before placing the ad.”
Grace filled the kettle and fetched two mugs.
“Honestly, love, what else was I supposed to do? You work in an office full of women, spend evenings with books and telly, hit the shops in joggers with your hair scraped back—”
“I look fine!”
“For lounging, yes. But for catching a man’s eye? When did you last wear a dress?”
Emma paused. Since James left, she’d all but forgotten she was a woman. Jeans, jumpers, trainers—her entire wardrobe.
“That’s still no excuse for an ad,” she muttered stubbornly.
“What is, then? Waiting for Prince Charming to knock?”
The kettle whistled. Grace brewed the tea and set out a plate of shortbread.
“Mum… how many calls did you get?” Emma asked carefully.
“Plenty. Wrote them all down—want to see?”
Grace pulled a school exercise book from the drawer. On the cover, in neat handwriting, it read: “Suitors for Emma.”
“Seriously?” Emma snorted. “Like I’m twelve.”
“Keeps things organised. Look—this Michael sounded nice. Forty-five, civil engineer, divorced, no kids. Polite on the phone.”
Emma flipped through the pages. Grace had meticulously noted names, ages, jobs, and brief descriptions.
“Mum, did you interrogate every single one?”
“Of course. You think I’d hand you over to just anyone? Asked about work, salary, housing—”
“Like a police interview,” Emma teased.
“Well, yes! You’ve got to know who you’re dealing with.”
Reading the notes, Emma smirked. Beside some names, Grace had scribbled: “drinks,” “lives with mum,” “wants a maid,” “married (liar).”
“Why’s this Anthony crossed out?”
“Started asking about sex right away. Told him my daughter’s a lady, and he got rude.”
“I see. What about this Simon?”
“Seemed alright. Forty-three, site manager, owns a flat. Widower—grown daughter, married.”
Emma set the book aside and studied Grace.
“Mum, do you honestly believe this could work?”
“Why not? Matchmaking’s old as time. Parents used to arrange marriages—worked fine.”
“That was then. Things are different now.”
“Times change, people don’t. Everyone wants love, family, companionship.”
The phone rang. Grace snatched it up.
“Hello? Yes, about the ad… How old are you? Thirty-eight? And your job? I see… Ever married? Divorced… Children? No… If you don’t mind my asking, why no kids?”
Emma rolled her eyes and retreated to her room. Grace could grill a caller for an hour, mining their entire life story.
Sitting at her laptop, Emma checked her emails. Among work messages were several from strange men. Apparently, Grace hadn’t stopped at newspapers—she’d gone digital too.
“Mum!” Emma shouted. “Get in here!”
Grace appeared, phone still in hand.
“What?”
“You put ads online too?”
“Of course. Linda next door showed me how. Said there’s more choice.”
“Which sites?”
“All the free ones I could find.”
Emma pulled up a search engine and typed her name. The results stunned her. Dating profiles plastered across multiple sites—same text, different photos.
“Mum, where’d you get these pictures?”
“Off your computer. Linda helped me.”
“Which photos?”
“All sorts. That lovely one at Brighton, and the one in the blue dress from your office party.”
Emma stared at the screen. Grace had chosen the best shots—Emma smiling, glowing.
“So… many responses?”
“Dozens. Look at your inbox.”
Grace pointed to the “Unread” folder—over a hundred messages.
“Mum, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh! See how popular you are?”
The phone rang again. Grace dashed off.
“Hello? Yes, speaking… Your name? Oliver? Age? Forty-six… Occupation? Lorry driver… What sort of lorry? Right… Temperament? Easygoing? Good…”
Listening to Grace’s interrogation, Emma realised her life had taken a bizarre turn. Yesterday, she was just another divorced woman quietly working and keeping to herself. Today, she was the star of a nationwide dating campaign.
Grace continued:
“Any bad habits? Smoking? No? Drinking? Just socially? Fine… How will you support a family? Salary? That’s low, young man. My daughter’s used to proper standards—”
“Mum!” Emma cut in. “Stop scaring him off!”
Grace muffled the receiver.
“What? He needs to prove he can provide.”
“Not in the first bloody conversation!”
“When, then? Too late afterwards.”
The call dragged on—Grace probing his blood type, shoe size, everything.
“Well? He suitable?” she asked after hanging up.
“Dunno. Didn’t speak to him.”
“So speak! I’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Where? Some café?”
“Better here. Cozier. I’ll do a roast, nice salad. You can chat properly.”
Emma pictured it: her, a stranger, and Grace hovering with a clipboard.
“No, Mum. If we meet, it’s without you.”
“WhyAs Emma sat across from Oliver in a cosy London café the following weekend, she realised—despite her initial protests—that her mother’s meddling might have actually led her to something unexpectedly wonderful.
