Gillian stopped by the shop after work. She didn’t feel like cooking, but she had to feed Emily. She grabbed a pack of spaghetti and some sausages—her daughter had loved them since she was little. She also picked up a carton of milk and a loaf of bread.
There was a small queue at the till. In front of her stood a burly bloke in a black jacket and a knitted beanie with a pom-pom. *”Looks young enough, but wearing that hat. Probably his missus made it for him. Women have a way of making their men look a right state—keeps other women at bay. Wonder what his face is like. Probably babyish,”* she mused, glaring at the ridiculous striped beanie.
The man turned and caught her staring. She quickly looked away. *”Not bad, actually. Doesn’t look daft,”* she thought, softening slightly. He glanced back at her again.
“You’ll burn a hole through me if you keep staring like that,” he said.
“Nothing worth looking at. Got nothing better to do,” Gillian muttered irritably.
The queue wasn’t moving. Her frustration bubbled up. And that stupid hat… She nearly abandoned her shopping, but there weren’t any other shops nearby. *”Men in queues always take ages. Next, he’ll faff about choosing cigarettes—‘Oh, the blue pack with the red stripe. No? Then the white ones with the green label.’”* She mimicked his imagined voice in her head. *”Then he’ll dig around for change instead of getting it ready beforehand.”* She sighed.
Sure enough, the bloke ahead shrugged off his jacket and rummaged through his tight jeans for coins. Gillian exhaled loudly, making a show of her impatience.
“In a hurry? Go ahead,” said Knitted Hat Man, stepping aside. Gillian shrugged and took his place at the till. Finally, he fished out enough change, bagged his modest haul, and left.
Gillian’s turn came. The cashier scanned her items while she dug through her handbag, fruitlessly searching for her card.
“Can’t you hurry up? Should’ve had your money ready,” someone snapped from behind.
“Lost your card?” Knitted Hat Man asked with a smirk.
Gillian ignored him, still rummaging.
“I’ll pay,” he told the cashier.
“Don’t!” Gillian flushed. “Found it. Sorry.” She tapped her card on the reader, relieved. Bagging her things, she hurried out. *”What’s wrong with me? Why’d I fixate on his stupid hat? If he likes it, let him wear it. I’m just bitter.”*
On her way home, the floodgates opened. *”It’s all his fault. We had a decent life—or did I just imagine that? Ran off with some young floozy who got pregnant. ‘Did the right thing’ and married her. Didn’t care that his daughter would grow up without a dad. And I’m nearly forty. Forty! Blimey, that’s old.”*
He’d left her the flat—small mercies. *”Why do we put up with them? All the same. A few don’t cheat, or they’re clever enough not to get caught. But at forty, they all want someone younger. What about us?”* She blinked back tears.
In the lift, a drunk bloke staggered out, reeking of beer and cheap fags. *”All the same—boozing or tomcatting. Can’t stand them.”*
On her floor, she fumbled with her keys, gloves snagging. Finally inside, Emily sat at her desk. She glanced up, eyes simmering with something—disdain or annoyance.
“Mum, I need money for the theatre. School trip Saturday,” Emily demanded.
“I’ll get dinner started,” Gillian deflected, heading to the kitchen.
*”More money. I don’t print the stuff. One wage now—rent, food… Scrimping every penny.”* She filled a pot, silently railing at life’s unfairness.
“Mum? The theatre?” Emily hovered in the doorway, finger marking her book.
“I’ll withdraw cash tomorrow,” Gillian sighed.
Emily vanished, satisfied.
*”We’ll see how long his fling lasts. She won’t stay young and pretty. A baby’ll ruin her figure—sleepless nights, no time for herself. And he’s no spring chicken, past forty. Serves him right. Should be thinking of grandkids, not new babies. Ugh, why am I still thinking about him?”*
Later, her desk lamp fizzed and died. *”Brilliant. Bought it last week. What a day!”* She fiddled with the bulb—no luck. *”I’ll return it tomorrow. If I can find the receipt.”* But she’d tossed it.
Next evening, lugging the heavy lamp, she entered the electronics shop across the road. On the step, Knitted Hat Man smoked. She shot him a withering look and went in.
He followed, stepping behind the counter. At her stunned expression, he grinned.
“Bought this last week,” she snapped, thumping the lamp down.
“Got the receipt?” he asked blandly. “No surprise you’re single. With that temper.”
“Who says I’m single?” she spluttered.
“Any husband would’ve brought it himself or fixed it.”
“He’s busy. Writing his thesis. No receipt—so no refund? Useless.” She turned to leave.
“Give me your address. I’ll fix it and drop it off. Or collect it tomorrow.”
“Like I’ll lug it back. Flat 96, across the road.” She stormed out.
*”So he owns the shop! Didn’t recognise him without that hat. Clever eyes, decent bloke.”* She cheered up—free repairs!
At home, she studied herself in the mirror—dowdy, defeated. *”No wonder he strayed. She’s probably all nails and heels. That’s what men want. Well, no more. Time to smarten up. Spite him.”*
Next morning, she wore a dress and mascara. Emily gawped.
“About time. Now get a haircut.”
Gillian spun around.
“And your eyes are sparkling. Met someone?” Emily teased.
“No. This is for me.” She fluffed her hair. “Maybe I *should* cut it?”
At work, colleagues noticed and complimented her all day. Her mood lifted.
That evening, swapping her dressing gown for jeans and a tee, she peeled potatoes. *”Ex never ate garlic or onions—scared of bad breath. His precious angel probably lives on air.”*
Soon, fried potatoes and onions sizzled. Emily bounded in.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No reason. Can you start the wash? Don’t forget the detergent.”
As dinner simmered, the doorbell rang. It was Knitted Hat Man—no beanie this time. She almost didn’t recognise him.
“You?”
“Fixed the lamp.” He handed it over, swallowing hard, eyes darting past her.
“Come in. I’ll feed you as thanks.”
He obliged.
“Can I wash my hands?”
“Bathroom.” She flicked the light on—soapy water covered the floor.
“Step back.” He rolled up his trousers, waded in, and shut off the valves. “Bucket and cloth.”
They mopped up.
“Neighbours aren’t complaining, so it didn’t leak. Hose probably split. I’ll call my mate—he fixes washers.”
As he phoned, she studied him, grateful he’d come.
“Mate’ll check it tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” She smiled.
“You’re different now. Lovely smile. I’m Martin. Old-fashioned name.”
“Gillian.”
“Not had spuds and pickles in ages,” he said between mouthfuls.
“Wife only feeds you meat?” Emily eyed him.
“No wife. Married young—lasted six months. ‘Irreconcilable differences.’”
“Who knitted your hat?” Gillian blurted.
“Oh—Mum. She died last spring.”
“Sorry.” She exchanged a glance with Emily.
Later, as they cleared up, Martin asked, “Her dad left?”
“Yeah. Knocked up some girl. They’re due soon.”
“You’re still young,” he said, rising. “Better go. My mate’ll come tomorrow.”
She walked him out, pondering how her ex would’ve dithered over the leak while she slogged alone. *”They’re all nice at first—helpful, charming. Then it’s the sofa and telly. Then an affair. He’ll be the same. No more men—just trouble.”*
That night, the bed felt cold and empty. She muffled sobs into her pillow.
Outside, winter’s last gasp clung on. Soon, spring… summer… Gazing out, she noticed the shop’s light was off. *”Ill? Or worse?”* A knock startled her—not Emily, who had keysThe door swung open to reveal Martin, bareheaded and clutching a bouquet of roses, his smile tentative but hopeful as Gillian’s heart skipped a beat, the years of loneliness and doubt melting away in an instant.
