Not like on the telly, but the heart still knew what it wanted.
Evie adored telly dramas. She believed real life could be just as vibrant as on screen—full of twists, storms of passion, melodrama, and happy endings. But her reality was different—dull, routine, and bleak. She lived in a tiny village outside Norwich, and even marriage hadn’t brought the happiness she dreamed of in her youth.
Gareth, her husband, at first seemed loving and steady. But after three years of marriage, he announced suddenly:
“I’m off. Can’t stay here any longer. It’s suffocating. I’m meant for the city, Evie.”
“What d’you mean? We’ve got it alright here,” she tried to argue.
“It’s alright for you, not for me,” he snapped, stuffing a couple of shirts into an old rucksack before walking out without a backward glance.
Gossip spread through the village like wildfire. The local women clucked:
“Gareth left Evie, gone to Cambridge. Probably found some tart there.”
Evie stayed quiet. No tears, no complaints. Just carried on. There was no place for her at her parents’—her brother, his wife, and their four kids filled every nook. She had no children of her own.
“Suppose it’s a blessing,” she thought, watching the neighbour’s kids scramble about. “With a man like Gareth—no father would he have made.”
Evenings, she perched before the telly, lost in the next episode—betrayals, grand loves, heartaches. The stories burned into her heart. After, sleep wouldn’t come for hours.
Mornings were the same old drudge—feeding the pigs, geese, chickens, and the calf, Billy. Not in a pen—she’d tether him by the back garden. One day, a neighbour hollered:
“Evie, your calf’s loose, tearing through the village!”
She bolted out—Billy was butting the fence, horns gouging the neighbour’s gate.
“Billy, please, stay put,” she coaxed, waving bread. He just tossed his head, jerking free. A sharp pull, and he sent a flock of ducklings scattering.
As ever, Alfie came to the rescue—the tractor driver, her old schoolmate. He caught Billy with a swift loop of rope, tying him tight. Evie watched his strong hands work, muscles shifting under his shirt. A sudden pang twisted inside her—what if those arms wrapped around her instead…
“What am I on about, daft cow,” she flushed. “Like a cat in spring.”
Shame prickled. Alfie lived with Brenda, a tall, broad woman who’d once lingered after a pub night—taking advantage when he’d had one too many. Brought her daughter from a past marriage too. They stayed on, unofficial-like.
Evie and Gareth divorced quick once he vanished. Suitors came after, even proposed, but her heart stayed silent. Now, Alfie—her old schoolmate—looked at her differently. Warm, almost tender. She felt his gaze like embers. And feared it. Feared Brenda finding out, spreading tales.
But Alfie walked past daily now, along the field path he’d never used before. She rose early, pretending to weed—really waiting for his footsteps. Their eyes would meet, and in his was something Gareth never had—warmth, softness.
Then Gareth came back. Like he’d never left.
“Will you have me?” That same smirk.
“Why didn’t the city suit you?”
Her heart stayed silent. No flutter. There’d been no love. Or it died long ago.
He moved back in—she couldn’t kick him out, but he’d no decency. Nights, she barricaded the door, climbed in through the window. Alfie saw—knew Evie hadn’t taken Gareth back.
One morning, steps appeared under her window. Someone had fixed them there for her ease. Not Gareth—he still drank and vanished. It was Alfie, working by moonlight.
Then… Brenda returned to the village. But she fell ill, sudden and grave. Her daughter went to her nan’s. Brenda was taken to hospital, never came back. Died.
Evie noticed Alfie clearing snow from her path mornings—quietly. Come spring, she returned from work—door wide, a plump woman sat at her table, sipping from her mug.
“Alright, love,” Gareth sneered. “Me and Vera live here now. House is mine. Pack your stuff and hop it.”
That night, Evie shoved the dresser against the door again. Come dawn, she started hauling her things. Alfie came, wordlessly took her case, carried it to his place. Again and again. Not asking, just taking. Gareth and Vera watched, smirking.
“This what you fancy, then?” Gareth jeered. “Good luck to you.”
Alfie took Evie’s hand. Led her home. She burst into tears—happiness, shock, relief. He held her close, the whole world spinning behind her eyelids.
They married quick. Evie’s expecting now. Gareth lurked at his door, watching, uneasy. But she’d no mind for him anymore. A real man stood at her back—not on the telly, but right here, in the flesh.
