**About Cats, Men, and Tulips…**
“Can you believe it’s raining out there?” said Rachel, standing by the office window.
“Well, it’s spring—what do you expect?” replied pragmatic Natasha.
“True, it’s only the first of March. I’m so sick of winter. The only good thing was New Year’s.”
“March is fickle—snow one day, frost the next,” chimed in Vikki, the eldest of them at forty-five.
“This morning, I slipped on my way to the car. Bruised my thigh horribly—still hurts. Want to see?” Rachel turned from the window.
“No thanks!” the women chorused.
“And our Lydia isn’t exactly thrilled about spring. Look at her—working like a machine.”
“Leave her be,” Vikki cut in.
“Oh please, like it’s the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times, and I’m still standing.”
Rachel caught Vikki’s disapproving glance and stepped away.
“Honestly, a bloke walks away—it’s not a tragedy. He’s alive, happy—good for him,” Rachel pressed on.
Lydia stood abruptly and left the room. No matter how much time had passed, she couldn’t forget him—couldn’t move on.
At first, she had focused on studies, no time for men. She thought there’d be plenty of chances later. But time flew, friends married, divorced, remarried, while Lydia never had anything serious.
Then she met Paul. She thought it was real love, the kind she’d dreamed of. She couldn’t imagine life without him. When he proposed, she was radiant. They filed notice at the registry office, planning a New Year’s wedding, photos glittering with Christmas lights. She promised to invite all the girls. Even picked her dress.
Then, early December, Paul vanished. A week with no calls. When he returned, he looked lost—guilty. Lydia knew instantly. He finally confessed.
Two and a half years ago, before meeting her, he’d had a fling on a business trip. Maybe he’d promised her things—he didn’t remember. Then he met Lydia and forgot her. Until the call. She told him he had a son. A year and a half old.
“He looks just like me,” Paul said, dragging fingers through his hair. “Seeing him—something just… shifted. It’s not that I still love her. But a child changes everything. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
At first, Lydia didn’t fight for him. Told herself love would conquer all. But then she realised—it wasn’t just the child. You can’t keep a man with guilt. If there were still feelings for the mother…
Two happy years with Paul—plans, dreams, a future. Then his past came knocking. Lydia knew she couldn’t live with it, even if he chose her. For how long? The past would keep intruding—demands, money, presents for the child…
So she let him go. But what now? Her dreams were rubble, and you can’t build happiness on ruins. How could she trust men again? Every one seemed a liar.
Work numbed her days, but memories gnawed at night.
No matter how hard women fought for equality, without love, without children—they weren’t happy. Career couldn’t replace family. Life’s meaning was to leave something behind—raised well, with a father. But Paul already had that. Lydia was surplus.
Why was she so unlucky? Thirty-two, never married, never even properly lived with a man.
Rachel was on her second marriage. Vikki had a family, her eldest at uni. Even plump Natasha married a year ago. Only Lydia was alone.
The girls tried setting her up with friends’ husbands’ mates. Nothing worked. One was decent but dull—no spark. Another wanted a fling. A third was still married…
And now this ghastly spring holiday. Why the fuss over flowers and gifts? Roses could be given any day, not just a date on the calendar. At least it was a day off—no need to face smug men clutching tulips, rubber-banded tight so they wouldn’t bloom early.
At home, wives would fuss over festive dinners, curl their hair, then wilt like the tulips under tired gazes. Hushews stuffing down food, one eye on the telly. Teen sons locked in their rooms, lives lived online…
Yet Lydia envied them. She’d give anything for that. A family at the table, a bunch of tulips on one day of the year…
She checked her reflection. Not bad-looking. So where was her happiness? People said she was too picky. But reckless romance was for youth—when love was enough, when mistakes could be undone.
At thirty-two, starting over felt impossible. And men past thirty weren’t boys. If they had nothing to their name, how could they lead a family?
She splashed water on her face. The irritation cooled. Thirty-two wasn’t fifty, right?
Back in the office, the women fell silent. *Talking about me, then.* She sat, returned to work.
“Lydia, we’re doing cake on the seventh. Chipping in £5 each. You in?”
She lied. “Promised Mum I’d visit.”
Nowhere to go. Dad died four years ago. Mum had a new beau—no time for her.
“I told you,” Rachel crowed.
“Right, back to work,” Vikki cut in.
On the seventh, the office hummed with party prep. Women flitted about, laying out food. Who could work? The smells were divine.
“Lydia, go home.” Vikki slid a box of chocolates onto her desk.
“Don’t—”
“Take them. And don’t mind Rachel. Her second marriage is rocky—bitterness leaks.”
“Thanks.”
Lydia detoured to the shop—bought wine, fruit, cold cuts. No one to cook for.
Caught in the festive frenzy, she overbought. But stepping outside, she cursed herself. Who needed all this?
Lugging the bags home, her coat stifling, she fumbled with keys at the door. A meow sounded. Too tired to notice.
Inside the lift, the weight pressed. The meow came again—right beside her. A grey cat, green eyes fixed up at her. Well-groomed, but muddy-pawed.
“You live on the seventh too?”
The cat rubbed her leg, darted into the lift, followed her home. Waited politely at the door.
“Charming. Fine, come in.”
He devoured the meat she offered, lapped milk, demanded more. Unblinking stare.
She scooped him up. “Definitely a bloke. Greedy and shameless. Stay, then. Some male company.”
After a bath (which he endured), he dozed on the rug.
“Respectful of furniture. Good.”
She posted a found notice online: *Grey tabby, cheeky. No collar.* Printed flyers, snapped his photo.
“What’s your name? Whiskers? No? Well, maybe your owner’ll turn up.”
Outside, she pinned flyers. Back home, she left the door ajar. The cat bolted away from it.
“Smart. But if you pee anywhere—regrets.”
He slept at her feet. Come morning, she didn’t scold him.
Breakfast was interrupted by a call. “You found my Coconut!” a child’s voice chirped.
She gave her address.
Soon, a man and boy stood at her door.
“Coconut!” the boy called. The cat sauntered out, rubbing against him.
“You let him out?” Lydia asked.
“Mum hates cats. Said he ran off, but he wouldn’t—”
Lydia let them in. The boy cradled the cat, who endured it stoically.
“Thank you,” the man said. “Come on, Ethan.”
“Wait. What if your wife tosses him again?”
The man paused. “She’s my sister. Divorced, staying with me till she buys a place.”
“Right. Likely story.”
“Someone hurt you,” he said.
“None of your business. Go.”
That evening, wine in hand, Lydia sat with the cat. *Family of sorts*, she thought wryly.
A knock. The man stood there—holding roses.
“Just wanted to thank you. I swear, not all men are pricks. Hi, Coconut.”
She took the flowers.
“Drinking alone? Alcoholic?”
“Ha.”
“Join me at a café. Friends, music. My mate plays guitar.”
She went. The music, the laughter—it had been so long.
And when Dennis smiled at her, she let herself hope.
Maybe there were still good men. Maybe Coconut had waited for her for a reason. Maybe this time…
