**About Cats, Men, and Tulips…**
“Would you believe it, it’s raining outside!” exclaimed Rosie, peering out of the office window.
“Well, it is spring—what did you expect?” replied pragmatic Natasha.
“True, it’s the first of March. I’ve had enough of winter. The only good thing about it was New Year’s.”
“March is tricky—could still snow, might even freeze over,” chimed in Vicky, the eldest of them at forty-five, adding her two pence.
“This morning, I slipped on my way to the car. Bruised my thigh something awful. Still hurts. Want to see?” Rosie turned around eagerly.
“No, thanks!” the girls chorused.
“And our Lily’s not exactly thrilled about spring, is she? Look at her, glued to her desk like a robot.”
“Leave her be, Rosie,” Vicky cut in.
“Oh, come on. It’s not the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times, and I’m still standing.”
Rosie caught Vicky’s disapproving look and shuffled back to her seat.
“Honestly, though. A bloke leaves her—didn’t die, didn’t vanish, he’s alive and well. She should be happy for him!” Rosie carried on, relentless.
Lily stood abruptly and walked out. No matter how much time passed, she couldn’t forget him, couldn’t move on.
At first, she’d focused on studies—no time for lads. Thought she’d have plenty of time for romance later. But years flew by. Friends married, divorced, married again, while Lily never had anything serious.
Then she met Paul. Thought he was *the one*, the perfect love she’d dreamed of. Fell so hard she couldn’t imagine life without him. She’d been over the moon when he proposed, glowing with happiness. They’d even set a wedding date—right before New Year’s, so the Christmas tree would sparkle in all the photos. She’d promised to invite all the girls. Even picked out her dress.
Then, in early December, Paul vanished. No calls, no messages. When he returned a week later, he looked shattered. Guilty. Lily knew right away something was wrong.
Turns out, two and a half years before they met, he’d had a fling on a business trip. Might’ve even promised the girl something—he couldn’t remember. Then he met Lily and forgot all about her. Until recently, when the girl called and said he had a son. Already a year and a half old.
*”He’s the spitting image of me,”* Paul had said, running fingers through his hair. *”It changes everything. I don’t love *her*—but the kid… I didn’t even know he existed, Lily. I’m sorry.”*
At first, she’d tried to hold on. Told herself love would conquer all. But then she realised—if he wanted to stay, he would. A man can’t be kept by a child alone. Which meant part of him still cared for the mother.
Two happy years together. Plans, dreams, a future. Then his past came crashing back, claiming him. Lily knew she couldn’t live with that, even if he chose her. How long before the past demanded more? Calls, visits, money for the child…
So she let him go. But what now? Her dreams lay in ruins, and you can’t rebuild happiness on rubble. How could she ever trust men again? All she saw now were liars and cheats.
She buried herself in work by day, but nights were torture.
No matter how much women fought for equality, without love and family, they weren’t truly happy. Careers didn’t fill that void. Life’s meaning was leaving something behind—raising it well, with a husband. And now Paul already *had* that. A son. And Lily was just… in the way.
Why was she so unlucky? Thirty-two, unmarried, never properly lived with a bloke, never had that *real* family life.
Rosie was on her second marriage. Vicky had been settled for ages—her eldest was at uni. Even Natasha, bless her, had tied the knot a year ago. Only Lily was still alone.
The girls had tried setting her up with their husbands’ mates. But nothing clicked. One was decent, successful—but no spark. Another wanted a fling. A third wasn’t even divorced yet…
And now this blasted spring holiday. Why the fuss over flowers and gifts? Flowers should come from the heart, not a calendar. At least it was a day off—no need to face streets full of smug blokes clutching tulips bound with rubber bands so they wouldn’t bloom too soon.
At home, wives would slave over festive lunches, dress up, then glance wearily at their wilting tulips (bloomed too fast in the warmth, just like their morning curls), while husbands stuffed their faces with vodka in one hand, eyes half on the telly. And kids? Barely touching their plates before vanishing into their screens.
Yet Lily envied them. She’d have given anything for that. A family at the table, a measly bunch of tulips once a year…
She checked her reflection. Not bad-looking. So why no happiness? People said she was too picky. But reckless romance was for her twenties—when *love* meant paradise in a hovel, when you had time for mistakes.
At thirty-two, starting over felt exhausting. And men past thirty? Either they’d built something or they hadn’t. If they had nothing, how could they lead a family? Take responsibility?
She splashed water on her face, patted dry, forced a smile. *Thirty-two isn’t fifty, right?*
Back in the office, the girls fell silent. *”Ah. Gossiping about me.”* She sat and got back to work.
“Lily, love, we’re doing cake and drinks on the 8th. Chipping in a tenner each. Fancy joining?”
She lied. “Promised Mum I’d visit. She’s expecting me.”
No such plans. Dad died four years back, and Mum had a new beau. No room for Lily.
“Told you,” Rosie crowed.
“Right, back to work,” Vicky cut in.
Come the 8th, the office was abuzz. The women flitted about in their best frocks, laying out home-cooked spreads. Work? Forgotten. The smells were divine.
“Lily, go home.” Vicky slid a box of chocolates her way.
“No, it’s fine—”
“Take them. Have a cuppa. You’ll find your happiness, love. Ignore Rosie—her second marriage is on the rocks, that’s why she’s so bitter.”
Lily didn’t head straight home. Stopped for wine, fancy meats, fruit. Why cook for one?
In the shop, she’d felt part of something—women everywhere, buying treats for their families. So she’d overdone it, swept up in the frenzy.
But hauling the heavy bags home, she cursed herself. Who was all this for? The pavements were either lakes or ice. By her doorstep, her back was drenched. Bloody winter coat.
Fumbling for keys, she barely noticed the mewing. Exhausted, she ignored it—until a grey tabby rubbed against her leg. Green eyes, smug little face. Clearly a house cat, just muddy-pawed.
“You live here too?” she asked.
It meowed, tail curling. When the lift opened, it darted in first.
“Cheeky. Or *girl* cheeky?”
It followed her out, waiting politely at her door.
“Proper gentleman, eh? Fine, help me eat this lot.”
Inside, the cat inhaled the meat she offered, lapped milk, then demanded more, fixing her with an unblinking stare.
She scooped it up. “Definitely a bloke—greedy and entitled. Fancy staying? At least *someone* male in the house.”
It tolerated a paw-wash, then dozed on the rug.
“Not claiming the sofa? Decent of you.”
She typed up a *Found Cat* ad—grey, stripy, shameless—then printed flyers.
“Got a name? Felix? Whiskers? No? Well, maybe your owner’ll turn up.”
Back home, the cat slept at her feet. No accidents. Good lad.
Next morning, a call.
“You found my Coconut!” a child’s voice chirped. “Can I get him?”
Lily gave her address.
Soon, a man and boy stood at her door.
The boy called, “Coconut!” The cat sauntered over, rubbing against him.
“Why’d you let him out?” Lily asked.
“We didn’t! Mum hates cats—said he *ran away*, but he’d never—” the boy stammered.
“Ah. So she dumped him.” She let them in.
The man hesitated. “Wife’s actually my sister. She’s divorcing, staying with me till she buys a place.”
“Sure, sure. And the kid’As the cat purred contentedly in her lap and the man—Denis—smiled at her from across the room, Lily finally let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, happiness wasn’t as far away as she’d thought.
