Penny had always been pretty—petite, strawberry blonde, with a figure that turned heads and a face fit for a magazine. After university, she stayed in London to work, but her love life was, well, a bit of a dry spell. No shortage of admirers, mind you, but none waving a ring under her nose. And now, thirty was tapping her on the shoulder like an impatient queue-jumper.
At first, she joked there was no rush. Plenty of time! Then the jokes soured. Time, that sly old fox, had other ideas.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Cut someone off in traffic?” her mum’s friend Margery suggested last New Year’s Eve.
“I don’t cut people off! I don’t pinch parking spots, and I’ve never wrecked a marriage,” Penny countered.
“Must be jealousy, then,” Margery declared, nodding sagely.
Penny didn’t argue. Jealousy? Oh, she’d seen it—girls at school, even. Boys flocked to her, but she’d focused on studies, leaving love for “later.”
Her mum raised her alone. Not wealthy, but never wanting. Mum knitted like a machine—delicate lace, cozy cable knits, bright statement pieces. Half Penny’s wardrobe was handmade, the rest sold at craft fairs.
“Don’t jinx her, Margery! She’s got lads lining up. No need to rush,” Mum defended.
“Lads, yes. But where’s the husband? Or at least a decent boyfriend!” Margery pressed.
“What’s the difference?” Mum huffed. The thought of her clever girl as someone’s “bit on the side” made her bristle.
“Only a marriage certificate, which matters if babies come along. Some boyfriends treat you better than husbands anyway…” And off Margery went, recounting how her own “gentleman friend” bought her a flat and paid for her son’s uni while her useless, pub-crawling ex-husband got the boot.
That decided it. Next New Year’s, Penny’d skip Mum’s. Better alone than enduring *that* lecture.
Meanwhile, winter pavements demanded attention. Penny stepped aside for a woman pushing a pram.
“Penny!” The woman gasped. “It’s me—Tanya! Tanya Smith now.”
Penny forced a smile. “Tanya! You’re in London?”
“Three years now! Fancy bumping into you like this! I heard you—” Tanya’s eyes gleamed with nosy potential.
“Yours?” Penny cut in, nodding at the pram.
“Oh yes! Look!” Pride warmed Tanya’s voice.
Penny peeked under the pram’s canopy. A tiny miracle slept in a cloud of white lace, a pink knitted hat pulled low. The scent of milk, warm wool, and baby dreams wafted up.
“Lovely. Takes after her dad?”
“Spitting image! When she was born—”
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. Catch up another time?” Penny fled.
Mood: ruined. *Of all people—Tanya! School’s invisible girl, now married, settled, oozing joy. Where’s mine?*
Home now, the Christmas tree she’d decorated a week ago just annoyed her. Festive? More like a glittery reminder she’d be ringing in the New Year solo.
Tea kettle on, phone blaring—*Speak of the devil.*
“Home, love? Be there soon,” said Vincent.
She almost lied: *Out with friends, don’t come.* The fiery early days had fizzled to habit. He’d divorced ages ago (not her fault, he swore), but still lived with his ex “for the kid’s sake.”
Sighing, she said she’d be home and started dinner.
Vincent arrived with a gift bag. “Nearly missed you—end-of-year reports, office party, promised my girl I’d take her to the pantomime…”
Penny tuned out. But the gift—red lace lingerie and a velvet box with a gold heart pendant—cheered her.
“Thanks!” She pecked his cheek.
“Won’t stay for food. Sorry.” He pulled her toward the bedroom…
It was… fine. After, he dressed hastily.
“How old’s your daughter?” Penny asked, sheet clutched to her chest.
Vincent froze, trousers half-on, eyes skyward as if the answer was written there. One pasty, hairy leg stuck out, socked foot weirdly chicken-like. *Ugh. Why did I ever fancy him?*
“Ten, I think. Yeah, ten.”
At ten, Penny’d been all elbows and plaits. Vincent’s girl? Poor kid.
When he left, she stuffed the sheets in the wash and showered. *No more. Let him play happy families.*
Next morning, she hit the shops for Mum’s gift—wool already bought, maybe boots?—lost in thought. *Even Tanya’s married. I’d be a good wife! Great cook, knit like a pro. Why’s happiness so picky? I’m not asking for a film star, just a decent bloke!*
Distracted, she stepped into the road—*HONK!* Cars screeched. She crossed, head down, tears unnoticed.
“You crying? Someone die?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes people risk life like that.”
Baffled, she stared.
“Right. In here.” He steered her into a café.
Coffee arrived. He touched her hand. “Ice-cold. Drink up.”
Wine appeared. She sipped, warmth spreading.
“Better. So? Husband trouble?”
“I’m Penny.”
“Penny? My mum’s name! Talk or not?”
And out it all spilled—Tanya, Vincent, Mum’s knitting, the ticking clock.
Henry (his name, she learned) listened, then grinned. “You’re a catch! Pretty, can cook, knit? Most London girls only know how to order cocktails. Ditch that deadweight.”
“I did. He’s got a kid.”
“Good. Fresh start. I’ll walk you home, bring flowers tomorrow. Deal?”
They saw in the New Year together. *As the saying goes—how you start is how you’ll go.* By April, they married.
That May, strolling in Hyde Park, she spotted Vincent—arm in arm with a sturdy wife and equally sturdy daughter. Penny turned away.
Henry returned with ice creams. “You’re so fit, men are tripping over themselves.” He kissed her cheek. She smiled, didn’t look back.
Next winter, their son arrived. New Year’s Eve was a quartet—Mum visiting, arms full of tiny blue-and-white knits “for when he grows.”
Once, pushing the pram, she ran into Tanya leading her bear-cub of a daughter in pink snowsuit. Penny proudly showed off her boy.
Walking home, she grinned. Soon, she’d cuddle her little happiness, cook dinner, wait for Henry. What more could a woman want?
