“Sorry He’s Not Mine”
“Ladies, come round mine this Saturday for a proper catch-up and a cuppa,” Dana said cheerfully to her colleagues, Claire and Emily. Both grinned and nodded.
“Brilliant, I’ll bring a nice bottle of wine,” promised Claire, who prided herself on knowing a good vintage.
“I’ll bake something,” added Emily—her friends knew she was a whiz in the kitchen.
“Dana, why your place? Why not a café?” Claire asked.
“Oh, we’re always in cafés. At home, we can let loose—dance if we fancy, no one judging. Out there, you’re always worrying what strangers think.”
“Fair point,” Emily agreed. “Relaxing at home sounds lovely.” They all laughed.
The three women, all in their early forties, worked together and had grown close over the years. They had one thing in common: none were married. Dana had divorced a decade ago. Claire had never married but had a daughter, now grown with her own family. Emily, the quietest, had been left by her husband when their son was three.
Since then, she’d dated here and there. Dana had nearly remarried, but her fiancé vanished to Germany with another woman, signing a five-year contract without a word of explanation.
“Well, good riddance,” she’d snapped at the time, though it stung. She should’ve been in that other woman’s place.
Claire was a stunner, vivacious, cycling through men but never settling. She lived alone near the office, the only one of them who drove.
Emily wasn’t conventionally pretty, but there was something about her—though Dana and Claire privately thought she was a bit of a wallflower.
On Friday, after work, Dana reminded them: “Tomorrow’s still on, yeah?”
“Course!” Claire chirped. Emily stayed quiet.
By Saturday afternoon, Dana had cleaned, set the table, and popped to the nearby Tesco for her favourite chocolate digestives and a few other bits.
Claire and Emily arrived together, having carpooled. Settled around the table, they laughed, sipped wine—though Emily barely touched hers.
“What’s up, love?” Claire nudged. “Not drinking?”
Emily bit her lip. “Sorry, girls. I’ve got a date with Greg tonight.”
“Greg?” Both gaped.
“Yeah. Problem?”
“You barely mentioned him!” Dana said.
“I wasn’t sure where it’d go. He called last night, asked me out.”
“Why’d you come, then?” Claire frowned.
“I told him about our plans. Wanted you to meet him.” She turned to Dana. “Sorry, love—I gave him your address. He’s picking me up here.”
Dana laughed. “Well, let’s see this mystery man of yours!”
She munched a biscuit, watching Emily curl her hair. Claire stayed unusually quiet.
“Dana, d’you have hairspray? Forgot mine.”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
Both were sure this fling wouldn’t last. Emily always fell fast, then cooled quicker—and her men were never serious.
“Girls, how’s my hair? I’m nervous.”
“Fine,” they chorused. Claire added, “Why the fuss? It’s not like he’s Prince Charming.”
Emily just smiled and ducked into the loo to fix her makeup.
“Honestly, how’d she reel one in?” Claire muttered. “Forty-six and still acts like a vicar’s daughter. Bet he’s just as dull.”
The doorbell rang. Dana sprang up, giggling. “Let’s see this Greg, then.”
“Hi,” came a warm voice. The man held three bouquets. The women froze.
Early fifties, tall, dark-haired with silver at the temples—handsome, with an easy smile.
“Ready?” he asked Emily, then handed flowers to each of them.
Dana’s jaw dropped. Claire was speechless.
“I’m Greg,” he said. They introduced themselves.
Claire nudged Dana aside. “Join us for a drink?”
“Next time,” he declined politely, still smiling. Dana thought, *Claire’s clinging like a limpet.* Aloud, she offered, “Fancy some juice?”
“Cheers.” He drank half, set the glass down, and slipped an arm around Emily. “Lovely meeting you both.” They left.
Stunned, the women stared at each other. Claire recovered first.
“No way a bloke like that’s serious about *her*. He’ll have his fun and bolt.”
Dana sighed. “God, he’s perfect. Where’d she find him?”
“Nowhere good,” Claire sniffed. “Watch—he’ll vanish after tonight.”
“Poor Em.”
“Don’t waste pity. She’s out having a laugh while we’re stuck here. Bottoms up.”
Weeks passed. Emily floated into work, glowing.
“Greg dropped me off,” she’d say, gushing about dinners, exhibitions, meeting his friends.
“His mates decent?” Dana asked.
“Married, but lovely.”
Three months in, Dana bumped into Greg after work.
“Evening.” He smiled. “You look smashing.”
“Ta. You?”
“Just left the office. Actually—fancy helping me pick something?” He nodded toward a jewellery shop.
Under the glass, rings glinted. Greg stopped at the emeralds.
“Like this one?”
“Gorgeous,” she mumbled, heart pounding. *Is this for me?*
“Sure? Maybe plainer?”
“No, it’s perfect.”
“Brilliant.” He beamed.
Dana lingered, hoping for a hint. *He’ll surprise me later.* She told no one.
Friday, Emily announced: “Greg’s invited us all for a surprise after work.”
Dana buzzed all day. *He’ll propose to ME.*
In the café, Greg strode in—suit, tie, flowers. Three pairs of eyes locked onto him.
“Emily,” he said softly, “your girls mean the world to you. So…” He dropped to one knee. “Marry me.”
Emily shrieked, flung her arms around him.
“Love it?” he asked, sliding the emerald onto her finger.
“It’s perfect!”
“Cheers to Dana—she helped me choose.” He smiled at her. “Sorry for putting you on the spot.”
“S’alright,” Dana forced out. “Be happy.”
Inside, she ached. *Pity he’s not mine. Dreamed up all sorts, didn’t I?*
