**A Date by Mistake**
I stepped out of the office building and took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, scented with fallen leaves. It was one of those rare September afternoons—golden and dry, with nights already chilly yet still warm enough to wear dresses and light cardigans during the day.
As I walked, I debated whether to pick up little Oliver from nursery first and then swing by Tesco or grab the groceries before collecting him. The toy aisle at Tesco was always a trap—Oliver would whine for some plastic trinket, and I didn’t have the pennies to spare before payday, not for something he’d forget in five minutes.
A glance at my watch decided it. If I hurried, I could dash home with the shopping and still make it to the nursery on time. Quickening my pace, I barely noticed the people around me, too busy mentally ticking off my list. *Don’t forget salt—why does it always run out without warning?* Two days ago, I’d gone shopping specifically for salt and left without it. Now it was a mantra: *Salt, carrots, milk, butter…*
“Annie! Annie Carter!”
The voice broke through my thoughts. I took another two steps before stopping and turning. A woman stood there, grinning.
“Don’t recognise me? And here I thought we swore we’d be friends forever,” she teased.
The mention of that childhood oath clicked. Before me wasn’t the scrawny, dark-haired girl I’d known but a polished, stylish woman—my old schoolmate, Caroline Shaw.
She’d transferred to our primary school in Year 3 and sat next to me. We were inseparable until graduation, even making that silly vow in Year 9. Life had pulled us apart. Guess nothing lasts forever—not friendship, certainly not love.
“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Caroline remarked, eyeing my tired expression and plain office wear. I felt shabby under her scrutiny.
“You seem to be doing well,” I deflected, eager to avoid pity.
“Can’t complain. Second marriage, no kids yet. You?”
The sadness in her voice made me drop the subject.
“Not married, but not alone. I’ve got a son,” I said, unable to keep the pride from my tone.
“Blimey, he must be finishing school by now, yeah? Or at uni?”
“Nursery, actually.”
Caroline blinked. “You’re joking. You were always the pretty one—thought you’d be the first to settle down. Most of our lot have grown kids, some even grandkids! Then again, you were always buried in books, too sensible for lads.”
The jab stung. She noticed and backpedalled.
“Oh, don’t sulk. You know me—mouth runs before my brain.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to fetch Oliver.” I moved to leave.
“Wait!” She fished out her phone. “Give me your number. We’ll catch up properly.”
I rattled it off just to escape, said a hasty goodbye, and hurried toward the nursery.
True to form, Caroline didn’t waste time. She rang the next day, suggesting Saturday at a posh café in Covent Garden.
“I’ll check if Mum can watch Oliver,” I said weakly.
*Brilliant. There goes my day off.* But I agreed—easier than arguing. We had nothing in common now anyway.
Saturday came. The café was all exposed brick and artisanal coffee, the kind of place I’d never set foot in since Oliver was born. I fidgeted, out of place until Caroline ordered wine. One glass loosened me; two had me laughing over old school gossip. She knew everything—who married whom, who’d moved to Australia, who was on their third divorce.
When the nostalgia dried up, she turned the conversation to me.
“Listen, my colleague’s got a son—our age, decent bloke. IT bloke, works from home, no bad habits. His mum’s desperate for grandkids. Fancy a blind date?”
“No thanks.” I set my glass down too hard. “Do I look like I’m gagging for a relationship? Even with some reject his own mother can’t palm off?”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve met him. Had his heart broken once—scared of getting it wrong again. Sound familiar?”
“His problem. I’m not some fixer-upper project.”
“Oliver needs a dad, Annie.”
“I’ve got a son. Don’t need another child.”
She backed off, topping up our glasses. “Suit yourself. But mark my words—a man’ll do you good. One date, that’s all. No one’s forcing you down the aisle.”
Against my better judgment, I caved.
The following Sunday, I dropped Oliver at Mum’s, dabbed on mascara, and dressed plainly—no illusions about seducing anyone. As I left, reality struck: *I don’t even know his name.*
Caroline was useless. “Matthew? John? Something biblical.”
“Christ, that narrows it down,” I muttered.
The café was nearly empty. Two single men sat at the bar—both in jeans and leather jackets. The nearer one caught my eye and smiled. I walked over.
He had a glass of red wine. Nerves hit; I could’ve used a drink. As if reading my mind, he signalled the waiter.
The wine was rich, smooth. I drained the glass. By the second, the room buzzed pleasantly. He watched, amused, as I prattled on—about Oliver, my parents, even Caroline’s meddling.
“I should warn you—I’m a package deal. Oliver’s five. If that’s a deal-breaker, say so.”
Silence. I stood, wobbled, and sat back down.
“Maybe I overdid it,” I mumbled.
“Fresh air,” he suggested, guiding me outside.
The cool breeze sobered me slightly. I babbled about music lessons, childhood promises—anything. At my doorstep, I declined to invite him up. “Not my style.”
Upstairs, I peeked out the window. No lingering Romeo below.
I scrubbed off my makeup and collapsed into bed, floating on wine and whimsy—until my phone rang.
“Where *are* you?” Caroline snapped.
“Home. You woke me.”
“You chickened out?”
“I went! Just got back.”
“And?”
“He was lovely. Handsome, listened—”
“Who exactly did you meet?”
Dread pooled in my stomach. *I never asked his name.*
Turns out, Matthew had waited an hour before storming off.
“Oh God. I—I talked some stranger’s ear off. What if he’s a conman? Should I change the locks?”
“You gave him your *number*? Annie Carter, you’re a bloody disaster.”
A week passed. No call. I’d almost convinced myself to forget him—then the phone rang.
“Anna? It’s Paul. From the café.”
“Paul?” My brain short-circuited. “Matthew’s brother?”
“Who? No, my mum’s name’s Theresa. Fancy another coffee?”
I agreed, stammering apologies for my drunken rambling.
“You were refreshing. Most women play games—you were just you.”
We met in Regent’s Park. To my surprise, Paul charmed Oliver instantly—carousel rides, ice cream, even winning him a stuffed toy at the shooting gallery.
So a mistaken date turned into something real. Funny how life works. We think we’re in control, but maybe there’s Someone up there nudging hearts together when they’re meant to beat as one.
