The Lonely Years: A Six-Year Trial Without the One She Loved.
Emily felt utterly exhausted. She had been alone for six long years since her husband left. Her daughter had married the year before and moved away to another town.
At just forty-two, Emily was in what many called the prime of a womans lifea second youth. She was an excellent homemaker, a skilled cook; her pickled cucumbers and tomatoes were legendary. But what was the point now? Rows of empty jars gathered dust on her balcony.
“Am I really going to waste away alone, looking like this?” Emily would sigh to her friends. They’d reassure her, “Of course not! Find yourself a man! There are plenty of single men out there.”
One of them suggested she try the agency *The Perfect Gentleman*. Emily thought it sounded absurd at first, even embarrassinggoing to an agency. But at forty-two, the number gnawed at her. The antique clock on the wall ticked away relentlessly, a reminder of time slipping through her fingers.
So, Emily went.
A pleasant woman with round, berry-tinted glasses greeted her. “We truly have the finest selection. Lets look through the database togethertake a seat!”
“They all look lovely,” Emily smiled faintly. “But how do you really know if someone is right for you?”
“Everythings been thought of,” the woman assured her. “We offer a trial weekenough time to decide if hes the one. If not, we move on to the next candidate.”
“A trial week?”
“Thats right. He lives with you for seven days. Listen, were not here to tiptoe aroundthis is business. No oddballs or unstable types here.”
Emily found herself intrigued. She and the berry-eyed woman picked five candidates. After paying a modest fee, Emily hurried home. The first was due to arrive that very evening.
She slipped into an emerald-green dressthe colour of hopeand put on the diamond earrings she rarely wore.
*Ding-dong.*
She peeked through the peephole and saw roses. A quiet thrill ran through her. She opened the door to an elegant man, just as his photo had promised.
They sat at the table, where Emily had laid out a feast. She placed the roses in the centre and stole glances at her charming guest, thinking, *This is it. No need for the others. Him.*
They started with the salads. The would-be gentleman frowned. “A bit too much vinegar, dont you think?” Emily forced a smile and served the roast. He took a bite. “Tough” He didnt care for the rest either. In her nervousness, Emily forgot the wine shed carefully chosen. She poured a glass.
“To new beginnings!”
He sniffed it, took a sip, and grimaced. “Cheap stuff.” He stood. “Well, lets see how you live.”
Emily picked up the roses and handed them back. “I dont actually like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But four more meetings awaited.
The second man arrived the next evening, striding in confidently. “Evening!” The sharp scent of whisky clung to him.
“Have you told anyone about this arrangement?” Emily asked.
He grinned. “Oh, come off it. Tell me youve got a tellymatch is starting soon. Arsenal against Liverpool. Well talk after.”
Emily stiffened. “You can watch it at home.”
She cried again that night.
Two days later, the third candidate arrivednot handsome, wearing a shabby coat, nails unkempt, shoes mud-splattered. Emily considered sending him away politely but decided to feed him first.
He ate hungrily, praising her cooking between bites. She blushed. Then she brought out the pickles.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “This is the best thing Ive ever tasted!”
Then the clock chimed. His ears perked up. “Whats that sound?” He strode to the living room, climbed onto a stool, and examined the old timepiece. “Ill fix that in no time. Got any tools?”
Soon, the clock ticked clean and strong. Emily was moved by the gentle sound. She took it as a sign. This unpolished man was meant to be hers. So what if his shoes were dirty? He was kind, skilled. And he was the third candidatea lucky number.
She prepared for the night, visiting the salon, laying out luxurious rose-patterned sheets (she did love them, after all). When she stepped out of the bath, he was already asleepstill dressed. She watched him fondly. “Poor thing, worn out.” She slipped under the covers beside him.
Then the nightmare began. He snoredloudly, masterfully, relentlessly. She muffled herself with a pillow, then him, even flipped him onto his side. Nothing worked. She endured the torture until dawn.
In the morning, he ambled into the kitchen where a frazzled Emily sat. “So? When should I bring my things over?”
She shook her head. “No Im sorry. Youre lovely, butno.”
The fourth, a rugged, bearded type, reminded her of an old adventure film hero. She even let him smoke in the kitchen. He exhaled deeply. “Emily, lets be clearIm a free man. Love fishing, weekends with the lads. And I wont be answering any Where are you? calls. Understood?”
She watched him tap ash into her orchid pot. “Do you see other women too?”
He smirked. “Why not? Freedoms freedom. Perfectly normal.”
After he left, she aired out the kitchen for hours. Her head pounded. She felt drained, lifeless. She didnt even bother washing the dishes.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains. Sparrows chirped outside. For the first time in days, Emily felt at peace. A Saturday. No rush, no interruptions, no snoring or complaints. The dishes? Shed wash them when she pleased.
Then the phone rang.
“Emily! Its *The Perfect Gentleman* agency. Youve got one more candidate todayremember? Hes absolutely wonderful, the one youve been waiting for!”
Emily nearly shouted into the receiver. “Take me off your list! Delete my file! I dont want anyone! The perfect man is no man at all!”
And with a laugh, she pulled the curtains wide open.
