Unexpectedly Married
Margaret hurried through the shopping centre, arms laden with bags, weaving past shoppers on the escalator. She cursed under her breath at her impractical boyfriend, John, who hadn’t even bothered to fetch her in a car, forcing her to order a cab through the app. Of course, the driver arrived far too quickly. Now she was sprinting in heels across the bustling mall to the car park, her expensive leather shoes rubbing blisters into her feet.
“Watch where you’re going!” snapped an older woman as Margaret accidentally bumped her with a bag.
“Perhaps you should pay attention instead of daydreaming!” Margaret shot back without a glance.
“Rude!” the woman spat, but Margaret couldn’t care less.
Breathless, she finally burst through the doors, only to check her phone and find the driver had cancelled. The fare had nearly doubled. Furious, she cancelled the booking, shoved her phone away, and spotted an empty bench. She dumped her bags and flopped down, peeling off the offending shoe with a groan.
“Bloody hell, everything’s against me today!” she muttered, shoving a shopping bag aside. It slumped onto the bench, its receipt fluttering to the ground.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Lately, it felt as if the world conspired to spite her.
***
Margaret had always aimed high, never settling for less. The latest phone, the finest salons, the most luxurious shoes—she demanded the best. The same standards applied to her suitors, yet luck had eluded her. Instead of handsome, wealthy, intelligent men, she found only misfits—balding, dull, lazy, or broke. She’d sifted through them all, but none met her expectations.
“You’ll end up alone at this rate,” her mother often warned. “A man’s worth is in his actions, not his looks or wallet.”
“And am I supposed to admire his actions in the dark?” Margaret retorted. “Besides, grand gestures require grand funds.”
Her mother sighed. At twenty-five, Margaret had a sharp tongue, always armed with a comeback. One might think she’d trained in wit, though she was merely a restaurant hostess. It was there, three years prior, that envy took root—watching wealthy men escort glamorous women in furs. “Why not me?” she’d thought.
Yet life had other plans. Rich suitors never glanced her way. Somehow, they always saw through her—a provincial girl from an ordinary family, clutching middle-class dreams. She yearned for a man of status, tailored suits, foreign holidays, and a luxury car.
Time passed, men came and went, but her ideal never appeared. Then along came John—a bank clerk, four years older, with a modest salary and a mortgaged flat. Plain-looking, neither athletic nor flabby, he lacked only a car, deeming it unnecessary in a city with decent transport.
Persistent and kind, he wooed her for months—flowers at work, dinner dates. Under her mother’s pressure, Margaret relented.
“He adores you, treats you like a queen. A bird in the hand, love,” her mother insisted.
Grudgingly, Margaret agreed. Life with John wasn’t unbearable—he was attentive, took her on holidays (though not five-star), cooked, brought her coffee in bed, and funded her shopping sprees. He even spoke of marriage.
A year slipped by. Margaret adapted but never stopped dreaming. To her friends, she complained endlessly about John’s inadequacies—though, truthfully, she had little to fault.
***
“Why would anyone be against you? Certainly not me,” a voice murmured near her ear.
Margaret jolted, turning to see Andrew behind her. Years ago, in college, he’d pursued her, only to be publicly rejected.
At first, she barely recognised him. Gone was the scrawny, pimpled student—before her stood a confident, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket, his dark hair stylishly cut.
“Blimey, you’ve changed,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Long time,” he agreed. “You look like you’ve had a rough day.”
She vented about her ordeal (omitting John, of course).
“Let me drive you home,” he offered, nodding to a gleaming black SUV nearby.
Within minutes, he helped her inside, stowing her bags with care. As they drove, conversation flowed.
“So, what’s your secret?” she purred.
“Luck and the right connections,” he chuckled. “But I’ll share more over coffee. There’s a lovely place nearby.”
Margaret’s mind raced. This wasn’t the awkward boy she’d scorned—this was a wealthy, self-assured man showing her interest.
“I’d love that,” she said sweetly.
Over tea, Andrew revealed he’d dropped out, trained as a programmer, and now ran his own IT firm. Margaret listened, enthralled.
“And you? Married yet?” he asked casually.
“Oh, no!” she lied, pushing thoughts of John aside.
Andrew spoke of projects, European holidays, expensive hobbies. Margaret melted—this was the man she’d dreamed of.
Afterward, he paid, then suggested a film. She agreed, eager to prolong their time. They strolled, laughed, and when the evening chilled, he kissed her in the car. Margaret surrendered, dizzy with desire.
“That was magical,” she breathed later. “When will I see you again?”
“I’ll call,” he said, dropping her home.
The next day, she dumped John, declaring she’d found someone better. He didn’t beg, only asked, “If your mind’s made up, what can I do?”
“Nothing,” she snapped, packing. “You’ll never be enough.”
Back at her mother’s, she brimmed with plans. Three days passed. A week. Andrew never called.
When she dialled, the line rang out. Online, she found his profile—photos of a wife, two toddlers, family holidays.
“But… he said he was single!” she stammered.
She called again.
“Margaret, stop calling,” he hissed. “We had fun. That’s all.”
“I’ll tell your wife!” she spat.
“Do it. Where’s your proof?”
Slamming the phone down, she wept. Andrew had used her. Returning to John was impossible—he’d never forgive this.
Her dreams of glamour had left her with nothing but shame. Life had dealt her a bitter, humiliating blow.
