Claire had long stopped believing in miracles. Six years had passed since the divorce—six endless winters, springs, summers, and autumns. Her daughter had married a year ago and moved to Edinburgh, calling rarely, and even then, the conversations never went beyond “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked about Claire’s version of “fine.” She was only forty-two—an age when a woman ought to bloom, relearn how to breathe. But what good was blooming if there was no one to witness it?
She could do everything—cook delicious meals, make jams and pickles so good her neighbours drooled. Her pantry was crammed with jars, a museum of her solitude. “I’m too pretty to rot behind these four walls,” she joked to her friends. They’d laugh and say, “Don’t rot, then! Look around—plenty of men out there!”
Then someone whispered, “Try a matchmaking agency. They say they pair you with the perfect match. It’s called ‘The Ideal Husband.’”
Claire scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Like picking a pair of shoes—try them on, return them if they pinch!” But then she remembered her forty-two years and the relentless ticking of her grandmother’s antique clock on the wall. So she went.
A woman in a scarlet blazer and heart-shaped glasses greeted her.
“We take this very seriously,” she beamed. “We select candidates, loan them for a week. Keep him if you like, return him if you don’t.”
“Loan him?” Claire smirked.
“Exactly! He’ll live with you. You’ll know straight away if he’s the one. Saves time. No psychopaths—strict checks.”
Against her better judgment, Claire felt a spark of hope. They picked five. She paid. The first man was due that evening.
She pulled out her emerald-green dress—”the colour of hope,” her mother used to say. Dangling earrings, saved in an old perfume box, caught the light. Her pulse fluttered somewhere between excitement and dread.
Ding-dong! The doorbell rang. Claire peeked through the peephole. Roses. A massive bouquet. Her heart leaped. She opened the door to a man as handsome as in his photo, immaculate in a suit, flashing a confident smile. Dinner was ready—salads, roast beef, chocolate cake.
He took a bite of the salad and winced. “Bit salty.”
The roast—”Too tough.”
The wine—”Is this cheap plonk?”
Then he stood, strolled around the flat, and eyed it like a critic. “Bit basic. The kitchen needs ripping out.”
Claire handed him the bouquet. “I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But four more remained.
The next evening, the second man arrived reeking of whiskey.
“Celebrating already?” she asked carefully.
“Lighten up! Turn on the telly, the match is on!”
“Watch it at home,” she said coolly, shutting the door behind him.
Two days later, the third man showed up—no Adonis, in scuffed shoes and a faded jacket. She almost sent him packing but decided to feed him out of politeness.
He ate like a man starved, praising every bite. When he tried her strawberry jam, he gasped. “This is art! Never tasted anything like it!”
Her grandmother’s clock chimed, its gears grinding.
“What’s that racket?”
Soon, he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen minutes later, the clock ticked perfectly. Claire watched, thinking, This is it. My match. Not a looker—but clever hands. Third time’s the charm.
That night, she stepped out of the bathroom in her best silk robe. He was already asleep. Fully dressed. Snoring like a freight train.
She battled the noise all night—shoving pillows, flipping him over, silent curses. Not a wink of sleep. At dawn—
“So, should I bring my things tonight?”
“No. Sorry. You’re lovely… but no.”
The fourth was straight out of a bohemian drama—bearded, guitar slung over his shoulder, a rebellious glint in his eye. He lit a cigarette in her kitchen, ash drifting into her potted fern.
“Just so we’re clear—I love my freedom. No calls, no questions, no clinginess. Oh, and I love women.”
“All of them, I take it?” Claire clarified.
“Damn right. I’m a man, aren’t I?”
After he left, she aired out the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed like a hangover. Life felt drained from her. She left the dishes. Slept like the dead.
Morning brought sunlight. Silence. No footsteps, no voices, no foreign scent.
Just Claire, her coffee, and sparrows chirping outside. “God, it’s good to be alone—”
The phone rang.
“Claire Bennett? This is The Ideal Husband. Your fifth match arrives today. Trust us, he’s the one!”
“Cancel it!” she shouted. “Delete my file! The best husband is no husband at all!”
And with a laugh of pure, weightless joy, she flung open the curtains—as if greeting the first dawn of her true freedom.
