The Perfect Husband Is No Husband at All
Marina had long stopped believing in fairy tales. Six years had passed since her divorce—six endless winters, springs, summers, and autumns. Her daughter had married and moved to London a year ago, calling rarely, and when she did, the conversations barely stretched beyond, “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked if *Marina’s* life was fine. She was only forty-two—an age when a woman blooms, learns to breathe again. But what good was blooming if there was no one to see it?
She could do anything—cook meals that made mouths water, pickle cucumbers and tomatoes so well the neighbours sighed with envy. Her balcony was lined with jars of preserves, like an exhibition of her loneliness. “I can’t just rot away in these four walls, not when I’m still this beautiful!” she’d joke with her friends. They’d cluck their tongues and say, “Don’t rot! Go looking! There are plenty of men about!”
One of them whispered, “Try a matchmaking agency. They say they find *perfect* matches. It’s called something lovely—‘The Perfect Husband’.”
Marina scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Like shopping for a fridge—try it, return it if it doesn’t fit!” But then she remembered her forty-two years, and the *tick-tock* of her grandmother’s clock on the wall, louder than eternity. So she went.
A woman in a scarlet blazer and heart-shaped glasses greeted her.
“Everything’s done properly here,” she beamed. “We select candidates, you *borrow* one for a week. Keep him if you like, send him back if you don’t.”
“*Borrow*? Seriously?” Marina huffed.
“Oh yes! He *lives* with you. You’ll know right away if he’s the one. Saves time. No creeps—strict vetting.”
Against her better judgement, Marina’s heart leapt. They picked five. She paid. The first would arrive that very evening.
She pulled out her emerald dress—”the colour of hope,” her mum used to say. Slipped on cubic zirconia earrings from an old perfume box. Her pulse fluttered somewhere between excitement and dread.
*Ding-dong!* The doorbell. Marina peered through the peephole. Roses. A massive bouquet. Her breath hitched. She opened the door. The man was just as handsome as his photo, suited, confident, smiling. Dinner was ready—salads, roast beef, sponge cake…
He took a bite of salad and frowned. “Too salty.”
The beef—”Tough.”
The wine—”What *is* this swill?”
Then he stood, paced the flat, and with a critic’s eye, announced, “Bit shabby, this. Kitchen needs refitting.”
Marina picked up the roses and handed them back, cool as you please. “I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But four more remained.
The next evening, the second one arrived—reeking of lager.
“Celebrating already?” she asked carefully.
“Lighten up! Turn on the telly, the match is on!”
“Watch it at home,” she said flatly, shutting the door behind him.
Two days later, the third came. No oil painting, in scuffed trainers and a threadbare jacket. She nearly turned him away, but politeness won out. She fed him.
He ate like a starving man, praising every bite. When he tasted her chutney, he nearly shouted, “Bloody hell, this is *art*! Never had anything like it!”
Her grandmother’s clock chimed. “What’s that racket?”
Soon, he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen minutes later, the clock ticked smoothly. Marina watched, thinking, *This is it. My man. Not pretty—but clever with his hands. Third time’s the charm.*
That night, she stepped out of the shower in her best lace—only to find him *asleep*. Fully dressed. Snoring like a chainsaw.
She spent the night battling the noise—pillows over her head, shoving him, silent curses. Not a wink. By morning—
“So, should I move my stuff in tonight?”
“No. Sorry. You’re lovely… but no.”
The fourth looked like he’d stepped out of a film—beard, guitar, wild-eyed. Lit a fag in the kitchen, flicked ash into her potted fern.
“Listen, I’m a free spirit. Don’t call me fifty times a day, don’t ask where I am, when I’ll be back. And I *like* women.”
“As in—multiple?” Marina clarified.
“Course. I’m a *man*, aren’t I?”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for *hours*. Her head throbbed like a hangover. She felt drained. Didn’t even wash the dishes. Slept like the dead.
Morning came. Sunlight. Silence. No footsteps, no stranger’s voice, no foreign scent. Just Marina, a cuppa, and sparrows at the window.
“How *good* it is to be alone…”
Then the phone rang.
“Vanessa Whitmore here, ‘The Perfect Husband’ agency! Your *fifth* candidate arrives today—trust us, he’s *the one*!”
“Take me *off* your list!” she barked. “Delete my file! The *perfect* husband is *no husband at all*!”
And with a laugh—light, free, *true*—she threw open the curtains, as if welcoming the dawn of her own liberation.
