The Best Husband Is No Husband
Sarah 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 a year ago and moved to Edinburgh, rarely calling, and when she did, the conversations boiled down to, “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked if Sarah was fine. At forty-two, she was in the prime of her life, learning to breathe again. But what good was blooming if there was no one to witness it?
She could do anything—cook a roast so tender it melted in the mouth, pickle beetroots and onions so well the neighbours envied her. Her pantry was stacked with jars, like an exhibition of her solitude. “I can’t just wither away in this house, not looking like this!” she’d joke with her friends. They’d laugh and say, “Then don’t! There are plenty of men out there!”
One of them whispered, “Try that new matchmaking service. They say they find the perfect match. Fancy name, too—’The Best Husband.'”
Sarah scoffed. “Sounds ridiculous. Like shopping for a man—try him, return him if he doesn’t fit!” But then she remembered her forty-two years and the grandfather clock in the hall, its ticking as loud as eternity. 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, and you get them for a week. Keep him if you like him, return him if you don’t.”
“You’re joking,” Sarah smirked.
“Not at all! He lives with you. You’ll know right away if he’s the one. Saves time. No creeps—we vet them thoroughly.”
Against her better judgment, Sarah felt a spark of hope. She picked five candidates and paid the fee. The first was due that evening.
She dug out her emerald-green dress—”the colour of hope,” her mother used to say—and fastened the cubic zirconia earrings she kept in an old perfume box. Her pulse fluttered between excitement and dread.
*Ding-dong!* She peeked through the peephole. Roses. A massive bouquet. Her heart leapt. She opened the door. The man was as handsome as his photo, sharp in a suit, confidence in his smile. Dinner was ready—salad, roast beef, trifle…
He took a bite of the salad and frowned.
“A bit salty.”
The roast—
“Chewy.”
The wine—
“Is this plonk?”
Then he wandered around her flat, surveying it like an inspector.
“Bit shabby. The kitchen needs an upgrade.”
Sarah picked up the bouquet and handed it back.
“I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But there were four more to go.
The next evening, the second one arrived, reeking of lager.
“Celebrating already?” she asked carefully.
“Relax! Put on the telly, the match is on!”
“Watch it at home,” she said flatly, shutting the door behind him.
The third came two days later. No looker, in scuffed trainers and a faded jacket. Sarah nearly turned him away but decided to feed him—out of politeness.
He ate eagerly, praising every dish. When he tried her pickles, he gasped.
“Bloody brilliant! Never tasted better!”
The grandfather clock’s rasping caught his ear.
“What’s that racket?”
Soon, he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen minutes later, the clock ticked perfectly. Sarah watched him and thought, *This is it. Not handsome, but handy. Third time’s the charm.*
That night, she stepped out of the shower in her favourite rose-patterned nightie. He… was already asleep. In his clothes. Snoring like a lorry in winter.
She spent the night battling the noise—pillows, shoving, silent curses. Not a wink of sleep. By morning—
“So, should I move in tonight?”
“No. Sorry. You’re lovely… but no.”
The fourth was straight out of a bohemian daydream—bearded, guitar in hand, a free spirit. He lit a cigarette in her kitchen, flicking ash into her geranium.
“Just so you know—I love my freedom. No nagging, no ‘Where are you?’ And I love women.”
“And other women too?” Sarah clarified.
“Why not? A man’s got needs.”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours, her head pounding 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 smell. Just Sarah, her coffee, and sparrows outside.
“How nice it is to be alone…”
Then the phone rang.
“Sarah! It’s ‘The Best Husband.’ Your fifth candidate’s coming today—trust us, he’s the one!”
“Cancel it!” she barked into the receiver. “Delete my file! The best husband is no husband at all!”
Laughing with pure relief, she threw open the curtains, as bright as the dawn of her newfound freedom. Sometimes, the best love is the love you give yourself.
