“But He’s Real”
“Emily, how can you raise a girl like that?” Margaret would often scold her sister. “She’s a girl, not a lad!”
Emily and Margaret were sisters, both long married with children of their own. Emily had a daughter, Alice, and a son, while Margaret had only her precious little girl, Charlotte.
The sisters met often, usually with Margaret and Charlotte visiting Emily’s home—a charming house in the countryside with a well-kept garden where they could sit in the arbour while the children played. Margaret lived in a flat in town and secretly believed her Charlotte was far cleverer, prettier, and more talented than Alice, despite the girls being only a year apart, with Alice the elder.
“Emily, your Alice is up that tree again—what on earth is the matter with her?” Margaret would fret, trying to influence her sister’s parenting.
“What’s wrong with that?” Emily would reply, bemused. “She’s a child; she ought to explore.”
“But not climbing trees! That’s for boys, not girls,” Margaret would argue, though Emily only ever smiled in response.
The girls got on well enough, though Charlotte might have longed to play as freely as Alice—to climb, to run without restraint. But her mother watched her closely. Such things were forbidden.
Alice never envied her cousin, even though Margaret was certain she should. As a child and later in school, Alice didn’t care. She lived her own life—quick, spirited, always busy. She was a tomboy through and through, keeping up with the boys in every way: climbing trees, scrapping when necessary, defending herself and her little brother, even sneaking over fences to pinch apples from orchards. Dolls bored her; ribbons and frilly dresses held no appeal. She’d rather be in her father’s shed, sorting spanners and bolts, tidying up his tools—though he’d grumble, “Love, I’ll never find a thing after your tidying! Just hand me that fourteen-millimetre spanner,” and she’d pass it to him at once, proud when he praised her.
Charlotte was Alice’s opposite—dressed like a doll in pretty frocks, white socks with tassels, enormous hair bows. Alice found her cousin’s clothes ridiculous, all lace and fuss. And always, always, came Margaret’s shrieks:
“Charlotte, don’t go near the sandpit, you’ll soil your socks! Don’t stand by the door, there’s a draught! Don’t touch those toys, they’re filthy! Why on earth would you pick up a dirty apple? It’s covered in germs!” The word “don’t” seemed her favourite.
Alice couldn’t fathom it and disliked her aunt for this very reason. Too many rules made Charlotte dull company—no fun in the garden, and never allowed beyond the gate.
“Where do you think you’re going, Charlotte? There are filthy dogs and cats out there, rough boys who might tease you. Let Alice go—you stay here with us.”
Alice pitied her cousin. “Aunt Margaret, let Charlotte come. No one will hurt her,” she’d argue, but Margaret would fix her with a stern look.
“No. Charlotte isn’t stepping a foot beyond this garden.”
At school, Alice took up athletics, played for the netball team, and later even tried her hand at boxing. Margaret was horrified.
“Is this how girls ought to be raised?” she’d demand of Emily.
“Let her do as she likes. She’ll carve her own path,” Emily would retort, ever her daughter’s defender.
Meanwhile, Margaret enrolled Charlotte in piano lessons and ballroom dancing, then later an art class—though Charlotte had no knack for it and quit before long.
At university, Alice met William at the boxing club. He wasn’t classically handsome but had a pleasant face.
“Hello,” he said, grinning. “I’ve been watching you—you’re brilliant. I’m William. And you’re Alice. I’ve asked about you.” His easy laugh won her over, and she found herself smiling back. It felt as though they’d known each other for years.
“Hello. I don’t think I’ve seen you at uni?”
“I’m not at yours. I’m a mechanic, studying engineering part-time.”
They grew close quickly, training together, walking in the park, catching films. Shared interests bound them.
“Mum, Dad, I’m bringing William over tomorrow. He’s already introduced me to his mother. Now it’s your turn,” Alice announced one evening.
“Very well,” they agreed.
William got on famously with her parents, especially her father. They spoke of cars, engines, tools—her father delighted to find William a fellow gearhead.
Time passed. By Alice’s second year, she had news.
“Mum, Dad, William and I are moving in together.”
Emily frowned. “Darling, it’s too soon. You should be focused on your studies—”
But to her surprise, Alice’s father supported the idea. He liked William. When they visited, the two men would vanish into the shed, tinkering with the old Rover, bonding over football matches.
When Margaret found out, she was scandalised.
“Emily! How could you let Alice live with a man unwed? It’s unthinkable!”
“What’s the harm?” Emily replied, unbothered.
A year later, however, Charlotte did the same—moving in with Edward, an older man finishing his second degree. Handsome, clever, from a well-off family. Margaret bragged endlessly about her future son-in-law, never once condemning their living arrangement.
“Charlotte’s found such a man! Handsome, brilliant, cultured—always so complimentary!”
Soon came Charlotte’s birthday party, to which Alice and William were invited. Alice dreaded it, certain she’d endure hours of Margaret singing Edward’s praises—but refusal might cause offence.
Edward was exactly as described—charming, witty, the perfect conversationalist.
“He really is something,” Alice admitted privately, and for the first time, she felt a pang of envy.
Charlotte had prepared beautifully—fine food, expensive wine, elegant tableware. Edward was gallant, lavishing compliments on Margaret, Charlotte, even Alice, refilling glasses, spinning tales.
“Charlotte’s lucky,” Alice mused, glancing at William, who sat quietly, ill at ease.
But after an hour, Alice’s head ached from Edward’s ceaseless chatter. He grew louder with wine, his polished façade slipping.
“Good Lord, he’ll talk my ear off,” she thought.
Margaret soon excused herself. “You youngsters carry on—I’ll be off.”
Later, Alice’s opinion of Edward shifted entirely.
“Ugh, he’s like a gossiping old woman—all empty noise. I couldn’t bear this daily.” She looked at William, quiet, steady, and felt a swell of fondness.
Soon, Edward staggered from the table, lumbered to the bedroom, and bellowed, “Charlotte! Fetch me water—I’m parched!”
“You shouldn’t have drunk so much,” Charlotte snapped.
“Shut it, you nag,” he slurred.
Charlotte huffed but brought the water, neither seeming embarrassed by the display. William looked stunned. Alice stood to leave just as Edward lurched back, dishevelled, chugging a beer before stumbling to the loo.
“Charming,” Alice thought dryly, exchanging a glance with William.
At Edward’s own birthday, the pattern repeated—charming at first, then drunk, rude, asleep by evening.
“Handsome, eloquent,” Alice mused sarcastically. “Thank heavens he’s not mine. My William’s worth ten of him.”
Plain, unpolished, but real—no veneer to peel away. Hers.
She and William married soon after, expecting a son. Charlotte and Edward, however, split. Her “perfect” man wasn’t so perfect after all.
