The Lone Woman with Baggage
Lucy raised her son alone. Her husband had left her more than ten years ago. All this time, he’d dutifully paid child support, clear in his conscience and the eyes of the law—or so he insisted.
He’d walked out, taking his belongings and car, leaving Lucy with an unpaid mortgage on their flat and their son. In all those years, he’d never once visited, never sent a birthday card or gift.
“Probably found some other fool to court, just like you,” her mother sighed. “He’ll keep running from responsibility till his luck runs out. You should’ve never taken that mortgage. Now you’ll be paying it off for life.” Never mind that it was her parents who’d urged her to sign it in the first place.
So Lucy lived paycheck to paycheck, working two jobs, raising her boy. Thank God, Alfie was a good lad, never gave her much trouble.
After her second shift, drained and numb, she’d stop at the supermarket and trudge home, longing to drop the heavy bags, kick off her shoes, sink into a chair, and shut her weary eyes. She felt like one of those carousel horses—decked out in ribbons and glitter, trotting in endless circles, carrying laughing children while the world moved on without her.
She wore practical, nondescript clothes from the discount shops, saving her few nicer things for rare occasions that never came. By the time she wore them, they were out of style.
As she walked, she wondered what to make for dinner, whether Alfie was home… Her oversized handbag sagged from her shoulder, and she clutched a grocery bag in her other hand. If her son was in, she’d rest for five minutes before boiling pasta and heating sausages.
She used to be so different—thick hair, bright eyes, a figure that still turned heads. Like any girl, she’d dreamed of love, and it had found her in Max. How could she not fall for that charming man? He’d promised forever, swore they’d own a flashy Jaguar or, at the very least, a BMW. Two kids, he’d said.
He got the car. Drove it straight into his new life, leaving Lucy with the flat, the mortgage, and their son.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the pavement. One misstep and she’d twist an ankle or splash into a puddle. The roads here were a disgrace. And dodging speeding cars that sprayed filthy water? A daily hazard.
“Lucy!” A sleek, stylish woman blocked her path.
It took Lucy a moment to recognise Sophie, her old schoolmate. Never the prettiest, now she looked fresh off a magazine cover. Lucy suddenly felt dowdy in her worn-out coat.
“I’m so glad I ran into you! I’m visiting Mum, but hardly anyone’s left around here. Lucy! How’ve you been?”
*How do you think?* Lucy thought, but said, “Fine. Managing.”
“Married?”
“Divorced. Just me and my boy. You?”
Sophie shut her eyes dreamily. “I married a Spaniard. Live in Barcelona now. Just here for a week. Listen, we must catch up! Fancy a coffee? Or invite me over—where do you live?”
“Just… nearby. Come on, but the place is a mess. Haven’t even washed last night’s dishes.”
“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
Lucy opened her front door and called out, “Alfie, you in? We’ve got company.”
A lanky teen appeared.
“Wow! This your son? Proper handsome,” Sophie cooed. “What year are you in? Any uni plans?”
“Not sure yet. Mum, I did the washing up. Got homework.” He vanished into his room.
“Blimey, so independent!” Sophie sounded almost envious.
“Got kids yourself?” Pride swelled in Lucy’s chest.
“No. My husband’s older. Grown kids already—no nappies or bottles for him.”
Lucy threw together dinner while Sophie gushed about Spain.
“So… why’d you split? He a drinker?” Sophie finally asked.
“No. It was fine till Alfie came along. Then… he never slept. I was on maternity leave, we had the mortgage, car payments… Max said he was done. Just drove off in his BMW.”
“What a git!” Sophie hissed. “Ditched you with a kid and a mortgage!”
Lucy didn’t explain how hard it had truly been. Her parents had helped, or she’d have lost the flat.
“Don’t worry, love. Your bad luck’s over. Plenty of single blokes back home—not spring chickens, but keen to settle with a proper English rose. They adore our grit. You know the type—stop a train with your bare hands, march into burning buildings, raise kids solo. My husband’s got loads of mates. I’ll find you a rich one when I fly back.”
“Who’d want me? I’ve got baggage. SKM.”
“What’s that? Some rebel slang?”
“Single Kid Mum. Soon as men hear ‘kid,’ they scarper.”
“Rubbish! Better an SKM than a DDB.”
“What’s that?”
“Deadbeat Dad. Should brand the lot of ’em.”
“Spanish men don’t walk out?”
“Some do. Blokes are the same everywhere. But your lad’s nearly grown. You’re perfect. I’ll sort you out when I’m back. Got Skype? Brilliant. Let’s toast your fresh start!”
Lucy dug out a half-finished wine bottle from her birthday.
“Just… spruce yourself up first. New hair, better clothes,” Sophie advised.
Too ashamed to admit she couldn’t afford it, Lucy nodded.
Sophie left. Lucy waited. She imagined quitting her jobs, moving abroad—everyone green with envy. A big house, a doting husband. Alfie at a top uni…
She even smiled more. Took Sophie’s advice—chopped her hair, bought two dresses and heels. Went into debt, but it’d pay off.
“Invest in yourself, darling. Men like polished women,” Sophie had said.
Lucy tried. Weeks passed. No word. Then, out of the blue, Sophie called.
“Found your man! Not a looker, mid-fifties. But he owns a shop. Dress up tomorrow—Skype at seven. You didn’t learn Spanish, did you? Thought not. I’ll translate.”
“You marrying some Spaniard now?” Alfie asked from the doorway.
“Dunno. You mind?”
“I’m good here. That Sophie’s filling your head with nonsense. We eating tonight?”
The next day, Lucy fidgeted. What if he hated her? She curled her hair, squeezed into the new dress, and perched before Alfie’s laptop, banishing him to his tablet.
No call. She almost changed into her dressing gown when—*ping!*
She forced a smile and clicked. A bald seventy-year-old filled the screen. Sophie popped up beside him.
Lucy had memorised a Spanish greeting and chirped it out. The man beamed and babbled.
“He fancies you!” Sophie translated. “Says you’re beautiful. That’s José. Say his name often—he’ll lap it up.”
They “chatted.” José vanished.
“He wants to visit,” Sophie said.
“Here? I thought I’d go there,” Lucy said, disappointed.
“Your passport’s expired, isn’t it? Takes ages. He’s keen—just a quick trip. Well? Do you fancy him?”
“You said fifties. He’s seventy!”
“And? Want Spain or not?”
“Fine. Yes.”
Lucy prepped frantically. Blew her last quid on fancy snacks. Alfie peered into the fridge.
“Hope your Spaniard visits often. Least I’ll eat proper.”
A week later, Lucy met José at Heathrow. She’d sent Alfie to her mum’s, sworn him to secrecy.
They muddled through in broken English and gestures. She panicked he’d invite himself over, but he booked a hotel. Over dinner, she refused to go upstairs.
“Tomorrow,” she promised.
All the way home, she plotted escape routes.
No luck. José was pushy. Lucy drank too much wine to numb the dread. In his room, she locked herself in the loo. When she emerged, he was snoring. She scribbled a note—*Thanks for a lovely night*—and fled in a taxi.
Next day, José flew home. Alfie returned, and they feasted.
A week later, Sophie called.
“Total disaster! José met some twenty-five-year-old on the plane—now he’s besotted. Don’t worry, I’ve got another—”
“Soph, stop. I’m done.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
They hung up, mutually annoyed. Sophie never rang again.
Next day, Lucy wore the new dress and heels to work. Why waste them?
By evening, her feet were bloody. She slumped on a bench, yanked off the shoes, and cursed herself. No way she could walkShe’d barely started limping home when a voice called out, “Need a hand?”—and for the first time in years, she let herself believe this might be the start of something real.
