Six years alonethats how long it had been since Emilys husband left her. Her daughter had married last year and moved to another city, leaving Emily by herself in their little terraced house in Brighton.
At forty-two, Emily was in her primewhat some might call a second youth. She was a brilliant homemaker, famous among friends for her pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. But lately, the rows of empty jars on her kitchen shelf just gathered dust.
Am I really going to waste away alone, looking this good? shed complain to her mates over tea. Theyd always say, Dont be daft! There are plenty of single blokes out there. One of them even suggested she try an agency called *The Perfect Gentleman*. Emily thought it sounded ridiculousdesperate, even. But then again, forty-two *was* a number that nagged at her. The antique grandfather clock in the hall ticked away, each chime a reminder of time slipping by.
So she went. A sweet woman with strawberry-blonde hair and round glasses greeted her. Weve got the best of the best here, she said, patting the seat beside her. Lets have a look at the database together.
Emily scanned the profiles. Theyre all handsome enough, she admitted. But how do you *know* if someones right for you?
Oh, weve got it all figured out, the woman replied. We offer a trial weekjust enough time to decide if hes the one. If not, we move on.
A *what*?
A gentleman, delivered to your doorstep for seven days! Listen, love, were not here for shy brides. This is business. No nutters, I promise.
Despite herself, Emily loved the idea. She picked five candidates, paid a modest fee, and hurried home. The first was due that very evening.
She put on an emerald-green dressthe colour of hopeand dug out her diamond earrings from the back of her jewellery box.
*Ding-dong!*
She peeked through the peephole. A bouquet of roses. She couldnt help a little gasp of delight. When she opened the door, there he stoodjust as dashing as his photo.
They sat for dinner. Emily had cooked everything: a starter, a roast, the works. She sneaked glances at him over the wine shed forgotten to pour until the last minute. To new beginnings, she said, raising her glass.
He sniffed it. Bit cheap, isnt it?
Her smile faltered.
Then came the roast. He frowned. Overdone. The potatoes? Dry. The pudding? Too sweet.
Afterwards, he wandered around her house, inspecting things like a prospective buyer. Emily, clutching the roses, finally said, I actually *hate* roses. Goodnight.
She cried a little that night. But there were four more to go.
The second man arrived reeking of whisky. Alright, love? he boomed. Got a telly? The match is onMan United versus Liverpool. Well chat after.
Watch it at home, Emily snapped.
More tears.
The third candidate was rough around the edges. Scruffy coat, muddy boots. She nearly turned him away, but he was so *grateful* for her cooking. Bloody hell! he exclaimed over her pickles. Best thing Ive ever tasted!
Then the grandfather clock chimed. His ears perked up. That needs fixing. Before she could stop him, hed climbed onto a stool and tinkered with it until it ticked perfectly.
Emily thought, *This is a sign.* He was kind, capableso what if his nails were dirty? She readied herself that night, even changed the sheets. But the moment she lay down*SNORE*. Not just a snore. A full-blown, window-rattling *symphony* of snores. She spent the night smothering herself with a pillow.
In the morning, he yawned. Right. When should I move my stuff in?
No, Emily said firmly.
The fourth was a rugged typelike hed walked out of an old adventure film. She even let him smoke in her kitchen.
Listen, love, he said, tapping ash into her orchid pot. Im a free spirit. Fishing trips, lads weekends. No nagging, yeah?
And women? she asked.
He grinned. Wheres the harm?
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains. Birds chirped. Emily stretched, realisingshe felt *good*. No one snoring, no one criticising her cooking. Just peace.
Then the phone rang. Emily! Its *The Perfect Gentleman*! Weve got one more candidatehes *perfect* for you!
Take me off your list! she laughed. The perfect gentleman is *no* gentleman at all!
And with that, she threw open the curtains and let the sun in.
