Six years of solitudethats how long it had been since Margarets husband left her. Her daughter had married a year ago and moved to Manchester, leaving Margaret alone in her little terraced house in Brighton.
At forty-two, she was still youngwhat some might call her second spring. She was a brilliant homemaker, famed among friends for her pickled cucumbers and tomatoes. But these days, rows of empty jars gathered dust on her kitchen shelf. “Am I really going to waste away like this, all by myself?” shed sigh to her mates. Theyd always chirp back, “Dont be daft! Plenty of decent blokes out there!”
One friend suggested she try an agency called *The Best Man*. The idea made Margaret cringewasnt that a bit desperate? But then again, forty-two nagged at her like an old clock ticking too loudly in the hall. So she went.
A cheerful woman with strawberry-blonde hair and round glasses greeted her. “Weve got the finest selection,” she said, patting the chair beside her. “Lets have a look, shall we?”
Margaret scanned the profiles. “Theyre all handsome enough, but how do you really *know* if someones right?”
The woman grinned. “Simple. We give you a week togetherenough time to decide if hes a keeper or not.”
“A *week*?”
“Thats right. He moves in. No messing aboutwere all adults here. And dont worry, we screen out the nutters.”
Margaret left with five candidates in hand, paid a modest fee, and hurried home. The first was due that evening. She slipped into an emerald-green dress”hopes colour,” she thoughtand dug out her diamond earrings, saved for rare occasions.
*Ding-dong*.
She peeked through the peephole. Roses. A whole bouquet. Her heart fluttered. She opened the door to a man just as polished as his phototall, besuited, charming.
Over dinner (roast beef, her famous Yorkshire puddings), he took a bite of salad and winced. “Bit too much vinegar, isnt it?” The beef? “Chewy.” The wine shed carefully picked? “Tastes like plonk.” He stood, inspecting her flat like an estate agent. “Lets see what else youve got.”
Margaret grabbed the roses, thrust them back at him. “I actually *hate* roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she criedbut there were four more to go.
The next candidate smelled like a pub at closing time. “Alright, love?” he slurred. “Got a telly? Match is onLiverpool versus Arsenal. Well chat after.”
Margaret pointed to the door. “Watch it at *your* place.”
More tears.
Number three arrived in a scruffy coat, mud on his boots, nails in need of a trim. She nearly turned him awayuntil he tried her pickles. “Blimey!” he gasped. “These are *incredible*!”
Then the old clock in the hall chimed, groggy and off-beat. His ears perked up. “That needs fixing.” Before she could protest, hed fetched her toolkit and had it ticking perfectly. Margaret nearly wept at the sweet, clear sound. *A sign*, she thought.
That night, she laid out her finest linen, lit candles. But when she tiptoed to bed, he was already snoring*loudly*. She stuffed pillows over her ears, nudged him onto his sidenothing worked. By dawn, she was a wreck.
“Right,” he said over breakfast. “When should I move my things in?”
She shook her head. “Youre lovely, but no.”
Number four was a rugged type, like something out of an old adventure film. He lit a cigarette right at her kitchen table. “Heres the deal, love,” he said, ash dropping into her potted fern. “Im a free spirit. Fishing trips, lads weekendsno nagging, yeah?”
Margaret watched the ash pile up. “And other women?”
He winked. “Course. Freedom, innit?”
After he left, she aired out the kitchen for hours.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains. Birds chirped. Margaret stretched, realisingshe felt *good*. No rushing, no noise, no one to clean up after. Just peace.
Then the phone rang. “Margaret! *Best Man* agency! Your final candidates *perfect*guaranteed match!”
She nearly laughed into the receiver. “Take me off your list. The best man is *no* man!”
And with that, she threw open the curtains and let the sunshine in.
