Millie smoothed her dress over her hips before the mirror, dabbed rosy lipstick onto her lips, then fluffed a stubborn curl. She took a step back and gave herself a critical once-over. “Not bad,” she murmured, pleased with her reflection.
Her husband appeared in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.
“Blimey! Where’re you off to, all dolled up like that?”
“Work. Jealous, are you?” Millie widened her already-large, neatly-lined eyes.
“Course I am. Fancy a lift? The Tube’ll crush that outfit to bits,” offered James.
“Stay home. What good are you with that plaster cast?” Millie zipped up her quilted coat, adjusted her scarf snugly under her chin, and grabbed her gloves.
“Right, I’m off.” She paused at the door. “Oh, nearly forgot. I’ll be late. Emily’s getting married. Sort of a hen do at the café. Don’t fuss.”
“Hold on—let me pick you up later,” James pushed off the doorframe, but Millie shook her head.
“Don’t bother.” She blew him a playful kiss and slipped out.
James wandered to the window, watching as Millie hurried across the courtyard below.
“Told her a hundred times to get her license,” he muttered. “Could be driving to work instead of cramming into that ruddy train.”
The café buzzed with chatter and laughter. Six women huddled at pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and swapping stories of wedding-day mishaps, their laughter ringing over the music. Then a waiter appeared, setting an expensive bottle of wine before Millie.
“Compliments of the gentleman over there. Shall I open it?”
Millie turned. The man nodded, flashing a charming smile. Her heart skipped, her face flushed, and her smile vanished like frost under morning sun—swift and irreversible.
She knew him. How could she forget? Paul had been the handsomest bloke at uni, a senior with girls swooning in his wake. Before summer exams, she’d failed a quiz. Sitting on the iron staircase between floors, she’d sobbed—two days till her first exam, and without that mark, she wouldn’t even sit it.
“Why the tears? Flunked?”
She looked up. Paul. Talking to *her*—while she sat there, mascara-streaked, nose red.
“Didn’t pass the quiz,” she sniffed.
“Hardly the end of the world. You’re just smudging your makeup.”
She gasped, fumbling for her compact. He handed her a handkerchief.
“Ninny, save the waterworks for the lecturer. Thought all girls knew how to turn on the waterworks. Go on—say you studied all night, brain’s fried.”
“D’you reckon that’ll work?”
“Won’t know till you try. Go.” He nudged her up the steps, their clang echoing as she raced to the lecture hall.
When she emerged, grinning, Paul waited.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
He walked her home, chatting all the way. She barely heard a word, dizzy with one thought: *He’s here. With me.* She caught women eyeing him and swelled with pride.
After exams, they dated briefly—cinema trips, beach walks. She knew his reputation, but her heart ignored reason. Then he vanished. No address, no way to find him. She ached, convinced he’d return—until she missed her period.
“Flying high one minute, moping the next. You ill?” her mum asked.
“Just a chill, I think,” Millie lied, coughing for effect.
“See a doctor, don’t brush it off.”
“I will.”
Next day, she went private, terrified of bumping into someone she knew. The test was positive.
“Mum’ll kill me… I’ve years left at uni… And he’s *gone*…” She burst into tears right there.
The doctor took pity. Early days—could be sorted, but it’d cost. At home, Millie spun a tale of pricey meds and bad test results. Her mother, unsuspecting, handed over the cash.
Two days of cramping, sharp as wire twisting in her gut. She bore it silently, lest her mum suspect.
Come September, she returned to lectures desperate to see Paul. But he strode past with a pretty fresher, pretending not to know her. The girls rubbed salt in the wound: *Paul’s getting married—finally putting hearts to rest.* Millie bit her lip to keep from crying.
In class, James slid beside her. An ordinary bloke, unremarkable. She knew he fancied her. No heartthrob—girls only chased him for lecture notes.
“Cheer up. Fancy a film tonight?”
She shrugged. Better than crying over Paul. After the cinema, they ambled through town. James recounted a book he’d read, and Millie found herself enthralled—even forgetting Paul.
With James, she could be herself. No pretence. At her doorstep, she blurted:
“James… d’you like me? Marry me.”
He gaped.
“Seriously? I *adore* you. But not like this.” He turned on his heel and left.
*Even that useless sod’s walked out.* Her self-esteem hit rock bottom.
Next day, as the lecturer entered, James whispered to him. The professor nodded, stepping aside. James faced the class.
“I’d like to propose to a woman with the loveliest name—Millicent. Here, before all of you, I vow to love her forever and make her the happiest.”
“Well, Millicent? Show yourself. Intrigued to meet the lass who’s inspired such madness,” joked the professor. The room erupted.
Chants of *”Millie! Millie!”* rose. She had no choice. James waited, ring glinting in its box, flowers miraculously in hand. Cheers and *”Kiss her!”* filled the air.
“Is that a yes?” he asked over the din.
“Yes,” she whispered, scarlet.
Later, he admitted he’d wanted it to be unforgettable—not her desperate plea.
The tale became legend, retold to freshers with embellishments.
No grand passion burned between them—just steady, fond companionship. Millie didn’t conceive, but James never pressed.
Then, five years on, she spotted Paul in the café. Time had only honed his looks. Unbidden, she compared him to James—her husband in his stretched-out joggers, sling over his plastered arm, a soft belly forming. *Could stand to hit the gym,* she thought irritably. The girls ogled their wine-sender.
Paul invited her to dance—though no one did in that cramped place. Under staring eyes, she stiffened until the slow song ended. He offered her a lift home.
Outside, snow dusted her hair like diamond sprinkles under lamplight. Paul pulled up in a flashy Merc, boasting of his divorce, kids, business—lacing it with flattery.
She had him stop at the far end of the block, knowing James would be watching. Paul’s chatter had worn thin. *Vain peacock. What do women see in him? And me—giddy as a schoolgirl.*
She thanked him and reached for the door.
“Your number?” He brandished his mobile.
Millie thought of James—of Paul’s abandonment. Without a word, she slammed the door. Walking to the flats, she heard the engine idle behind her. He was watching.
Then—two hooded lads lunged from the dark. One grabbed her handbag. She clung to it, screaming:
“Help! *Paul!*”
But tyres screeched as his car sped off.
Her attacker yelped, releasing the bag as he was yanked backward. The other lad was shoved aside. And there stood James—in flip-flops, a t-shirt, wielding—was that a *broom*?
“You alright?” he panted.
“*James!*” She buried her face in his chest, feeling him shiver.
“Come on, inside. Don’t need you catching your death.” The muggers—and Paul—were long gone.
At home, she asked: “You were watching for me?”
“Having tea when I heard you shout. Ran out as I was.”
Guilt stabbed her. She’d called for *Paul*—who’d fled. James had charged out, broken arm and all. She studied him, truly seeing him for the first time.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Ah… Not letting you out alone again. And for God’s sake, learn to drive.”
“Anything you say, love.” She smiled.
That night, she curled into him. His good arm held her close, and she melted like snowflakes on warm skin. It was the first passionate night in ages.
Three weeks later, the test showed two lines.
On Sunday, James returned from the loo, holding it.
“This mean what I think?”
“Meant to surprise you,” sheShe reached for his hand, knowing this was the life she’d always wanted—steady, brave, and true.
