Molly smoothed the hem of her dress in front of the mirror, touched up her lips with a soft pink gloss, then fluffed a loose curl. She took a step back and gave herself a critical once-over. “Not bad,” she murmured with a satisfied smile.
Her husband appeared in the hallway doorway, leaning against the frame.
“Blimey! Where are you off to all dressed up?”
“Work. What, are you jealous?” Molly blinked her wide, perfectly lined eyes at him.
“Course I am. Want a lift? The Tube’s bloody packed this time of day,” he offered, already reaching for his keys.
“Stay home. Where exactly are you going with that cast?” She zipped up her quilted cream coat, adjusting her scarf snugly under her chin.
“Right, I’m off.” But she hesitated at the door.
“Oh, nearly forgot. I’ll be late. It’s Lucy’s hen do. Just a few drinks with the girls. Don’t fuss.”
“Wait—sure you don’t want me to pick you up later?” Tom pushed off the doorframe.
“Absolutely not.” Molly puckered her lips in an air-kiss and slipped out.
Tom wandered to the window, watching Molly hurry across the pavement below.
“Should’ve got her driving lessons ages ago,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t be crammed on the bleeding Tube if she had her own car.”
The café buzzed with chatter and laughter. Six women huddled around pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and swapping ridiculous wedding disaster stories, their laughter infectious. Suddenly, a waiter appeared with a bottle of expensive wine.
“Compliments of the gentleman at the next table. Shall I open it?”
Molly turned. The man nodded, flashing a grin that sent her pulse skipping. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her smile vanished like snow off a roof.
She’d recognise him anywhere. Paul had been the handsomest bloke at uni—final year, all the girls trailing after him. She’d failed a pre-exam assessment. Sat crying on the iron staircase between lectures, mascara streaking. First exam in two days, and without that stupid signature, she couldn’t sit it.
“What’s all this, then? Flunked already?”
Molly looked up. Paul. Talking to *her*. While she sat there, a snotty, blotchy mess.
“Didn’t pass the assessment,” she mumbled, swiping at her eyes.
“Big deal. You’re just wrecking your makeup.”
She gasped, scrambling for her compact. He handed her a handkerchief.
“Don’t be daft. Should’ve turned on the waterworks *before* the lecturer. Thought girls were experts at guilt-tripping. Go on—say you pulled an all-nighter, brain’s fried. Might still catch him.”
“You reckon that’ll work?”
“Won’t know till you try. Go.” He nudged her up the steps, their metallic clang echoing.
When she bounced out, beaming, Paul was waiting.
“There’s the smile. Suits you.”
He walked her home, chatting the whole way. She barely heard a word, dizzy with the thought: *He’s next to me!* She caught women sneaking glances at him and swelled with pride.
They dated briefly after exams—cinema, beach trips. She knew his reputation, but her heart didn’t care. Then he vanished. No address, no one to ask. She convinced herself he’d turn up—until the pregnancy test.
“You were off in cloud nine, now you’re moping. Feeling ill?” her mum asked.
“Just a cold,” Molly lied, coughing for effect.
“See a doctor, then. Don’t mess about.”
The private clinic confirmed it.
“Mum’ll kill me… I’ve got uni… And he’s *gone*…” She sobbed right there.
The doctor took pity. Small window, no surgery—just cash. She spun her mum a story about pricey meds, dodgy tests. It was enough.
Two days of agony, biting back screams so her mum wouldn’t hear.
At uni, she’d hoped to see Paul. Instead, he strolled past arm-in-arm with a fresher, pretending not to know her. The girls crowed that he was *finally* settling down. Molly nearly cracked.
Then Tom slid into the lecture seat beside her. Quiet, unremarkable. She knew he fancied her.
“What’s with the face? Fancy a film tonight?”
She shrugged. Better than crying over Paul. After the cinema, they wandered London. He retold a book he’d read—so engrossing she forgot about Paul.
With Tom, she could just be *herself*. No pretence. Outside her flat, she blurted:
“Tom… d’you like me? Marry me.”
He gaped.
“You serious? I *adore* you. But not like this.” He walked off.
*Even the nice ones leave*, she thought, tears pricking.
Next day, as the lecturer entered, Tom whispered to him. The prof grinned, stepped aside.
“Ladies and gents,” Tom announced, “I’d like to propose to one Molly. Promise to love her forever. Make her the happiest.”
The room erupted. Chants of “Molly! Molly!” forced her forward. Tom knelt, ring box open. Someone thrust flowers into his hands. Cheers, even a drunken “Kiss her!”
“Your answer?” he shouted over the noise.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Later, he admitted he’d wanted *his* proposal to be the memory—not her desperate plea.
The story outlived their graduation.
Their marriage was steady, comfortable. No fireworks—just quiet love. No kids. Tom never pressed.
Five years on, Molly sat across from Paul in that café. He’d aged well. She pictured Tom—sweatpants, scuffed slippers, his cast. *Could stand to hit the gym*, she thought irritably. All the women were staring at Paul.
He asked her to dance—ridiculous in the cramped café. She stiffened under their stares. The slow song ended. He offered her a lift.
Outside, snow glittered in her hair under streetlamps. Paul pulled up in a flashy Merc. All ride, he bragged—divorced, two kids, his own business—between compliments.
She had him stop at the corner. Knew Tom would be watching. Paul’s chatter grated. *Vain git. What did I ever see in him?*
She thanked him, popped the door.
“Your number?” He brandished his phone.
She thought of Tom, of Paul’s cowardice years ago, and slammed the door. Halfway to the flat, two hooded figures lunged. One yanked her handbag.
“Help! Paul!” she screamed.
Tires screeched. The thief gasped, recoiled. The other man flew sideways. Then Tom stood there, in slippers, gripping a cricket bat.
“You alright?” he panted.
“Tom!” She buried her face in his chest, feeling him shiver.
“Inside. You’ll catch your death.” The muggers had fled. So had Paul’s car.
“Were you watching for me?” she asked later.
“Making tea. Heard you shout.”
She flushed. She’d called for *Paul*. Who’d bolted. Tom had charged out, broken arm and all.
She studied him—really *looked*.
“What?”
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Good. No more solo trips. And *learn to drive*.”
“Yes, darling.”
That night, she curled into him. His good arm held her close. It’d been ages since they’d been this intimate. Three weeks later, the test showed two lines.
Sunday morning, Tom emerged from the loo, holding the stick.
“Am I reading this right?”
“Meant to surprise you,” she teased.
“Bloody brilliant.” He kissed her softly.
Molly marvelled. *When did I start loving him? He’s everything. All those years putting up with me. Ran into danger without a second thought. And pretty boys like Paul? Nothing but trouble.*
