Penny smoothed her dress in front of the mirror, dabbed pink lipstick on her lips, then tousled a stubborn curl. She took a step back and gave herself a critical once-over. “Not bad,” she murmured with a satisfied smile.
Her husband, James, leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
“Blimey! Where are you off to, all dolled up like that?”
“Work. What, jealous?” Penny widened her already large, beautifully lined eyes.
“Course I am. Let me drive you—no way am I letting you squeeze onto some packed bus,” he offered eagerly.
“Stay put. Where are you going with that cast, anyway?” Penny zipped up her quilted coat and adjusted her scarf snug under her chin.
“Right, I’m off.” But she paused. “Oh, nearly forgot. I’ll be late tonight. Emma’s getting married—sort of a girls’ night at the café. Don’t fret.”
“Hold on, I’ll pick you up later—” James pushed off the doorframe.
“No need.” She puckered her lips, blew him a mock kiss, and left.
James wandered to the window, watching Penny hurry across the courtyard below.
“Told her a hundred times to get her licence. Wouldn’t be stuck on some crowded bus if she had,” he muttered, as if she could hear.
At the café, music played softly. Six women huddled around pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and swapping hilarious wedding disasters, laughter ringing out. Then a waiter appeared, setting an expensive bottle of wine in front of Penny.
“Compliments of the gentleman at the next table. Shall I open it?” he asked, leaning in.
Penny glanced over. The man nodded, flashing a grin. Her heart skipped, then raced to the music’s beat. Heat flooded her cheeks, her smile vanishing like morning mist.
She knew him. How could she forget? Paul had been the most handsome bloke at uni, a year ahead. Every girl fancied him. Before summer exams, she’d failed a quiz, slumped on the wrought-iron stairs between floors, weeping. The first exam was in two days, and without that pass, she couldn’t sit it.
“Why the tears? Fail?”
She’d looked up—Paul. Talking to her! And there she was, mascara streaked, nose red.
“Failed the quiz,” she’d sniffed, swiping at her eyes.
“Big deal. You’re just smudging your makeup now.”
She gasped, rummaging for her compact. He handed her a handkerchief.
“Silly, should’ve cried in front of the tutor. Thought all girls knew how to guilt-trip them. Go on, catch him before he leaves. Say you studied all night, brain’s fried.”
“You reckon that’ll work?” she’d doubted but stood.
“Won’t know till you try. Go.” He gave her a nudge, and she’d dashed upstairs, footsteps echoing.
When she emerged beaming, he’d been waiting.
“Smiling suits you,” he’d said.
He walked her home, chatting away. She barely heard, dizzy with one thought: *He’s with me!* She basked in envious glances from passing girls.
After exams, they dated briefly—cinema, beach trips. She knew he cycled through girls, but her heart ignored sense. Then he vanished. No address, no one to ask—everyone scattered for summer. She agonised, convinced herself he’d return… till she realised she was pregnant.
“Used to float about, now you’re moping. You ill?” her mum had asked.
“Just a chill, probably,” Penny lied, forcing a cough.
“See a doctor, don’t mess about,” Mum sighed.
“Will do.”
Next day, she went private—too scared of bumping into someone at the clinic. The test was positive.
“Mum’ll kill me… I’ve still got uni… And he’s gone…” She’d sobbed right there.
The doctor took pity. Early enough for a discreet procedure, but costly. At home, Penny spun a tale of pricey meds and bad test results. Mum, none the wiser, gave her the cash.
Two days of cramps like barbed wire twisting inside. She bore it silently.
That September, she returned to uni desperate to see Paul. But he strode past with a pretty fresher, pretending not to know her. Girls whispered he was engaged, finally settling down. Penny barely held back tears.
In lectures, James slid beside her—quiet, unremarkable. She knew he fancied her. No heartthrob, just the bloke girls asked for lecture notes.
“Why the long face? Fancy the cinema tonight?” he’d asked.
She shrugged. Better than crying over Paul all evening. After the film, they wandered the city. James recounted a book he’d read, so engrossing she forgot Paul entirely.
With James, she could just be herself. No pretence. Outside her flat, she blurted:
“James… you like me, right? Marry me.”
He gaped. “You serious? I do. A lot. But not like this.” He turned and left.
*Even he walked away.* Her self-worth plummeted.
Next day, as the lecturer entered, James whispered to him. The prof nodded, amused. James faced the class:
“I’d like to propose to a lass named Penny. Promise to love her forever, make her the happiest.”
“Well, Penny? Show yourself. We’d all like a gander at the lass who’s inspired this madness,” the lecturer joked. The room erupted.
“Penny! Penny!” chanted her peers. She had to step forward. James waited, ring box open. Front rows craned to see. Flowers materialised in his hands. Cheers of “Hooray!” even a drunken “Kiss!”
“You’ll marry me?” he asked over the noise.
“Yes,” she whispered, flushed.
Later, he admitted he’d wanted it memorable—not her desperate plea.
The tale became uni legend, retold with embellishments for years.
No grand passion burned between them—just steady, companionable love. Penny never conceived, but James never pressed.
Now, five years later, Paul sat across the café. Even handsomer, more polished. She compared him to James—her husband in a stretched-out jumper, slouched tracksuit bottoms, a hint of a belly. *Should hit the gym,* she thought irritably. The girls at her table gawped at Paul’s wine gift.
He asked her to dance—odd, in a cramped café. She stiffened under stares, relieved when the slow song ended. Paul offered her a lift home.
Outside, snowflakes dusted her hair like diamond glitter under streetlamps. He pulled up in a flashy Mercedes, boasting about his divorce, kids, booming business… and lavish compliments.
She had him stop at the far end of her building. Knew James would be watching. Paul’s ego grated. *Smug git. What did I ever see in him?*
“Your number?” He brandished his phone.
She thought of James, of Paul’s vanishing act years ago. Wordless, she slammed the door.
Walking away, she sensed his gaze. Then—two hooded lads lunged from the dark. One grabbed her handbag, yanking hard. She clung on.
“Help! Paul!” she screamed—but tyres screeched behind her as his car sped off.
The thief suddenly gasped, releasing her. His mate flew sideways. And there stood James—in flip-flops, wielding a cricket bat.
“You alright?” he panted.
“James!” She buried her face in his chest, feeling him shiver.
“Come on, you’ll catch your death.” She glanced around. The lads—and Paul—were gone.
“Were you watching for me?” she asked at home.
“Having tea when I heard you shout. Ran out as I was.”
Guilt twisted her. She’d called for *Paul*—who’d bolted. James had charged out, broken arm and all. She studied him like never before.
“Why’re you staring?”
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Right. No more solo outings. And for God’s sake, get your licence.”
“Whatever you say, love.” She grinned.
That night, she curled into him. His good arm held her tight, warmth melting her like snow. Passion flared—dormant for years.
Three weeks later, a test confirmed it.
Sunday morning, James returned from the bathroom, holding the stick.
“Am I reading this right?”
“Was meant to be a surprise.” She pouted playfully.
“Bloody brilliant! Gave up hoping.” He kissed her softly.
And Penny marvelled: *When did I fall for him? He’s everything—steady, brave, loyal. All those years, putting up with me. Charging out with a broken arm. While pretty boys like Paul? Nothing but grief.*
