A young woman with her own flat dreamed of getting married…
“Look at that, another one married off. Another happy couple in the world. May they live together till their golden anniversary!” said Helen Thompson, the head of accounts, senior in both position and age, raising her glass of champagne.
“That’s too modest! Let them make it to diamond,” chimed in the lively Charlotte.
“It’s staying married that’s the trick,” sighed the cleaner, Auntie Pam, lingering in the doorway. “Marry today, drunk by next year. Oh, girls, why can’t you just stay single and be happy?”
“Auntie Pam, why don’t you just…?” Charlotte huffed, waving her off. “Just because you had rotten luck doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t try. Our Emily’s found herself a proper one—handsome, with a car, prospects. Don’t listen to anyone, Emily, just be happy!” Charlotte saluted with her glass.
Emily had just returned from a week’s leave for her wedding. She’d brought chocolates and champagne to celebrate with the accounts team. She glowed like a polished silver teapot, smiling but nervous. She’d warned her new husband she’d be an hour late—had to treat the girls—but three hours later, the champagne was long gone, a second round fetched from the shop, and no one looked ready to leave. Her husband kept texting, asking when she’d be home, saying he missed her, offering to come fetch her.
“Alright, girls, carry on. I’ll tidy up in the morning,” said Auntie Pam.
“Go home, Auntie Pam, don’t worry, we’ll clean up,” Helen promised. “One last toast, then we’re off. Just Sophie left to marry, then we’ve got the full set.”
“Honestly, Sophie, what’s keeping you single?” Charlotte piped up, well into her cups. “Pretty, got a flat… No one good enough, or waiting for Prince Charming?”
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sophie asked.
“Well, how old are you? At your age, I’d had two kids—Stevie was already in school! Me and my husband had our rough patches, almost split a few times. But I said, if you’ve made ‘em, see ‘em raised—then bugger off if you must. Now he’s wrapped ‘round my finger.” She flashed a fist.
“People marry for passion or accidents. Passion fades, then it’s just grey days. Kids? Don’t get me started. Sleepless nights, snapping at each other—next thing you know, divorced. If he’s decent, he’ll leave the flat to the ex and kids, then shack up in some bedsit. Won’t last. All his mates are married, nowhere to go. Then he looks around—any single women about, no kids? Can’t run from his own to raise someone else’s. Then there’s you—young, wanting to marry, with your own place. Jackpot. Surprised you’re still single.”
“That’s a bleak way to look at it,” Sophie said, insulted. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with nowhere to live? At thirty, I’ve no chance of a man without alimony?”
“Don’t listen, Sophie, she’s drunk and talking rubbish,” Helen sighed. “Men these days aren’t rushing to settle down. Building careers. But you have been single a while… We’ll fix that.”
“Exactly!” Charlotte cut in. “Successful single men know their worth—they want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t fussy. Just someone nice with a flat. Can’t rent forever or live with Mum.”
“Different strokes,” Helen said. “Some marry young, some late. My friend’s son—thirty-six, never married. Clever, educated, good job, just unlucky with women.”
“What, sick or a drinker? Or—” Charlotte caught Helen’s warning glare. “What? My mate’s ex…”
“Charlotte, enough! Think before you speak. Life’s complicated. Anyway, Sophie—he’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why’d you even start this? I don’t believe in setups. Everyone oversells each other. I’ll manage on my own.”
“‘Manage’ how? Where’ll you meet anyone? Office is all women, you don’t go clubbing. If you don’t fancy him, fine, no one’s forcing you. He’s got his own flat. Couldn’t hurt to try?”
The girls cleared up quickly, heading home.
“Don’t write it off,” Helen said, walking Sophie to the bus stop. “I didn’t bring it up for nothing. My husband’s birthday’s Saturday. I’ve invited my friend and her son. You come too. See how you click. You never know.”
The next two days, Sophie wavered. She disliked the plan, doubted it’d work. Still, she picked an outfit, freshened her nails.
“How many diets have I promised myself? Two days won’t fix it,” she groaned at the mirror. “Who’ll love me if I don’t? Ridiculous. I’m not going.”
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, curled it, did her makeup, chose a dress. But—a gift? She called Helen, who said not to fuss, just come. But if she must, bring wine. What else for a stranger?
At the supermarket, she grabbed wine, chocolates, cheese, a loaf. Just in case. Maybe he’d walk her home, want tea—she’d nothing to offer. She usually avoided bread and sweets, trying to lose weight.
At the till, a man cut in, placing his bottle—the same wine—on the belt.
“I was first,” Sophie snapped.
“Sorry—I’m in a rush. Just this, you’ve a full basket. I’ll be gone before you’ve unpacked.”
“Throat that dry? Some nerve.” She glared as the cashier scanned his bottle. “You saw me first—why serve him? Because he’s a man?”
“I’ve apologised. No need to shout.” He left.
The cashier gave Sophie a scornful look as she rang up her items.
Sophie’s mood soured. She regretted spending, regretted hoping. For what? Some selfish prat who thought the world owed him? She wouldn’t invite anyone over, wouldn’t go tonight. All the way home, she seethed—at him, the cashier, herself for daydreaming.
“Better alone than with that,” she decided. Then rain spoiled her hair, sealing her gloom. At home, she changed into a dressing gown, turned on the telly.
Helen rang, sensing her mood. Sophie ignored it. Half an hour later—a knock.
“I knew it,” Helen said, bustling in. “Guests are arriving, my husband’s alone. Get dressed—taxi’s waiting. No excuses.”
Sophie gave in. Helen was older, her boss—no point arguing. “Hair’s ruined, mood’s foul. Fine. If he doesn’t like me, good. I’ll leave early.”
“Gail, where’ve you been? The meat—” Helen’s flustered husband met them at the door.
“The meat! I forgot!” Helen dashed to the kitchen.
Sophie handed over her wine—he gave it a odd look—and was shown to the living room. A pleasant woman Helen’s age sat on the sofa. By the window, a man stood with his back turned.
“Meet… What was your name?” her host whispered. “Sophie, works with Gail. This is Margaret, her son, Daniel.”
*So this is the one.*
Daniel turned—the queue-jumper from the shop.
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You’ve met?” Helen asked brightly.
More guests arrived. Seated at dinner, Daniel was beside Sophie. Naturally.
“Still angry?” he murmured. “Had I known you’d be here, I’d have shopped elsewhere.” He poured her wine.
“Skips queues, still rude.”
“Feisty. Might bite my finger off.”
“What?”
“It’s a saying. ‘Don’t put your finger in her mouth.’”
“Like I’d let your grubby fingers near me—”
A toast cut her off. Glasses clinked. Sophie deliberately toasted her other neighbor, sipped, set her glass down.
“I can *feel* your hatred,” Daniel said, doing the same.
“Well—”
“Dan, what’s wrong?” his mother asked. “Sophie, has he upset you?”
“He’d better not try.”
“What’ve I done?” Daniel frowned. “Were you hurt before, or just always this prickly?”
“Enough.” Sophie stood.
“Sophie, help me in the kitchen,” Helen said quickly. Behind the door, she whispered, “Really? Not at all? I’d hoped…”
“I *told* you it wouldn’t work. Sorry to disappoint.Sophie stormed out into the rain, only for Daniel to chase after her with an umbrella, and as he held it over her head, she realized—despite the bickering, the queue-jumping, and the terrible first impression—she was already imagining their next argument, their first kiss, and all the years after.
