A young woman with her own flat dreams of getting married…
“Another one tied the knot. One more happily married woman. Here’s to fifty years together!” said Margaret Thompson, the head of accounts—senior not just in rank but in age—raising her champagne flute.
“Why stop at gold? Let’s aim for diamond!” chirped lively Tanya.
“Marriage isn’t all sunshine,” sighed Auntie Pat, the cleaner, hovering by the door. “One minute they’re smitten, the next they’re soused. Why can’t you girls just stay single and happy?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Auntie Pat!” Tanya waved her off. “Just ‘cause you got a dud doesn’t mean the rest of us will. Our Lizzie hit the jackpot—handsome, driven, with a car and all. Ignore her, Lizzie, just be happy!” Tanya saluted with her glass.
Lizzie had just returned from a week off for her wedding, bringing sweets and bubbly to celebrate with the office. She glowed like a polished teapot, though nerves fluttered under her smile. She’d warned her new husband she’d be an hour late—office tradition demanded treats—but three hours in, the champagne was long gone, a second run to the shop made, and no one showed signs of leaving. Her husband texted, asking when she’d be home, missing her, even offering to rescue her.
“Go on, love, enjoy yourselves. I’ll tidy in the morning,” said Auntie Pat.
“Off you pop, Auntie Pat, we’ll clean up,” promised Margaret. “Ladies, last round. Time to head home. Just need to get Sophie hitched, then we’ll have the full set.”
“Honestly, Soph, why’re you still single?” Tanya slurred, pink-cheeked. “Pretty, got your own place—what’s the hold-up? Waiting for Prince Charming?”
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sophie frowned.
“Come off it! How old are you? At your age, I already had two kids—my oldest was in school! Me and my bloke had our rows, nearly split a few times. But I said, ‘You helped make ‘em, you’ll help raise ‘em—then bugger off if you like.’ Now he’s wrapped round my finger.” Tanya brandished a fist.
“People marry for passion or accidents. Passion fades, mundanity creeps in. Kids? Don’t get me started. Sleepless nights, snapping at each other—next thing, you’re divorced. A decent bloke leaves the flat to his ex and kids, then bunks in some dive. But his mates are all married, nowhere to go. So he starts eyeing up single women—no kids, mind, ‘cause who wants to raise another man’s? Then there’s you—young, dreaming of marriage, with your own place. Jackpot. Surprised you’re still single, really.”
“That’s a bleak take,” Sophie muttered. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with nowhere to live? At thirty, I’ve no chance with someone free and clear?”
“Ignore her, Soph, she’s sloshed,” sighed Margaret. “Men these days aren’t rushing to settle. Building careers. Still, you’re lagging a bit. We’ll fix that.”
“See?” Tanya cut in. “Successful single blokes want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t picky—just want someone kind with a roof overhead. Better than flatshares or mum’s sofa.”
“Life’s different for everyone,” Margaret said. “Some marry young, some late. My friend’s son—thirty-six, never married. Clever, good job, just unlucky in love.”
“What’s wrong with him? Drunk? Ill?” Tanya caught Margaret’s glare. “Or… you know…?”
“Tanya, enough! You’ve a mouth like a foghorn. Life’s messy. But think on it, Soph. He’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why’d you even bring this up? Blind dates never work—people oversell each other. I’ll manage on my own.”
“Will you? Where’ll you meet anyone? Office is all women, you don’t club. If it doesn’t click, no harm done. He’s got his own place, too. Worth a shot, eh?” Margaret pressed. “Right, girls, time to scoot—hubs’ll be locking us out.”
They cleared up and dispersed.
“Don’t write it off yet,” Margaret said as she and Sophie waited for the bus. “I didn’t bring this up for nothing. My hubby’s birthday’s Saturday. Invited my friend and her son. You come, suss him out—might work. See how it goes.”
The next two days, Sophie waffled. The plan irked her—doomed, surely. Still, she picked an outfit, freshened her nails.
“How many diets have I sworn to start?” She groaned at the mirror. “Who’ll love me if I don’t? Bollocks. I’m not going.”
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, styled it, did her makeup, chose a dress. The gift, though? Birthday? Couldn’t show up empty-handed. She rang Margaret, who said not to fuss—just come. But guilt won: a bottle of wine. What else for a stranger?
Time to spare, she popped to the shop. The local Tesco’s selection was grim, so she trekked to the Sainsbury’s two stops away. Grabbed wine, then sweets, cheese, a loaf—just in case. Maybe he’d walk her home, want tea, and she’d nothing to serve. She’d avoided bread and treats lately, aiming to slim down.
Buzzing with hope, she queued at checkout. Just as she unloaded her basket, a man cut ahead, slapping down a bottle—the same wine.
“I was first,” Sophie snapped.
“Sorry, love. In a rush. Just the wine—you’ve a full shop. I’ll be done before you’ve blinked.”
“World on fire? Desperate for a drink? Rude.” She noticed the cashier had already scanned his bottle. “You saw me first—why serve him? ‘Cause he’s a bloke?”
“Love, I apologized. No need to shout. I’m off.” He took his bottle and left.
The cashier shot Sophie a look and rang up her items.
Mood soured, Sophie regretted spending. And for what? Some arrogant tosser? She’d invite no one home—wasn’t going at all. The whole walk, she cursed him, the cashier, herself for dreaming.
“Better single than with that,” she resolved. Rain spat, ruining her hair. One thing after another. Home, she changed into pyjamas and numbly watched telly.
Margaret called, sensing her mood. Sophie ignored it. Half an hour later, a knock.
“Knew it,” Margaret said, stepping in. “Guests’ll arrive soon, and my hubby’s solo. Get dressed—taxi’s waiting. No excuses.”
Sophie caved. Margaret was her boss, after all. “Hair’s wrecked, mood’s foul. Good. He’ll hate me. I’ll leave early,” she decided in the cab.
“Margie, where’ve you been? Guests are here! What do I do with the meat?” her flustered husband greeted them.
“The meat! Forgot!” Margie dashed to the kitchen.
Sophie handed her wine to the host, who gave it a odd look, then led her in. A pleasant woman Margie’s age sat on the sofa. By the window, a man stood, back turned.
“Meet… What’s your name again?” the host whispered. “Sophie, works with Margie. This is Anna, her son, Val.”
“So this’s the setup,” Sophie realized. The man turned—her checkout nemesis.
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You’ve met?” Margie asked, returning.
More guests arrived, seating shuffled. Val ended up beside Sophie. Predictable.
“Still cross?” he murmured. “Had I known you’d be here, I’d’ve shopped elsewhere.” He poured her wine.
“Queue-jumper and a cheeky git.”
“Feisty. Might bite my finger off.”
“What?”
“Figure of speech. Don’t tempt fate.”
“Like I’d let your grubby fingers near me—”
The host stood for a toast. Glasses clinked. Sophie pointedly ignored Val, toasting her other neighbour instead, then set her glass down.
“Your loathing’s palpable,” Val said, doing the same.
“Well—”
“Val, what’s wrong?” his mum fretted. “Sophie, has he upset you?”
“He’d dare,” Sophie said.
“What’d I do?” Val frowned. “Were you hurt before, or just always this prickly?”
“ThatSophie hesitated, then met his eyes and said, “Fine—apology accepted, but you’re buying the next round,” and as the room filled with laughter, she realized fate had a funny way of working things out.
