Rosemary smoothed her dress over her hips in front of the mirror, swiped rosy lipstick across her lips, then fluffed a stubborn curl. She took a step back and scrutinized her reflection. “Not bad,” she murmured, a satisfied smile tugging at her mouth.
James appeared in the hallway doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. “Blimey! Where’re you off to, all dolled up like that?”
“Work. What, jealous?” Rosemary widened her already large, perfectly lined eyes.
“Course I am. Let me drive you—you’ll get jostled to bits on the Tube,” he offered, eager.
“Stay home. You’re in a cast, for heaven’s sake.” She zipped up her quilted cream coat, adjusted her scarf snug under her chin, then hesitated at the door. “Oh—I’ll be late. Millie’s hen do. Just a quick drink. Don’t fret.”
“Wait, let me pick you up later—”
“No need.” She blew him a kiss and slipped out.
James shuffled to the window, watching her hurry across the courtyard below. “Should’ve got your license,” he muttered, as if she could hear. “Wouldn’t be crammed on some train like sardines.”
The café hummed with chatter and clinking glasses. Six women huddled at pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and trading disastrous wedding stories, laughter bubbling over. A waiter appeared, setting an expensive bottle of wine before Rosemary. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar. Shall I open it?”
She turned. The man nodded, flashing a grin. Her heart lurched, then raced to the beat of the music. Heat rushed to her cheeks; her smile vanished like morning frost under sunlight.
She knew him. How could she forget? Paul had been the university’s golden boy—older, impossibly handsome, trailed by admirers. Before summer exams, she’d failed a mock. She’d sat crying on the wrought-iron stairwell, mascara streaked, nose red.
“Why the tears? Flunked your test?”
She’d looked up to find Paul beside her. Talking to her. While she was a weepy mess.
“Failed the mock,” she’d sniffed, scrubbing at her face.
“Big deal. You’ve just smudged your makeup.” He’d handed her a handkerchief. “Should’ve cried in front of the tutor. Thought all girls knew how to sweet-talk.”
“You think that’d work?”
“Worth a shot.” He’d nudged her up the stairs.
When she’d emerged, beaming, he’d waited. “There’s my girl.”
He’d walked her home, chatting, while her thoughts screamed, He’s here! With me! She’d basked in envious glances from passersby.
After exams, they’d dated—cinema, beach walks. She knew his reputation, but her heart didn’t care. Then he vanished. No address, no word. She’d ached, made excuses—until she realised she was pregnant.
“Mum, just a cold,” she’d lied, coughing for effect.
The clinic confirmed it. “Mum’ll kill me… Paul’s gone…” She’d sobbed in the sterile room.
The doctor took pity. “Early still. But it’s costly.”
At home, she’d spun a tale of pricey medication. Mum handed over cash, none the wiser.
Two days of agony, jaws clamped shut to hide it.
Come autumn, she’d searched for Paul—only for him to stride past with a fresher, pretending not to know her. Whispers followed: “Paul’s getting married.” She’d barely held back tears.
Then James sat beside her in lectures. Average, unremarkable. She knew he fancied her.
“Fancy the cinema?” he’d asked.
Why not? Better than crying over Paul.
James talked books as they wandered London. To her surprise, she’d forgotten Paul entirely.
With James, she could be herself. No pretence. At her doorstep, she’d blurted, “D’you like me? Marry me.”
He’d stared. “You’re joking. I adore you. But not like this.” He’d walked away.
“Even he’s gone,” she’d thought, pride shattered.
Next day, the lecturer paused mid-sentence. James whispered to him, then faced the hall. “I’d like to propose to Rosemary.”
The room erupted. Chants of “Ro-sie!” forced her forward. James knelt, ring glinting. Flowers materialised. Cheers, even a drunken “Kiss!”
“Will you?” he’d asked over the noise.
“Yes,” she’d whispered.
Later, he’d explained: “Wanted it to be ours. Not just your desperate plea.”
Their marriage was steady, if unremarkable. No children, though James never pressed.
Now, five years on, Paul sat across the café. Even handsomer. She pictured James—sweatpants, sling, softening middle. “Could use the gym,” she thought irritably.
Paul invited her to dance, though no one did. Under stares, she stiffly obliged. Music faded; he offered a ride home.
Outside, snow dusted her hair like glitter. His flashy BMW purred to the kerb. He prattled—divorced, kids, booming business—between compliments.
“Stop here,” she said, knowing James would be watching. Paul’s ego had worn thin.
“Your number?” He brandished his phone.
She thought of James, of Paul’s cowardice years ago. Without a word, she slammed the door.
Footsteps crunched behind her. Two hooded figures lunged, grabbing her handbag.
“Help! Paul!” she screamed.
Tires screeched. Paul’s car vanished.
A thud—her attacker recoiled. Another crumpled. Then James stood before her, breath ragged, wielding a cricket bat in his slippers.
“You alright?” he panted.
“James!” She buried her face in his chest, his body trembling with cold.
“Inside, now. Don’t need pneumonia.” The muggers had fled. So had Paul.
“Were you watching for me?” she asked upstairs.
“Heard you shout from the kitchen. Came as I was.”
Guilt twisted her. She’d called for Paul. Who’d fled. While James—cast and all—charged out defenseless.
She studied him, truly seeing him.
“Why’re you staring?”
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Right. No more solo outings. And learn to drive, yeah?”
“Whatever you say, love.” She grinned.
That night, she curled into him. His good arm held her tight; their passion, long dormant, flared anew.
Three weeks later, the test showed two lines. James found it on the sink.
“Surprise,” she teased.
“Bloody brilliant one.” He kissed her softly.
Rosemary marvelled: When had she fallen for him? He was steady, brave, patient. Paul had brought chaos; James, safety. He’d rushed into danger for her—broken arm be damned.
Some heroes didn’t wear capes. Just slippers and a battered cricket bat.
