“I can’t believe it! I just can’t!” shouted Evelyn, waving her hands frantically. “How could you do this to me, Mum?”
“Darling, please calm down,” Margaret pleaded, reaching for her daughter’s hand, but Evelyn jerked away. “Let’s talk about this properly.”
“Properly?” Evelyn’s voice cracked. “After what you’ve done? Do you realise I’m the laughingstock of the whole town now?”
“Don’t exaggerate. What town? We don’t even live in the city centre.”
“Mum!” Evelyn clutched her head. “Are you pretending to be thick, or do you genuinely not get it?”
Margaret sank heavily onto the sofa. At sixty-two, she still considered herself young and sprightly enough to meddle in her grown daughter’s love life. But for the first time in years, she felt old and exhausted.
“I only wanted to help,” she murmured. “You’ve been on your own for ages, shut away since the divorce.”
“That’s my business!” Evelyn snapped. “Mine! I’m a grown woman—forty-one years old!”
“Exactly why I’m worried. Time’s passing, and you—”
“And I what? Am I some unwanted spinster? An ugly old hag?”
Margaret shook her head. “You’re stunning, love. Clever too. Just too proud. Men are scared to approach you.”
Evelyn paced the room, twisting the belt of her dressing gown. Morning sunlight flooded the small parlour with gold, but the air between them was thick with tension.
“Mum, how could you possibly put an advert in the paper?” Evelyn sighed. “And of all things, that kind of advert…”
“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Margaret huffed. “Perfectly respectable words!”
“Respectable?” Evelyn pulled a crumpled newspaper from her pocket. “Listen carefully: ‘Seeking respectable gentleman for kind, beautiful, home-loving daughter, 41. Accountant, non-smoker, enjoys cooking. Inquiries to mother.’ To mother, for heaven’s sake!”
“What’s the issue?” Margaret blinked.
“The issue? I’m not some bargain-bin item! And why contact you, not me?”
“Because you’d find fault with anyone! You’d invent reasons why they’re not good enough.”
Evelyn dropped into the armchair and buried her face in her hands.
“Mum, I’ve had calls nonstop. Yesterday, some seventy-year-old pensioner asked if I could bake pies and move to his cottage in Kent to tend his three cows.”
“Well, he’s clearly unsuitable,” Margaret conceded. “What about the others?”
“What others?” Evelyn fumed. “Mum, this is humiliating! As if I can’t find a man myself.”
“Can you?”
The soft question struck like an arrow. Evelyn fell silent. After four years since splitting from Richard, she hadn’t met a single man who intrigued her.
“That doesn’t mean resorting to newspaper ads like it’s the Stone Age,” she grumbled.
“How else, then? Online? You’re hopeless with computers.”
“I’d learn.”
“Like you’ve ‘learned’ to move on in four years?”
Margaret stood and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Cuppa?” she called. “Or shall I fetch the valerian drops?”
“Don’t tease me,” Evelyn muttered, following.
The kitchen smelled of fresh baking. Margaret always baked when anxious. Today, the table bore savoury pies, apple fritters, and buttery biscuits.
“Been up all night again?” Evelyn asked, softening despite herself.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Margaret admitted. “Thinking how to talk to you.”
“Should’ve thought before placing that blasted ad.”
Margaret filled the kettle and fetched two floral china cups.
“Evie, be reasonable. You work with women, stay home reading or glued to telly, shop in trackies, barely brush your hair—”
“I look fine!”
“For lounging, yes. But for attracting men? When did you last wear a dress?”
Evelyn paused. Since the divorce, she’d abandoned femininity—jeans, jumpers, trainers, that was her wardrobe now.
“Still no excuse for ads,” she insisted.
“What is, then? Waiting for Prince Charming to knock?”
The kettle whistled. Margaret fixed the tea, pushing a plate of shortbread forward.
“Mum… how many calls came in?” Evelyn asked hesitantly.
“Dozens. I wrote them all down. Want a look?”
She pulled out a school exercise book. On the cover, in looping script: “Suitors for Evelyn.”
“Seriously?” Evelyn snorted. “Like I’m twelve!”
“But organised. See, this Michael sounded decent—forty-five, engineer, divorced, no kids. Polished voice.”
Evelyn flipped through pages of neatly listed names, ages, jobs, and summaries.
“You interviewed all of them?”
“Naturally! Think I’d hand you to any Tom, Dick, or Harry? Asked about work, income, housing—”
“Like a police interrogation,” Evelyn smirked.
“And why not? Must know who we’re dealing with.”
Reading, Evelyn smiled despite herself. Margaret had notes like “drinks,” “lives with mum,” “wants a maid,” “married (liar).”
“Why’s this Timothy crossed out?”
“Started talking filth. Told him my girl’s a lady, and he got cheeky.”
“Right. And this Simon?”
“Seems nice. Forty-three, site manager, owns flat. Widower, grown daughter married.”
Evelyn set the book down.
“Mum, do you honestly believe this’ll find me someone decent?”
“Why not? Matchmakers existed for centuries. Parents arranged marriages, and folk lived well enough.”
“That was then. Times have changed.”
“Times change, people don’t. Everyone wants love, a home, companionship.”
The phone rang. Margaret pounced.
“Hello? Yes, the ad… Age? Thirty-eight? Occupation?… Divorced?… Children?… None?… Why’s that, if I may?”
Evelyn rolled her eyes and retreated to her room.
At her desk, she opened emails—among work messages, several from strangers. Margaret hadn’t stopped at newspapers; she’d gone digital too.
“Mum!” Evelyn yelled. “Get in here!”
Margaret appeared, still clutching the phone. “What?”
“You posted online too?”
“Of course! Mrs. Higgins next door showed me. More choices there.”
“Which sites?”
“All the free ones I found.”
Evelyn googled her name—and gasped. Dating profiles stretched across multiple sites, identical text but different photos.
“Mum, where’d you get these pictures?”
“Your computer. Mrs. Higgins taught me.”
“Which ones?”
“Your best! This seaside one’s lovely, and you in that red dress at the office party.”
Evelyn stared. Margaret had chosen flattering shots—smiling, radiant.
“Many responses?”
“Loads. Look at your inbox.”
Over a hundred messages waited.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Laugh! See how popular you are?”
The phone rang again. Margaret dashed off.
“Hello? Name?… Forty-six?… Job?… Lorry driver?… Temperament?… Easygoing? Good…”
Evelyn listened to the interrogation, realising life had swerved wildly. Yesterday, she was a divorced accountant reading novels. Today, a mail-order bride besieged by suitors.
Margaret returned.
“He passed the first round. Meeting Saturday.”
“But you didn’t ask his salary! Or housing details!”
“It’s a date, Mum, not a mortgage interview.”
“You must screen them!”
“I’ll learn when we meet.”
Saturday evening, Margaret fussed for hours. They rifled through half the wardrobe before settling on a navy dress.
“Maybe the green jumper instead?” Margaret fretted.
“I’m dating, not working,” Evelyn said, applying mascara.
“But jumpers are practical. What if he’s stingy, takes you somewhere cheap?”
“Then it’s one date only.”
“Don’t say that! He might be lovely, just strapped.”
Evelyn turned from the mirror.
“Mum, truthfully—do you think I can’t find someone myself?”
Margaret sat on the bed. “It’s not can’t. You won’t. After Richard, you shut everyone out.”
“Maybe I’m happier alone?”
“Comfortable, not happy. Evie, you’re gorgeous, clever, capable. You deserve love.”
“And if I don’t? If I’m meant to be alone?”
“Nonsense. Just give life a chance.”
Evelyn fastened her earrings.
“Fine. I’ll go on your date. But if it’s awful—no more ads!”
“Deal,” Margaret nodded.
At the café, Simon stood by the window—tall, pleasant-faced, dressed smartly but simply.
“Evelyn?” He rose, smiling.
“That’s me. Simon?”
“PleasureThey talked for hours, and by the time they left, Evelyn knew her mother’s meddling had finally led her somewhere wonderful.
