Claire stirs her coffee, the spoon clinking softly. “Sophie, you just don’t get it,” she sighs. “Alex is incredibly busy, his business takes up so much time. We see each other when he can manage.”
Sophie slaps the cafe table, making the cups jump. “Are you completely mad? He uses you like a doormat! Come today, don’t bother tomorrow, oh, he needs you again the day after!”
“Zilch on his business!” Sophie flushes with exasperation. “You’re thirty-six now! How long will you be the backup plan?”
Claire winces. Sophie always cuts straight to the bone. The painful truth stings more than usual.
“What choice do I have?” Claire murmurs, gazing out the window. “The world is full of stunning women, and I’m… ordinary. At least I’m convenient. No scenes, no demands, no fuss.”
“Good heavens, listen to yourself!” Sophie grabs her hand. “‘Convenient’! What are you, a mug? You’ve got a university degree, a great job, your own flat. You’re clever, kind, utterly reliable…”
“Just not beautiful,” Claire interrupts with a bitter smile. “Men choose with their eyes first, you know that.”
Sophie sits back, shaking her head. Twenty years of friendship, and Claire still can’t see her own worth. Always overshadowed by bright, vivacious girls since university, always adjusting, pleasing, fading into the background.
“Remember Oliver from Bristol Uni?” Claire asks.
“Vaguely,” Sophie says cautiously.
“I was mad about him. Three whole years I trailed after him, shared my notes, helped with seminars. He barely noticed me. Then that girl… Jessica Halifax appeared, and suddenly he was orbiting *her*.”
“Ancient history!” Sophie exclaims.
“It feels like yesterday,” Claire says sadly. “That’s when I learnt life’s key lesson: the beautiful ones get everything handed to them; the rest of have to be *useful*. Convenient.”
“But Claire,” Sophie argues, “Oliver turned out a drunken failure! And your Jessica darling? Married three times, divorced three times! Where are they now versus you?”
“They live,” Claire whispers. “I adapt.”
Her phone rings. Seeing the screen, Claire brightens instantly. “Hi, Alex? Yes, I’m free. Of course, I’ll come. An hour? Right, I’ll expect you.” She gathers her bag.
Sophie watches in dismay as childlike eagerness transforms her friend’s face. “Claire, don’t. Tell him you’re busy.”
“I can’t,” Claire insists, standing up. “He’s got two hours free between meetings. It feels ages since we met.”
“Five days!” Sophie hisses.
“Too long,” Claire repeats firmly, walking away.
Sophie watches her go through the window. What happened to her clever, capable friend? When did she become an accessory to someone else’s life?
It wasn’t always this way. At university, Claire might not have been conventionally beautiful, but she was the life of their circle. Funny, organised hikes, helped everyone. Lads liked her – not romantically, but as a top mate, ‘Claire-bro’. She’d been proud of that.
After uni, she landed a job as an economist at a respected London firm, moving up fast. Bought her flat, got a car. Parents were delighted; she was settled. Only her love life stalled.
First big romance happened at twenty-eight: Oliver, a colleague. Quiet, steady, reliable. Claire was elated – finally, a man valuing her soul, not her looks. Two years together. Claire started hinting at marriage, eyeing white dresses. Then Oliver met the new grad – young, pretty Caitlin.
“See, Claire,” he’d said awkwardly, “you’re brilliant, but with Caitlin… I feel this spark, this thrill…”
“So it’s calm with me? Easy?” Claire asked.
“Well… yes,” he admitted. “Maybe *too* easy.”
That was when Claire truly understood: beauty ignites passion; convenience breeds habit. And habits grow boring.
After Oliver, other flings followed the same script: men appearing when hurt – after divorce, job loss, sickness. Claire nursed, supported, bolstered them. Once recovered, a stunning girl would inevitably steal them away.
“Claire, love, you know?” the last one explained. “It’s lovely with you, but it misses… that fire, you know?”
She knew.
Then came Alex. A successful businessman, divorced, with a teen daughter, Victoria. They met by chance; Claire helped him navigate an HMRC tax return.
“Cheers for bailing me out,” he’d said. “You’re a real pro. And a good sort.”
*Good sort*. She’d mentally echoed the phrase. Again. Not a woman, not beautiful – a *sort*. Good, useful, convenient.
But when Alex asked to meet again, casually, Claire’s heart fluttered. Maybe *this* time?
First date was lovely. Alex was engaging, attentive. He talked of his business, plans, even his tricky relationship with Victoria.
“She’s her mum’s girl,” he confessed sadly. “Thinks the divorce was my fault. I just… couldn’t handle the rows anymore. Ex-wife’s a stunner, ex-model. But temperament… Lord, it was exhausting!”
Claire listened, thinking: *He gets that beauty isn’t everything. Maybe now he’ll appreciate other qualities?*
Initially, it seemed so. Alex called daily; they met for theatre, meals. He brought flowers, gave compliments. Oddly, the compliments always centred on her composure:
“You’re so restful, Claire. Easy to be with.”
“You understand me, never demand the moon.”
“Total relief finding a woman who doesn’t kick off over silly things.”
Claire cherished these, ignoring the absence of words about desire, passion, or her being cherished as a lover. Only her convenience featured.
Gradually, routine set in. Alex called only when business lulls allowed. He visited Claire when Victoria was at her mum’s. Quiet evenings eating in, watching films, chatting work.
“Introduce me to your friends sometime?” Claire once asked.
“Why rush?” Alex deflected. “We’re grand as we are. Why complicate things?”
‘Complicate things’. He called her social inclusion that. Claire didn’t grasp it then.
She understood later, spotting Alex at a Westfield mall. Arm-in-arm with a striking brunette, talking animatedly, laughing with a light in his eyes Claire had never seen directed at herself – vibrant, fascinated, smitten.
Hiding behind a pillar, Claire watched them selecting perfume. Alex was tender, focused, chivalrous. Nothing like his laid-back, entitled self with her, accepting care as his due.
That evening, he rang as usual: “Claire, all right? Can I pop over? Knackered. Need some peace.”
Peace. After passion: peace. After the dazzling one: convenient Claire.
“Of course, come over,” she said, as always.
He arrived, talked of a tough day, complained of weariness. Claire cooked dinner,
Raindrops streak her window like quiet tears as Anna taps her mug, the empty space beside her finally feeling entirely hers.
