*The Years of Solitude: A Six-Year Trial Without a Beloved.*
Emily felt utterly exhausted. She had been alone for six years since her husband left. Her daughter had married a year ago and moved to another city.
At forty-two, Emily was in the prime of lifeher second youth. She was an excellent homemaker, a skilled cook; her pickled cucumbers with tomatoes were called masterpieces. But why bother making them now? Rows of empty jars gathered dust on the balcony.
“Surely I wont perish alone, not looking like this!” Emily would lament to her friends. Theyd reply, “Dont be silly! Find a man! There are plenty of single men about.”
One suggested she try the agency *Best Man Ltd.* Emily thought it absurd, even embarrassinggoing to an agency. But then again, forty-two was a number that gnawed at her. Grandmothers old clock on the wall ticked away the hours with a hollow, mocking chime.
So Emily went. A pleasant woman in raspberry-tinted glasses greeted her.
*”We have only the finest here. Lets browse the database togethertake a seat!”*
*”Yes, theyre all handsome,”* Emily smiled faintly. *”But how do you really know if hes the one?”*
*”Its all arranged,”* the woman assured. *”We offer a one-week trial. Enough time to decideyours or not. Worth continuing or moving on.”*
*”You offer what?”*
*”A husband!”*
*”How does that work?”*
*”Simple! He lives with you for a week. Listen, were not shy spinsters herewe talk business. No maniacs, no lunatics.”*
Emily, suddenly intrigued, chose five candidates. She paid a modest fee and hurried home. The first was due that very evening.
She slipped into a green dressthe colour of hopeand the diamond earrings she so rarely wore.
*Ding-dong!*
Peering through the peephole, she saw roses. A quiet thrill ran through her. She opened the door to an elegant man, just as in his photo.
They sat at the table. Emily had prepared a feast. The bouquet took centre stage. Secretly, she studied her pleasant guest and thought, *”This is it. No need for the others. Him.”*
They began with salad. The prospective husband frowned. *”Too much vinegar.”* Flustered, Emily served roast pork. He chewed laboriously. *”Tough.”* Nothing pleased him. In her anxiety, shed forgotten the winecarefully selected, now poured hastily. *”To new beginnings!”* He sniffed the glass. *”Cheap swill.”* Rising, he declared, *”Lets see how you live.”*
Emily handed him the roses. *”I dont like roses. Goodbye.”*
That night, she wept a little. But four more trials awaited.
The second arrived the next evening, reeking of whisky. *”Evening, love!”*
*”Celebrating already?”* Emily asked. He grinned. *”Nah. Got the telly? Matchs onArsenal versus Chelsea. Well talk after.”*
*”Watch it at home,”* she snapped.
Again, she cried alone.
The third came two days laterno looker, in a scuffed jacket, muddy boots, unkempt nails. Emily nearly showed him out, but politeness made her offer supper. He ate greedily, praising her cooking between mouthfuls. Embarrassed, she brought out pickled cucumbers.
*”Blimey!”* he exclaimed. *”Best Ive ever had!”*
Then Grandmothers clock chimed. *”Whats that noise?”* He climbed onto a stool, inspecting the mechanism. *”Needs fixing. Got any tools?”*
Soon, the clock ticked cleanly, sweetly. Emily, moved by the sound, took it as a sign. This homely craftsman must be the one. Muddy boots? Trivial. He was kind, skilledand third, a lucky number.
That night, she prepared carefullyfresh linen, rose-patterned (for she did love them). Emerging from her bath, she found him already asleep, fully clothed. Unbothered, she gazed tenderly. *”Poor thing, worn out.”* She slipped under the covers beside him.
Then the nightmare began. He snoredexpertly, thunderously. Pillows over her head, then his; rolling him asidenothing helped. She endured till dawn.
At breakfast, the handyman grinned. *”Right then. When should I fetch my things?”*
Emily shook her head. *”No. Youre lovely, but No.”*
The fourth, bearded, seemed a rugged hero from an old adventure film. She even let him smoke in the kitchen. He exhaled lazily. *”Emily, lets be clear. Im a free man. Love fishing, lads weekends. No naggingWhere are you? Deal?”*
She watched him tap ash into an orchid pot. *”And other women?”*
He winked. *”Course. Freedom, innit?”*
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. A headache pounded; she felt drained, lifeless. She didnt even wash the dishes.
Morning came. Sunlight glowed behind the curtains; sparrows chirped. Emily, for the first time in weeks, felt light. Saturday. No hurry, no nuisance, no snoring. Dishes? Later. Peace. Freedom.
Then the phone rang. *”Emily! Best Man Ltd. Your final candidate todayhes perfect, absolutely yours!”*
She nearly shouted. *”Remove me! Delete my file! The best man is no man at all!”*
Laughing, she drew back the curtains.
