Mark. Five years after his divorce, Mark finally decides to look for a serious relationship. On paper he seems perfect he owns a semidetached house in a leafy suburb, has a steady job at a regional office, is pleasant and thinks of himself as kindhearted. Yet reality proves more tangled.
Women notice him at the office, neighbours chat over garden fences, and single mothers from the block keep an eye on him. They know him as a hardworking, calm bloke with no nasty habits a solid fellow, not a rogue, they say. He has a tenyearold son, Tom, whom he sees every weekend, and he gets along peacefully with Toms mother, Kate. All the facts paint him in a good light.
When a few dates move from coffee to theatre and cinema, the conversation stays light. The moment the subject drifts toward commitment, Mark suddenly retreats, avoiding eye contact and steering clear of anything that makes him uncomfortable.
Useless, one friend, Helen, sighs later. I told him Im good at cooking and I earn well, so I wont be a burden, and he pretended something urgent came up and left.
Same for me, adds Claire, I think Im attractive, I have a flat, but the moment I asked him to move in, he vanished like a puff of wind.
A junior colleague, Jamie, overhears and jokes, Why do you bother? He already knows marriage is a hassle, better off single. No one calls, no drama go to the pub or try fishing if you like. Jamies comment hits a nerve. For three years after his split, Mark spent his nights in strip clubs, picking up strangers and bringing them home. By the time he was twentyfive, he was exhausted, and a string of unpleasant incidents a robbery, a violent confrontation outside his block finally made him curb his wild ways. He starts seeing familiar women, keeping each fling short, never lasting more than a couple of months.
Everything feels mediocre but stable. Then a sudden flash of memory hits him like a hammer: his exwife, Julie, isnt as bad as he thought. Hes angry that after the divorce she suddenly polished herself, remarried within a year, and now flaunts her new life. Yet deep down he realises she was never greedy; she just wanted the best for herself, as many do in their youth.
Now, at forty, his greying temples give him a distinguished look. He scans his social circle plenty of pretty, decent women, perhaps even younger ones but none spark a genuine feeling. The more he looks, the more hollow his heart feels.
Thats when the story takes a turn. A workmate, Pete, mentions his sister, Lucy, who has just moved from London to the city. Shes fresh out of the capital, drives a sleek car, tired of the hustle, wants to settle down somewhere quieter. Shes looking for a decent bloke maybe you could meet her?
Mark jokes about his endless search for a wife, and Pete laughs, Im not matchmaking you, but Lucys a bit of a character. Shes into yoga, wears vintage dresses, and probably isnt your usual type, but you never know.
Intrigued, Mark arranges a simple dinner at a modest restaurant called The Spinach. Pete gives Lucys number, warns her that Mark will be punctual, and steps back. Lucy is hard to pin down she doesnt answer the phone for days, keeps postponing, and finally agrees to meet tomorrow evening, not by the window, I hate traffic noise.
Mark arrives fifteen minutes early, hangs his coat, orders a coffee, and watches the door. The place is quiet, mostly couples in cosy corners. After half an hour, he orders two Caesar salads, a bottle of cheap white wine, and waits. He calls Lucy again; she lets the call go to voicemail. He glances at the entrance, convinced shes stood him up. A fleeting silhouette of a girl in a rainsplashed coat passes the window, but she disappears.
Better that she didnt turn up, he mutters. Idve been nervous all night.
He finally settles on a grilled kebab, scrolls through his favourite food app, and sips his wine when a sighing chair creaks beside him. A woman in a drenched coat and bag sits down, rain droplets clinging to her hair. She looks startled, then smiles shyly.
Mark quickly offers his coat. She hesitates, then slips it off and hands it to him. Im Lucy, she says, wiping a droplet from her cheek. Can I have some chips, please?
Sure, the menu has chips with bacon and mushrooms, he replies, gesturing to the waiter. I ordered the kebab for myself. I thought you wouldnt come.
I was waiting at the curb, watching the street, she replies, taking a bite of the salad as if she hadnt eaten in days and washing it down with wine. She empties the plate in a few gulps, talking animatedly to the waiter between bites.
Mark watches, amused. Youre about thirty, arent you? No makeup, hair natural you look genuinely fresh. He notes her curvy figure, the way her sweater fits comfortably, and the confidence in her eyes despite the rain.
She talks about how food is the best part of life, how working six days a week just to afford a decent meal seems absurd, and how even a modest restaurant visit feels like a luxury. Her childlike enthusiasm catches him off guard; most first dates are far more guarded.
After work I just want to collapse on the sofa with a plate of dumplings, she says. If youre rich, you can afford good food; if youre poor, you appreciate it more. Mark doesnt correct her he rarely dines out and knows his own budget, but her comment makes him sit up straighter.
Lucy smiles without a hint of sarcasm, her voice bright. She thanks him profusely, then abruptly stands. I must go. You have no idea how grateful I am! she says, clutching his arm.
Lucy? he starts, but shes already heading for the door.
Can I see you again tomorrow? he calls after her. Ill give you a call.
My phones dead, she answers, laughing. Why would I need it?
Hes probably why I couldnt reach you earlier, Mark jokes, feeling his heart race. I liked you a lot tonight.
Lucys cheeks flush. Im Lucy, she repeats, as if confirming her name.
She arrived in the city almost by accident. Friends had coaxed her from a small village, promising a glamorous life in a big town. Youll earn more than your twentythousand a year here, meet a rich man, live like a fairytale, theyd said. She quit her job at the local clinic, bought a cheap flat, and believed everything would fall into place.
Her mother had long urged her to move, saying she should either marry or find work in the city. Her brother, whom she barely knew, never offered help. After a brief marriage that ended when her husband left for a job elsewhere, she returned to her mother, who then pressed her to find a stable job. Lucy landed a position in a bakery, bought a decent phone, and enjoyed a modest lifestyle her own bathroom, a short commute, a steady paycheck.
But once her friends scattered one back home, another married, a third moved north Lucy found herself alone, paying high rent and bills. She scraped together what she could, even taking in a couple of flatmates who soon caused a flood, a fight, and a landlord who demanded repair costs. She sold her phone to pay the rent and ended up in a cramped student hall with only two weeks left before payday. She boiled rice for dinner, drank hot water with jam, and felt the gnawing hunger in her stomach.
One evening, the smell of fried chips wafted through the hallway, making her tear up. She thought about the promises her friends made that money would flow like a river and that shed find a wealthy suitor. She looked in the mirror, halfsmiling at herself, remembering how everyone talked about oligarchs on every corner.
To distract herself, she bundled up and walked aimlessly until her stomach growled loud enough to attract attention. She passed a chic restaurant with large windows, watching the welldressed patrons. A woman with bright white hair and skyhigh heels leaned out of a car, glared at the restaurants entrance, muttering What a waste of space, another beggar, before revving the engine and speeding away.
Lucy stared at the scene, feeling an odd mix of embarrassment and hope. A lone gentleman at a table waved, as if inviting her over. She hesitated, then approached, and the man Mark offered her a warm smile and a bag of groceries. He walked her back to her hall, chatted, and left without asking for her number.
She watched him disappear around the corner, feeling a strange, bittersweet pang. What a peculiar man, she thought, so ordinary yet somehow kind. She returned to her room, unpacked the groceries, and found a hastily folded note tucked in a bag: Meet me tomorrow for dinner, same place, 7p.m. Mark.
