Exhausted after six years of solitude, Emily felt utterly drained. For six long years, she had lived alone, ever since her husband walked out. Last year, her daughter married and moved to another city, leaving Emily truly by herself.
At forty-two, she was in her primestill radiant, still vibrant. A brilliant homemaker, famous for her spiced tomato chutney, which everyone called a masterpiece. But now, who would she even make it for? Jars piled up unused on her balcony, gathering dust.
I wont just wither away in this emptiness, not when Ive still got so much to give! Emily would tell her friends. Their reply was always the same: Find yourself a husband! There are plenty of good men out there.
One of them suggested a matchmaking agency called *The Perfect Match*. The idea seemed absurd, even patheticembarrassing, really. But at forty-two, that number gnawed at her. The antique clock from her grandmother ticked relentlessly in the hall, measuring out the seconds she had left.
So she went.
A kindly woman in violet glasses greeted her. We have the very best candidates. Lets look through our database together. Sit beside me, dear.
Emily smiled. Theyre all handsome, yesbut how will I know if any of them are right?
Simple! the woman chirped. We loan him to you for a week. Enough time to decidekeep him or send him back. No pressure.
*Loan* him?
Exactly. Hell live with you for a week. No point blushing like a schoolgirlwere all adults here. And rest assured, we screen out all the oddballs.
Suddenly, the idea thrilled her. She and the woman in violet glasses picked five contenders. Emily paid a modest fee and hurried home. The first suitor would arrive that very evening.
She slipped into an emerald dressthe colour of hopeand fastened diamond earrings she rarely wore, pulled from an old jewellery box.
*Ding!*
Peering through the peephole, she saw roses and stifled a delighted gasp. She swung open the door. The man was as dashing as his photo.
They sat down to a feast shed prepared. She placed the roses centre-stage. Glancing at her charming guest, she thought, *This one. No need to look further.*
They started with salad. The suitor grimaced. Bit heavy on the salt? Flustered, Emily smiled. Then came her roasted duck. He chewed, frowned. A tad dry The rest fared no better. In her rush, shed forgotten the wine, carefully chosen for the occasion. She poured. To us! He sniffed, sipped, winced. Second-rate vintage. He stood. Now, lets see this place
Emily thrust the roses back into his hands. I *hate* roses. Goodbye.
That night, she criedstung, humiliated. But there were four more to meet.
The second suitor arrived the next evening, reeking of whiskey. Alright, love? he boomed. Tell me youve got the tellymatch is on, Manchester United vs. Liverpool. Well chat over it.
Emily glared. Watch it at home.
More tears.
Two nights later, the third candidate arrivedscruffy, nails dirty, mud on his shoes. She nearly turned him away at the door, but relented, inviting him to eat. He devoured everything, praising her cooking wildly. She almost blushed. Then, she brought out her preserves.
Bloody hell! he gasped. Best Ive ever tasted!
Just then, her grandmothers clock chimeda rusty, grating sound. He perked up. Whats that racket? He marched in, climbed onto a stool, inspected it. Ill fix that. Got any tools?
Soon, the clock ticked clear and sweet for the first time in years. Emily listened, moved. *A sign*, she thought. This man might be rough around the edges, but he was kindfixable. And he was the *third* suitor. Lucky number.
That night, she readied herselffresh linen, delicate perfume. She slipped into bed beside him.
Thenthe nightmare. His snoring. *Deafening. Unstoppable.* She shoved a pillow over her head, rolled him onto his sidenothing helped. She didnt sleep a wink.
At breakfast, he grinned. So, when do I move in?
Emily sighed. No. Youre lovely, but no.
The fourth, bearded like an old pirate, smoked in her kitchen. Lets be clear, he said, flicking ash into her potted orchid. Im a free spirit. Love fishing, nights out with the lads. Wont be answering to any Where are you? texts. That work for you?
Emily watched the ash fall. And chasing women?
He smirked. Course. Freedom, innit?
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Exhausted, headache pounding, she left the dishes undone.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains. Sparrows sang outside. For the first time in weeks, she felt *light*. No rush, no demands, no noise. The dishes? Shed do them *when she pleased*.
Thenthe phone rang.
Emily! *The Perfect Match* calling! Weve got another candidatethis ones *the one*, I swear!
Emily nearly shouted. *Delete my file.* No more. The perfect husband? *The one who doesnt exist!*
Laughing, she threw open the curtains.
