A young woman with her own flat dreams of getting married…
“Another one married off. That’s one more happy person in the world. May they live together till their golden anniversary!” said Margaret Williams, the head accountant and the eldest in the office both by rank and age, raising her glass of bubbly.
“Why stop at gold? Let’s wish them diamond!” chimed in lively Emma.
“Marriage isn’t always a bed of roses,” sighed cleaner Auntie Pam from the doorway. “Some bloke marries today, turns to the bottle tomorrow. Oh, girls, what’s so bad about staying single?”
“Auntie Pam, why don’t you just…?” Emma huffed, waving her off. “Just because you had a bad run doesn’t mean marriage is a bad idea. Our Lucy’s got herself a keeper—handsome, got a car, proper prospects. Don’t listen to anyone, Lucy—just be happy!” Emma saluted with her champagne flute.
Lucy had just returned from her week-long honeymoon. She’d brought sweets and fizz to celebrate with her office mates, glowing like a freshly polished silver teapot—though she was a bit anxious. She’d promised her new husband she’d only stay an hour, just to raise a toast with the girls. But three hours had slipped by, the champagne was long gone, and a second round had been fetched from the shop. No one seemed in a hurry to leave. Her husband had been texting, asking when she’d be home, saying he missed her and would even come fetch her.
“Right, girls, carry on. Clear the table, and I’ll mop up in the morning,” said Auntie Pam.
“Off you go, Auntie Pam, don’t fret—we’ll tidy up,” Margaret assured her. “Ladies, one last round before we call it a night. Just Sophie left to marry now, and we’ll have the full set.”
“Honestly, Soph, why are you still single?” Emma, well into her cups, nudged. “You’re pretty, got your own place—what’s the holdup? Waiting for Prince Charming?”
“What’s the flat got to do with it?” Sophie frowned.
“How old are you again? At your age, I already had two kids, and my eldest was starting school. Me and my husband had our rough patches—nearly split a couple times. But I told him: you helped make ’em, you’ll help raise ’em. Now he’s wrapped round my little finger.” She brandished a fist.
“People marry for all sorts—passion or accidents. Passion fizzles, routine sets in. And kids? Don’t get me started. Sleepless nights, short tempers—next thing you know, divorce. A decent man leaves the flat to his ex and the kids, then bunks up in a bedsit. Not for long, though. All his mates are married, nowhere to crash. Then he starts eyeing up single women with no kids and—bingo!—a flat of their own. So, I’m amazed you’re still on the shelf.”
“That’s a grim way of looking at it,” Sophie snapped. “So I’m only fit for divorced blokes with no home? You think at thirty I’ve got no chance with someone who isn’t paying child support?”
“Don’t mind her, Sophie, she’s sloshed,” Margaret sighed. “Men these days aren’t rushing to settle. Building careers and all that. Though, you *have* been single a while. We’ll fix that.”
“Exactly!” Emma jumped in. “Successful, single blokes know their worth—they want younger, prettier. Divorced ones aren’t as picky. As long as you’re nice and have a roof over your head—better than bouncing between flats or living with Mum!”
“Fate works in odd ways,” Margaret mused. “Some marry young, some marry twice. Others find love late. My friend’s got a son—thirty-six, never married. Clever, educated, good job—just unlucky in love.”
“What’s wrong with him? Boozer? Or is he…?” Emma caught Margaret’s warning look. “What? My mate’s cousin—”
“Emma, enough! You’ve got a mouth like a motorway. Life throws curveballs. Think about it, Sophie. He’s a good lad. I’ve been meaning to introduce you.”
“Why are we even talking like this? I don’t believe in set-ups. Everyone oversells each other, then reality bites. I’ll manage on my own.”
“Manage *how*? Office is all women, you don’t do clubs. If you don’t click, no one’s forcing you. He’s got his own place, mind. Worth a shot, yeah?” Margaret pressed. “Girls, we’ve outlasted our welcome—hubbies won’t let us in at this rate!”
The girls tidied up, then scattered.
“Don’t write it off yet,” Margaret said as she and Sophie walked to the bus stop. “I didn’t bring this up for nothing. My husband’s birthday’s on Saturday—invited my friend and her son. You should come. See if you hit it off. No harm trying.”
The next two days, Sophie wrestled with doubt. The plan felt forced. Still, she picked an outfit and freshened her nails.
“How many diets have I promised myself? Two days won’t fix it,” she groaned at the mirror. “Who’d love me if I don’t love myself? Bollocks. I’m not going.”
Saturday morning, she washed her hair, curled it, did her makeup, chose a dress. The gift, though? She rang Margaret, who told her not to fuss—just bring herself. If she *had* to, a bottle of wine. What else do you get a stranger?
With time to spare, Sophie popped to the shop. The local corner shop’s selection was dismal, so she trekked to the supermarket two stops away. Picked wine, grabbed chocolates, cheese, and a loaf—just in case. What if things went well? He might walk her home, want tea—and she’d nothing to offer. She’d been avoiding bread and sweets, trying to slim down.
Buoyed by hope, Sophie joined the queue. Just as she started unloading her basket, a man cut ahead, slapping down a bottle—the same one she’d picked.
“I was here first,” she bristled.
“Sorry, love. In a rush. Just the wine—you’ve a full basket. By the time you unload, I’ll be done.”
“Thirsty, are we? Bloody cheek.” The cashier had already scanned his bottle. “You *saw* me first—why serve him? Because he’s a bloke?”
“Miss, I apologised. No need to shout—I’m gone.” He took his bottle and left.
The cashier shot Sophie a scornful look as she rang up her items.
Sophie’s mood soured. She regretted spending, regretted the fuss. And for *what*? Some selfish prat who thought the sun shone out of— No. No invites, no outings. All the way home, she cursed the man, the cashier, herself for dreaming…
“Better single than stuck with *that*.” Light rain ruined her hair, sealing her gloom. At home, she changed into her dressing gown and slumped before the telly.
Margaret called—as if sensing her mood. Sophie ignored it. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
“I knew it,” Margaret said, stepping in. “Guests are arriving—husband’s alone. Quick, get dressed. Taxi’s waiting. No excuses.”
Sophie gave in. Margaret was her boss, after all. “Hair’s wrecked, mood’s foul. Fine. I’ll sit, leave early.”
“Meg, where’ve you been? Guests are here—what do I do with the roast?” Margaret’s flustered husband met them.
“The roast! Blast!” Margaret dashed to the kitchen.
Sophie wished him happy birthday, handed over the wine—he gave it a funny look—and was shown to the lounge. A pleasant woman Margaret’s age sat on the sofa. By the window, a man stood with his back turned.
“Meet… What was your name?” the host whispered. Sophie murmured it. “Sophie, works with Meg. This is Anne, and her son, James.”
*So this is the set-up.* The doorbell rang again; the host added her bottle to two identical ones on the table and left.
The man turned—Sophie recognised the queue-jumper.
“Small world,” he muttered, smirking.
“You two know each other?” Margaret asked, returning.
More guests arrived; seating was arranged. James ended up beside Sophie, naturally.
“Still mad?” he murmured, pouring her wine. “Had I known you’d be here, I’d’ve skipped the shop.”
“Jumped the queue, still rude,” Sophie fired back.
“Feisty. One might lose a finger.”
“What?”
“Figure of speech. Don’t tempt fate.”
“Six months later, as the office celebrated Sophie and James’s wedding, Auntie Pam muttered into her sherry, “Well, at least this one won’t be needing my mop.”
