Oh, you won’t believe this—so, gorgeous Poppy Whitmore was all set to get married. Everyone at uni assumed she’d be the first in their year to tie the knot, given how stunning she was. But guess who her fiancé turned out to be? Their professor—Dr. Philip Hartley, a linguistics scholar, who was very much married. But since when has that ever stopped anyone? At least there was only a thirty-year age gap—perfectly acceptable, right?
“Absolute rubbish you’ve been reading online!” her gran, Margaret, ranted. “What on earth are you thinking—he’s older than your dad!”
“So what?” Poppy shot back, flattered by the older man’s attention. “It’s trendy now!”
“Oh, right, trendy! Why don’t you get ‘daft cow’ tattooed on your forehead while you’re at it—that’s trendy too!”
“Maybe I will!” Poppy laughed. “Just in time for the wedding!”
Margaret sighed, watching her granddaughter twirl in front of the mirror. “God help this generation. No sense of what’s right anymore.”
“You’ve been to his house! Had tea with his wife!” Margaret tried appealing to Poppy’s conscience. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Why should I be? It’s not my fault he fell for me! And I only went to help with my dissertation—that’s normal!”
“Oh yes, ‘help with your dissertation.’ Get your help and move on! But no, you hopped straight into their marital bed!”
“You’re so stuffy, Gran!” Poppy huffed. “You’re like mothballs—stuck in the past. It’s all about new norms now!”
“Sleeping with another woman’s husband is a ‘new norm’? Let me tell you what it’s really called!” Margaret snapped. “And don’t even say you love him—I won’t believe it!”
Poppy rolled her eyes and stormed off—tomorrow, her besotted professor was taking her as his plus-one to some colleague’s anniversary do. Their first proper outing as a couple—time to make it official!
They’d already moved into a rented flat—he’d left his wife and filed for divorce. Today, Poppy was picking up her outfit for the big night.
The next day at the café, the sight of stunning Poppy beside balding Dr. Hartley left the faculty stunned—especially the wives, who’d all been friends with his ex, Eleanor.
The women exchanged glances—what a scandal! Maybe she’s his daughter?
But Poppy made her position clear—flashing suggestive smiles and resting her hand on his thigh. A bit bold for a daughter, no?
The professor, meanwhile, was oblivious—head over heels in love. Like a man possessed, knowing it was wrong but helpless to stop it.
Then the dancing started, and he couldn’t keep his hands off her—dim lights, nostalgic tunes, and this vibrant young thing by his side. Pure bliss.
Until the birthday boy’s son asked Poppy for a slow dance. They were *too* close. A colleague sidled up to Dr. Hartley and muttered, “What exactly do you see in her? Life lessons? Family values?”
“Pardon?” The professor was expecting compliments, not this.
“I mean, she’s thick as mince. And you threw Eleanor over for *this*?”
“Jealous, clearly,” Hartley thought. “Who wouldn’t be? Their wives are all past their prime—mine’s a ripe peach!”
But the icy reception from his friends stung. “Sod them,” he decided. “I’ve got the high life now!”
Then the music picked up, Poppy’s short skirt flew up—bloody thongs—and the room erupted. The women were *livid*. Hartley knew it was time to leave before fists flew.
He dragged a protesting Poppy out—”I wanna dance!”—”You can dance at home!”
And for the first time, doubt crept in. Maybe he’d rushed the divorce? Eleanor would *never* have acted like this, though she’d been just as stunning in her day.
But no—he’d already confessed everything to Eleanor. “I’ve fallen in love. I’m leaving. Keep the house.” She’d let him go gracefully, though she knew the gossip.
Poppy’s tipsy laughter snapped him back—*this* was his happiness. And she wasn’t thick—cows have lovely eyes, after all!
Days passed. Hartley worked; Poppy, now graduated and job-hunting, waited at home. “We can afford it, kitten!”
He cringed at “kitten” but stayed quiet—what if she left?
But his new life was exhausting. Poppy, restless from lounging all day, demanded nights out—pubs, ice-skating (“I’ll teach you, kitten!”).
Meanwhile, Hartley—pushing fifty—just wanted his sofa. But no—he wheezed through lacing skates, sweat beading, wondering if he’d drop dead mid-spin.
And he kept thinking of Eleanor. The divorce was days away. She and the kids had cut contact—he hadn’t cared at first. His life, theirs—no interference.
Two days before the divorce, he came home to an empty flat. No Poppy, no note—just a text: “Gone with Jeremy. Sorry!”
Jeremy—the thirty-year-old AI whiz she’d danced with at the party. Hartley had been used, then dumped. Sucked dry and spat out.
Stunned, he sank into her dent on the sofa. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition—or this.
Karma’s a boomerang. Served him right.
Minutes passed, mind blank. One coherent thought: *Thank God I didn’t buy the wedding suit.*
Then—relief. *No more ice-skating.* Stronger than the heartbreak.
He called Eleanor. “Can I come over?”
“For your things? I’ll pack them.”
“No—I want to come back.”
“Don’t bother.”
“I love only you.”
“Phil, don’t be daft,” she quoted dryly, hanging up. Said and done.
Shame crashed over him. Yesterday, he had it all—or so he thought.
*At least no more skating,* he yawned, sinking into the sofa. *Heaven.*
He’d win Eleanor back. Smiling at the thought, he drifted off—*this* was true bliss. Love? Overrated.
