The Best Husband Is No Husband at All
Emma had long stopped believing in miracles. Six years had passed since her divorce—six endless winters, springs, summers, and autumns. Her daughter had married a year ago and moved to Edinburgh, calling rarely, and even then, the conversations never went beyond, “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked if Emma was fine. She was only forty-two—an age when a woman blossoms, learns to breathe again. But who cared about her blooming when there was no one to share it with?
She could do anything—cook delicious meals, jar pickles and chutneys so well the neighbours drooled. Her shelves were lined with preserves, like an exhibition of her solitude. “I can’t just rot away inside four walls, not when I’ve still got it!” she’d joke to her friends. They’d always reply, “Don’t rot! Look around—there are plenty of blokes out there!”
One of them whispered, “Try a matchmaking agency. They say they pair you with perfect matches. It’s called something fancy—‘The Best Husband’.”
Emma scoffed. “Sounds ridiculous. Like shopping—pick one, try it, return it if it doesn’t fit!” But then she remembered her forty-two years and the grandmother clock on the wall, ticking like eternity. So she went.
A woman in a crimson blazer and heart-shaped glasses greeted her.
“We take this seriously,” she smiled. “We select candidates, assign them for a week. Keep him if you like, send him back if you don’t.”
“Wait—*assign* him?” Emma snorted.
“Yes! He’ll live with you. You’ll know straight away if he’s the one. Saves time. No creeps—strict background checks.”
Unexpectedly, Emma felt a spark of hope. They picked five candidates. She paid. The first was due that very evening.
She pulled out her emerald-green dress—”the colour of hope,” her mother used to say. She put on her cubic zirconia earrings, kept in an old perfume box. Her heart pulsed somewhere between excitement and dread.
*Ding!* The doorbell. Emma peeked through the peephole. Roses. A huge bouquet. Her heart fluttered. She opened the door. The man was as handsome as his photo, in a sharp suit, smiling confidently. They sat at the table—salads, roast beef, cake…
He took a bite of salad and frowned. “Too salty.”
The roast beef. “Tough.”
The wine. “What’s this cheap swill?”
Then he stood, wandered around, and eyed the flat like a critic. “Bit basic. This kitchen needs a proper renovation.”
Emma picked up the bouquet and handed it back. “I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But four more chances remained.
The next evening, the second one arrived smelling of whiskey.
“Celebrating already?” Emma asked carefully.
“Oh, lighten up! Turn on the telly—match is on!”
“Watch it at your place,” she said flatly and shut the door.
The third came two days later. Not handsome, in scuffed boots and a faded jacket. She nearly sent him away right then but decided to feed him—out of politeness.
He ate eagerly, praising every bite. When he tried her chutney, he gasped. “Bloody brilliant, love! Never tasted anything like it!”
The ticking of her grandmother clock caught his attention. “What’s that racket?”
Soon, he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen minutes later, the clock ticked perfectly. Emma watched him and thought, *This is it. My match. Not pretty—but useful. Third time’s the charm.*
That night, she stepped out of the shower in her rose-patterned lingerie—only to find him already asleep. Fully clothed. On his side. Snoring like a tractor in winter.
She battled the noise all night—pillows, shoving, silent curses. Zero sleep. By morning: “So… should I bring my things tonight?”
“No. Sorry. You’re lovely… but no.”
The fourth was like something out of a rom-com—bearded, guitar in hand, wild-eyed. Lit a fag right in the kitchen, flicked ash into her plant.
“I’ll be straight—I love my freedom. Don’t call me a hundred times, don’t ask where I am. And—I love women.”
“Other women, you mean?” Emma clarified.
“Course. I’m a bloke, ain’t I?”
After he left, Emma aired out the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed like a hangover. She felt drained. Didn’t even wash the dishes. Slept like the dead.
Morning. Sunlight. Silence. No footsteps, no voices, no foreign smells. Just Emma, her coffee, and sparrows outside. “God, it’s good to be alone.”
Then the phone rang.
“Margaret Turner? ‘The Best Husband’ agency. Your fifth match arrives today—trust us, he’s the one!”
“Take me off your list!” she shouted. “Delete my file! The best husband is no husband at all!”
With a laugh of pure relief, she flung open the curtains—greeting the dawn of her freedom like a brand-new day.
