The Best Husband Is the One Who Isn’t There
Margaret 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, their conversations reduced to “Mum, everything’s fine.”
No one asked if Margaret’s life was fine. She was only forty-two—an age when a woman blooms, learns to breathe anew. But what good was blooming if there was no one to see it?
She could do everything—cook delicious meals, pickle cucumbers and tomatoes so well the neighbours drooled. Her balcony was lined with jars of preserves, like an exhibition of her solitude. “I can’t just rot away behind these four walls, not when I’m still this pretty!” she joked with her friends. They’d reply, “Don’t rot! Look around—there are blokes everywhere!”
Then someone whispered, “Try a marriage agency. They say they match you with the perfect one. It’s called ‘The Best Husband.’”
Margaret scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Like shopping for a man—pick one, try him on, return him if he doesn’t fit!” But then she remembered her forty-two years and the grandmother clock on the wall, ticking like eternity. And she went.
A woman in a scarlet blazer and heart-shaped glasses greeted her.
“We take this seriously,” she beamed. “We select candidates, issue them for a week. Keep him if you like, return him if not.”
“‘Issue’ him?” Margaret snorted.
“Exactly! He lives with you. You’ll know straight away if he’s the one. Saves time. No maniacs—strict vetting.”
Against her better judgment, Margaret felt a spark. They chose five. She paid. The first man was due that evening.
She pulled out her emerald-green dress—”the colour of hope,” her mother used to say—and put on the cubic zirconia earrings stored in an old perfume box. Her heart thudded somewhere between excitement and dread.
*Ding!* The doorbell. Margaret peered through the peephole. Roses. A massive bouquet. Her pulse fluttered. She opened the door. The man was as handsome as his photo, suited, with a confident smile. They sat at the table—salads, roast beef, cake…
He tasted the salad and frowned.
“Too salty.”
The roast—
“Tough.”
The wine—
“What’s this plonk?”
Then he stood, paced the flat, inspecting everything with a critic’s eye.
“Furnishings are a bit shabby. Kitchen needs redoing.”
Margaret took the bouquet and calmly handed it back.
“I don’t like roses. Goodbye.”
That night, she cried a little. It stung. But four more remained.
The next evening, the second arrived, reeking of lager.
“Celebrating already?” she asked carefully.
“Lighten up! Turn on the telly, the match is on!”
“Watch it at home,” she said flatly, shutting the door behind him.
The third came two days later. No looker, in scuffed boots and a threadbare jacket. Margaret nearly turned him away but fed him out of politeness.
He ate eagerly, praising every bite. When he tried her pickles, he gasped.
“Bloody masterpiece, love! Never tasted better!”
The grandmother clock’s chime caught his attention.
“What’s that racket?”
Soon he was on a stool with a screwdriver. Fifteen minutes later, the clock ticked perfectly. Margaret watched, thinking, *This is it. My man. Not handsome—but handy. Third time’s the charm.*
That night, she stepped out of the bathroom in her favourite rose-patterned lingerie. He… was already asleep. Fully dressed. On his side. Snoring like a tractor in winter.
Margaret battled the snoring all night—pillows, shoving, silent curses. Not a wink of sleep. By morning—
“So, shall I move in tonight?”
“No. Sorry. You’re lovely… but no.”
The fourth was like a relic from a bohemian past—beard, guitar, a free-spirited gaze. Lit a fag right at the table, flicked ash into her plant.
“Let’s be clear: I love freedom. No nagging, no ‘Where are you?’ And I like women.”
“As in, multiple?” Margaret clarified.
“Course. I’m a bloke, ain’t I?”
After he left, she aired the kitchen for hours. Her head throbbed like a hangover. Life felt drained from her. She didn’t even wash the dishes. Slept like the dead.
Morning. Sunshine. Silence. No footsteps, no voices, no scent of a stranger. Just Margaret, a cuppa, and sparrows outside.
“How lovely it is to be alone…”
Then the phone rang.
“Margaret! It’s ‘The Best Husband’ agency. Your fifth candidate arrives today. Trust us—he’s the one!”
“Cross me off your list!” she shouted into the receiver. “Delete my file! The best husband is the one who isn’t there!”
And with a laugh of pure, weightless relief, she flung open the curtains—as if unveiling the first morning of her true freedom.
