Lucy smoothed her dress in front of the mirror, swiped on some rosy lipstick, then fluffed a stubborn curl. She took a step back and gave herself a critical once-over. “Not bad,” she murmured, grinning at her reflection.
Her husband, Tom, appeared in the hallway doorway, leaning against the frame.
“Blimey! Where’re you off to, all dolled up like that?”
“Work. What, jealous?” Lucy widened her already big, perfectly lined eyes.
“Course I’m jealous. Fancy a lift? Better than squeezing onto the Tube,” Tom offered brightly.
“Stay home. Where d’you think you’re going with that plaster cast?” Lucy zipped up her quilted jacket, adjusted her scarf snug under her chin.
“Right, I’m off.” But she paused at the door.
“Nearly forgot. I’ll be late. Emma’s getting married. Sort of a hen do at that café near work. Don’t fuss.”
“Hold on—sure you don’t want me to pick you up later?” Tom peeled himself off the doorframe.
“Don’t be daft.” Lucy blew him a kiss and ducked out.
Tom wandered to the window, watching Lucy hurry across the courtyard below.
“How many times have I said she should learn to drive? Wouldn’t have to fight for space on the ruddy Tube,” he muttered, as if she could hear him.
At the café, music hummed under the chatter of six women crowded around pushed-together tables, sipping cocktails and swapping embarrassing wedding stories, laughing loud enough to turn heads. Suddenly, a waiter appeared with a bottle of pricey wine.
“From the gentleman at the next table. Shall I open it?” He tilted forward, eager to please.
Lucy turned. The generous stranger nodded and smiled. Her heart skipped, then raced with the music. Heat flooded her cheeks, and her smile vanished—fast as snow melting off a hill.
She knew him. How could she forget? Oliver had been the handsomest bloke at uni, a year ahead. Girls trailed after him like lost puppies. Before summer exams, she’d failed a quiz. Sat crying on the wrought-iron staircase between lectures, makeup ruined. First proper exam in two days, and without that pass, she’d be barred.
“What’s this? Flunked already?”
Lucy looked up. Oliver. Talking to *her*? While she sat there, mascara streaked, nose red?
“Didn’t pass the quiz,” she sniffed, wiping under her eyes.
“Big deal. You’ve just smudged your eyeliner.”
Lucy gasped, fumbling for her compact. Oliver handed her a handkerchief.
“Silly goose, save the waterworks for the lecturer. Thought all girls knew how to turn on the tears. Go on, catch him before he leaves. Say you studied all night, brain’s fried.”
“Really? That’ll work?” Lucy hesitated but stood.
“Won’t know till you try. Go.” He nudged her up the stairs, their metal clangs ringing sharply.
When she bounded out later, beaming, Oliver waited.
“Smiling suits you,” he said.
He walked her home, chatting away. She heard none of it, dizzy with one thought: *He’s next to me! With me!* She preened under the envious glances of passersby.
After exams, they dated. Cinema trips, beach days… She knew he cycled through girls, but her heart ignored sense. Then—he vanished. No address, no way to ask. Summer left campus empty. Lucy pined, convinced herself he’d return… until she realised she was pregnant.
“First you’re floating, now moping about. You ill?” her mum asked.
“Just a cold, probably,” Lucy lied, coughing for effect.
“See a doctor, then.”
“Will do.”
Next day, she went private—too scared of bumping into someone at the NHS clinic. The test was positive.
“Mum’ll kill me… I’m still at uni… And he’s *gone*…” She sobbed right there.
The doctor took pity. Early enough for pills, but pricey. Lucy spun a tale at home—”bad bloodwork, special meds”—and Mum, none the wiser, handed over cash.
Two days of cramps like barbed wire twisting inside. She bit her lip raw to keep quiet.
Come September, she hurried to lectures, desperate to see Oliver. He strolled past with a pretty fresher, pretending not to know her. Rumours swirled—he was engaged, finally “settling down.” Lucy clenched her fists to stop crying.
In class, Tom slid beside her. An average bloke, forgettable. She knew he fancied her. No stunner, girls only noticed him for lecture notes.
“Why the long face? Fancy a film tonight?”
Lucy shrugged. Better than weeping over Oliver. Afterwards, they wandered London. Tom rambled about some book. To her surprise, she listened, actually *forgot* about Oliver.
With Tom, she could relax. No pretending. Outside her flat, she blurted:
“Tom… d’you like me? Marry me.”
He gaped. “You serious? I *do* like you. But not like this.” He turned on his heel and left.
*”Even *he* walks away.”* Her self-esteem plunged.
Next day, as the lecturer entered, Tom whispered to him. The professor nodded, amused. Tom faced the class:
“I’d like to propose to a lovely girl named Lucy. Promise to love her forever.”
The room erupted. “Lucy! Lucy!” rang out. She had to step forward. Tom waited, ring box open. Front rows craned to see. Flowers materialised in his hand. Cheers, even a mock “Speech!”
“Will you?” he asked over the noise.
“Yes,” she whispered, flushing.
Later, Tom explained: he’d wanted it memorable—not her desperate plea.
The tale became uni legend, retold (embellished) for years.
Their marriage wasn’t fireworks. Comfortable,更像友谊. No babies came. Tom never pressed.
Now, five years later, Oliver reappeared in that café. Even more handsome. Lucy compared him to Tom—lounge pants, stretched knees, slight belly, plastered arm. *”Could use the gym,”* she thought irritably, as girls ogled Oliver’s wine gift.
He asked her to dance (though no one danced there). Under stares, Lucy stiffened. Luckily, the slow song ended. Oliver offered a lift home.
Outside, snow dusted her hair like diamond glitter in lamplight. His flashy BMW purred up. He boasted—divorced, two kids, own business—lacing it with flattery.
Lucy had him stop at the far entrance. Knew Tom would be watching. Oliver’s chatter grated. *”Vain git.”*
She thanked him, opened the door.
“Your number?” He brandished his phone.
Lucy thought of Tom, of Oliver’s vanishing act. Wordless, she slammed the door.
Walking away, she heard his engine hum, knew he watched. Then—two hooded figures lunged. One grabbed her handbag.
“Help! Olly!” she screamed.
Tires screeched. Oliver’s car sped off.
Her attacker yelped, let go. The other sprawled sideways. Suddenly, Tom stood there—slippers, T-shirt, wielding a *broomstick*.
“You alright?” he panted.
“Tom!” She buried her face in his chest, feeling him shiver.
“Inside, now. Freezing out here.” The muggers had vanished. So had Oliver.
At home, she asked, “You were watching for me?”
“Having tea. Heard you shout.”
She winced. She’d called *Olly*. But Tom had charged out, broken arm and all. Oliver had fled.
Studying Tom, she saw him anew.
“Why’re you staring?”
“You’re my hero. I love you.”
“Yeah? Well, no more going solo. And *learn to drive*.”
“Whatever you say.” She grinned.
That night, she curled into him. His good arm held her tight. Their passion surprised her.
Three weeks later, a test confirmed it.
Sunday morning, Tom returned from the loo, holding the stick.
“This what I think?”
“Meant to surprise you,” she pouted.
“Bloody brilliant!” He kissed her softly.
Lucy marvelled: *When did I fall for him?* Oliver had shown her what she had—a brave, steady man. Enduring her moods, rushing out to save her, broken arm be damned.
Pretty boys like Oliver? Nothing but trouble.
