“Mum, will you stop fussing!” Emma snapped, barely glancing away from the mirror where she was carefully lining her eyes. “It was just Geoffrey calling about the cinema. Once! What’s the big deal?”
“Once?!” Margaret exclaimed, dropping the potato she’d been peeling. “From the sound of it, he’s picked out the wedding venue already! He was telling your Aunt Carol yesterday he’s got serious intentions. You only turned eighteen last week!”
Emma set her eyeliner down, turning to face her mother. That familiar stubborn glint flashed in her eyes. “Honestly, Mum! We’ve only been seeing each other four weeks. He’s lovely – hardworking, doesn’t drink. What more could you want?”
“What more? A bit of time!” Margaret sank onto a kitchen stool, wiping her hands on her apron. “Life’s long, Emma love. You’ve got years yet to get married.”
“Who said anything about marriage?” Emma flushed slightly. “We’re just… dating.”
Yet deep down, she could already picture herself in a wedding dress, feel Geoffrey gently taking her arm near the altar. He was the first man who’d properly courted her – flowers, walking her home. After immature schoolboys, he seemed so grown-up, dependable.
The phone rang. Emma jumped, but her mother got there first.
“Hello? Geoffrey! Good morning. No, Emma’s gone down the shops.” Margaret gave her daughter a pointed look. “Yes, I’ll tell her you rang.”
“Why did you lie?” Emma protested as her mother hung up.
“And why must he ring every single day? A man needs some pride. If something comes too easy, Emma, it’s not valued enough.”
Emma snorted, grabbed her handbag, and hurried out. Geoffrey waited on the pavement, tall and broad-shouldered, in a crisp shirt smelling faintly of aftershave. “Emma!” His face lit up. “Your mum said you’d gone shopping.”
“Oh, she… she was joking,” Emma mumbled, flustered. “Mums are like that, aren’t they?”
Geoffrey nodded understandingly. He liked that his girl had a caring mum. He could already picture himself as a son-in-law, helping Margaret around the house, fixing her dripping tap.
The cinema was showing a new romantic film. Emma sat beside Geoffrey, feeling the warmth of his hand covering hers. On screen, young lovers pledged undying love, and Emma’s own heart beat a little faster.
“Emma,” Geoffrey whispered during a tender scene, “what if we…”
“What?” she breathed, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“Well… if we got married? I mean it. My job’s secure, you get help with housing for young couples. We’d make a good life.”
Emma’s heart skipped. This was the moment she’d secretly dreamt of. Geoffrey – the first man to propose. How could she possibly say no?
“Yes,” she whispered, without hesitation.
He squeezed her hand, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. On screen, the lovers ran towards the sunset, and life felt excitingly new.
They held a simple wedding reception at Margaret’s house. Emma stood in a white dress made by a friend’s cousin and smiled at the guests. Geoffrey stayed close, attentive and caring.
“Lovely couple!” neighbours remarked. “Just look how he dotes on her! You can see the love.”
Margaret bustled in the kitchen, trying to hide her worry. Something about this rushed wedding troubled her, but her daughter was happy. Wasn’t that the most important thing?
“Emma,” Aunt Carol approached the bride, “cherish this happiness. A husband is for life.”
“Of course, Aunt Carol,” Emma nodded, adjusting her veil. “We love each other.”
But a month after the wedding, married life wasn’t quite the idyll she’d imagined. Geoffrey, having finally got their new flat, plunged into decorating. Every evening brought drilling, hammering, rearrangement.
“Geoff, maybe tonight we could just chat?” Emma suggested timidly as he prepared his drill again.
“Later, love. Can you see? These shelves won’t hang themselves. A home needs a man’s hand, like a house needs a roof.”
Emma sighed and went to make shepherd’s pie. When they were dating, Geoffrey listened attentively, cared about her thoughts. Now, only DIY mattered.
He also became particular about her appearance.
“Love, you can’t just slob about,” he’d say if she popped to the corner shop in tracksuit bottoms. “You’re a married woman now. Need look the part.”
“What’s wrong with tracksuit bottoms?” Emma would ask, surprised.
“Everything’s wrong. Buy some proper dresses, skirts. Like grown women wear.”
Emma bought dresses she didn’t really like, styled her hair his way, cooked his favourite roasts. But it brought no joy. It felt like living someone else’s life.
One evening, Margaret visited.
“Love, you’re looking peaky,” Margaret said, studying Emma. “Feeling alright?”
“Fine, Mum. Just tired.”
“And where’s Geoffrey?”
“Fishing. Again.” Emma couldn’t hide the irritation.
“Often?”
“Every weekend. Says a man needs a break from married life.”
Margaret frowned. “And you? Don’t you need one? You’re family too.”
“Where would I go? My mates are all married or moved away. Geoff doesn’t like me visiting neighbours. Says a wife should be home.”
Her mother was silent for a long moment. Then, softly, “Emma, are you happy?”
The question threw her. She opened her mouth to say ‘of course’, but the words wouldn’t come. She looked down at her hands, roughened by cleaning, then at her reflection in the darkening window pane – tired eyes on a young face looking too old.
“I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. “I suppose this is just marriage?”
“No, love,” Margaret shook her head firmly. “It is not.”
That night, Emma lay awake beside her softly snoring husband, thinking of that cinema moment, that first ‘yes’. Then, it felt like the absolute right choice. Geoffrey had been so romantic, attentive. She’d been certain it was love.
Now she understood: she hadn’t fallen for him, but for the thrill of being wanted. The flattery of being chosen. She hadn’t paused to consider if they truly suited each other – their characters, interests, dreams – matched at all.
The next morning, Geoffrey left for work, instructing her to get groceries and have dinner ready. Emma nodded mechanically, but instead of the shop, she went to her mother’s.
“Mum, remember you said I was rushing into marriage?”
“I do.” Margaret poured her tea and sat beside her.
“You were right.” Emma looked down. “I married the wrong man. Or maybe just at the wrong time. Not sure.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing huge. Just… we’re completely different. He wants a convenient wife – cooks, cleans, stays put. And I… I want to *live*. Work, see people, travel. We don’t even talk properly. He talks football and work; I talk about books I’m reading, films I want to see. We’re strangers in the same flat.”
“And what will you do?”
“Don’t know.”
Emma realised with bittersweet clarity that her hurried ‘yes’ had cost her youthful
Emily carefully folded the newspaper bearing her latest byline, feeling a familiar twinge of regret for that impulsive ‘yes’ whispered in the cinema, but knowing now she would wait for the right moment and the next true love.