“Mail-Order Bride”
There was a woman lying on the bed, snoring loudly. The man winced at the smell, then gave her a firm smack on the backside. She yelped and sat up. Even though it was stuffy, she was bundled up in woolly socks and a thick jumper, with a grubby scarf slipped to one side. Greasy hair stuck out from under it, the colour hard to make out.
“Who the hell are you?” she gasped. Instead of answering, he pulled a photo from inside his coat and held it up to her face. “Recognise this?”
She flushed red and fiddled with the scarf. “Yeah, that’s me. Twenty years ago.”
The man sat down on a rickety chair. “So what was all that, then? Sweet letters, inviting me to visit? Can’t even step foot in your house without gagging. And like a proper mug, I thought I’d finally found my soulmate. Remember who you were writing to? It’s Nigel. Came like I promised.”
Molly jumped up. “Sorry it’s like this. Could’ve sent a telegram, given me a heads-up. Kitchen’s this way—think there’s some soup left. Bet you’re starving.”
“Course I am,” Nigel said. “But do us a favour—change first. You don’t exactly smell like roses.”
Molly ducked into the next room. “I work on a farm, don’t I? Muck don’t smell like lavender.” She came back in a dress, scarf tied neatly. “You wrote you were forty, not eighty,” Nigel smirked. “Wearing that scarf like some old biddy.”
“Habit,” Molly shrugged, then jerked her chin toward the kitchen. “Come on then.”
Nigel sat down and grimaced—the tablecloth was sticky with grease. Meanwhile, Molly opened the lid of a dirty pot, and a sharp, sour stink hit the whole room.
“Christ, you’re no homemaker, are you? Dishes filthy, table’s minging, plates greasy. You even wash these?”
Molly bristled. “‘Course I do! Heat up water and scrub.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You put anything in it? Soda? Washing-up liquid?”
She faltered. “No. Gran and Mum always just used boiling water.”
“Right, we’re off to the shop. I’ll make a list. Here’s some cash—no, keep yours, I’m the guest. And grab us a bottle of red, eh? For the occasion.”
Walking to the shop, Molly wondered how she’d got tangled in this mess. Just flipping through the paper at work, the lonely hearts column. The girls egged her on—”Go on, Molly, it’s fate! How long’s it been? Pick a bloke and write him!”
Bloody fool she was to agree. And of all people, she picked Nigel. First letter, she found out he was still inside, three years left. Then somehow, they kept writing—him about his life, her about hers. She even sent that old photo from when she was twenty. Figured they’d just write, then he’d get out and shack up with some sweetheart. But no—he came to *her*. And now he’s turning his nose up.
So the place isn’t spotless—who’s she keeping it for? Work, sleep, batch-cook for three days, that’s it. Evenings are for telly romances, the kind she’s never had. Well, once. Dave Redman. Used her, then married someone else. After that, she gave up. Then when she buried Nan and Mum, she just stopped caring.
But Nigel’s not bad—broad shoulders, crisp white shirt, smart trousers. Nice aftershave, too. What if he tries something? Christ, terrifying. Could bunk at a mate’s, but feels wrong—bloke came all this way.
When she got back with bags, Nigel had tidied a bit—piled the laundry, swept up, set out a basin for washing up. “Get everything?” he asked, peering in the bags. “Right, go sort the boiler, I need a wash after the trip. And take that laundry—you’ll do it later.”
While she fussed with the boiler, he scrubbed everything. Molly gaped at the pot—turns out it was *blue*, not grey.
“Right, let’s talk,” he said after. “I came to stay. Liked you from your letters. Got no place of my own—ex-wife got it all. If you don’t want me, say now, I’ll go and won’t bother you again. Word’s bond. Well?”
Molly picked at the tablecloth. “Dunno, honestly. Never had a husband—got messed about young. Can’t even picture living with a bloke. Proper scared, if I’m honest. But… I like you. Don’t know what to do with that.”
Nigel smiled. “That’s why I like you more. No games, wear your heart on your sleeve. Tell you what—we’ll live like flatmates. If it’s not working, I’m gone. If it does… I’ll treat you like a queen.”
Molly went red and flustered. “Should—should make dinner—”
“I’ll be ages in the bath,” he said. “You’ll manage.”
When he came out, the table was set and floors mopped. Molly, in a dressing gown, towel in hand, scurried past—off to wash.
Later, clean and dressed, her long chestnut hair brushed out, Nigel wanted to sweep her up and kiss her. But he’d promised.
They slept apart—her in bed, him on the sofa. Neither slept. Morning came, and Molly bolted to work. When she got back, breakfast was waiting—omelette, tea, toast. Nice, that.
Meanwhile, Nigel paced her overgrown yard, mentally listing what needed fixing.
Well, long story short—third night, Molly went to *him*.
Four years on, they’re raising little Lottie, mad about her.
Thing is, people mess up. Doesn’t mean they’re written off forever. Everyone deserves a shot at happiness. Don’t you think?