The Ideal Groom
“Claire! Andrews a well-respected and, more importantly, established man! Most cruciallyhes not exactly short of a bob or two. Youll have a three-bedroom flat in Kensington, a brand-new car, and a wardrobe full of beautiful coats. Real mink! Honestly, therell be more furs than Sloane Square in winter. He is the perfect groom, darling. You simply wont find anyone better. And I cant, for the life of me, understand why on earth you wont accept his proposal!”
“I dont know…” Claire replied, staring thoughtfully at the spot just past her mothers left earring.
Truth be told, she really didnt.
When Andrew, after nearly six months of dinner dates and polite bouquets, surprisingly popped the question, Claire had been left ever so slightly flummoxed.
She supposed shed just got used to men who always managed to begin something and leave it neatly unfinished.
Claire herself was a bit of a spectacle, you see.
The sort they politely call “the whole package.” Claire had been blessed with good looks and a sharp mindher mother liked to boast about both, usually simultaneously, at every available opportunity.
Whenever Claire strolled down the High Street or sipped tea in a café, mens gazes bored into her with breathtaking determination. And what precisely occupied their minds, well, thats anybodys guess.
Since nursery school, Claire had always drawn male attention like an open bag of crisps on public transport. Primary school, sixth form, universityalways a queue, never a wait.
Even her new job hadnt slowed things. Just months in, and most of her male colleagues were vying for her attentionostensibly admiring, but, lets be real, mostly not above a bit of leering.
So, with admirers as steady as the Northern Line in rush hour, itd seem unlikely Claire could feel lonely.
Someone was always ready to invite her to dinner at The Ivy, or a late showing at the Odeon. There were even some bold types hinting at a quick week in Marbella.
And yet, as she neared thirtythe “Goddess,” as the office called her when they thought she wasnt listeninghad yet to walk down the aisle.
Her mother was not best pleased.
“Claire, love,” fretted Mrs Margaret Blackwell, one eyebrow arching victoriously, “how long are you going to drag this out? Womens beauty isnt eternal! Its got a sell-by date, like Yeo Valley. Do you want to miss the last carriage, sitting in the station forever? Youre thirty, darling. No husband, no children. Its not normal!”
Claire totally agreed, at least in theory. But what was she to do, really, if the men crowding her life didnt seem in a rush to propose anything but, perhaps, another cheeky negroni?
Mostly, they had their reasons: freedom, existing wives (or at least a slightly mysterious “flatmate”), or just notches on the proverbial bedpost.
Everyone loved Claire, but exclusively for “relationships of the light and breezy variety.” You know, the kind that come commitment-free as standard.
Hand-holding strolls through Richmond Park for the Instagram, romantic dinners, Sunday cinema dates, even Mediterranean getaways. Fine. Sorted. No problem.
But when it came time to discuss making things official, her “princes” on white horses melted away faster than a Fab ice lolly in July.
In all honesty, Claire was tired of it.
One suitor had even suggested, rather nervously, “Shall we just see each other now and then, maybe once a week?”
“No, thanks,” Claire smiled. “Id rather spend my weekly hour at the gym. Healthier all round.”
But lo and behold, not six months after her new job began, a new admirer appeared. Andrew Percy Ainsworth, Deputy to the Big Cheese. The sort of man who could, with just a raised brow, have you out on your ear with a cardboard box.
Lunches at the chic bistro across the road followed, his treat. Business discussions, they called it, but talk was all about Claire, her holiday plans, dream homes, and favourite types of cake. Every day brought fresh flowers, chocolates, andpeculiarlymonthly bonuses, for good work. Claire, like everyone else, just did her 9-to-5 but she alone seemed to be winning the bonus lottery.
“Claire, darling, maybe youd like to invite me over for dinner soon?” Andrew asked one day, his voice as sweet as treacle.
“Dinner?” echoed Claire, buying time.
“Well, weve known each other for a while. Perfect time to take our, er, relationship to the next level.”
“Were in a relationship?”
“Of course!”
“Thank you for letting me know, Andrew. I mustve missed the memo. Well, I dont live alone. I share the flat with Mum. If that doesnt put you off, be my guest.”
Deep down, Claire was positive the mention of her mother would act as a deterrent. It did not. Andrew was unflappableand promised a visit that very Friday.
Persistent, that onealmost breezily so.
Others had scarpered at the first whiff of “meet the mother,” with enthusiasm for romance shrivelling on the spot.
What Claire felt towards Andrewif she felt anything at allremained foggy. On the one hand, it was nice (and a little pride-inducing, if she was honest) to have a mature man not quiver at the thought of her mother. On the otherAndrew didnt exactly make Claires heart flutter. Though he had all the right credentials: a certain vintage charm, a tailored suit, and just enough of the paunch to signal well-fed and not fussed.
He even looked a bit like a retired Superman whod swapped flying for finance.
Most girls her age would be thrilled to bag somebody so established; a man comfortable in a Savile Row suit, confident in his future, and (critical detail) financially reassuring.
Still, Claire decided to wait and see how far Andrews patience could stretchand, more importantly, how the first meet-the-mother would go.
After all, surely her mother would find the age gap (a solid five, maybe more, years her senior) impossibly inappropriate, providing Claire with a decent excuse to turn down her boss’s advances.
Or maybe not.
Mrs Blackwell, upon Andrews arrival (torte in one hand, a bouquet of roses in the other), nearly burst:
“What a man! Wish Id found one like him!”
Andrew kissed her hand gallantly, praised her new highlights, and before long had Mrs Blackwell beaming like a Christmas tree. Claire wondered if her mother was about to propose to Andrew herself.
Andrew soon got to work with the serenades: odes to Claires celestial beauty, tales of lonely bachelorhood, a three-bedroom flat crying out for a family, and a heart aching for love.
“I have the flat, the car, the money, but no one to leave it to,” he said, sighing dramatically to Mrs Blackwell.
“Tragic,” sighed Mum, shooting loaded glances at her daughter: help this man, for heavens sake.
Soon, Andrew began visiting regularly.
And one dayhe proposed. Out came the ring, the very size of Gibraltar. Claire stared at it as Mum nearly snatched it for herself.
“Claire, if I were you, Id accept,” Mum smiled, peering over spectacles.
“I Ill think about it,” was all Claire could muster.
Three weeks of indecision and tea later, Claire remained stuck. She knew it was high time to settle down, but was it right to say yes to someone she wasnt sure she even liked, let alone loved?
“Claire! Andrews well-respected and loaded! Youll have that city flat, a new car, and all the luxury you could possibly dream of,” her mum recited again, all but drafting the wedding invitations in her head. “Hes ideal. Honestly, love, you could do far worse. Why wont you accept?”
“Heshes older than me,” Claire mumbled.
“So?” Mums eyebrow all but leapt off her forehead. “Your dadGod rest himwas twelve years older than me, and we were happy. Married nearly thirty years and not a cross word. Dont turn up your nose!”
But.
“No buts! Take my advice: lose the pride or youll be left on the shelf until youre collecting a pension!”
Both Andrew and her mother pressed in, flanking her like determined cocker spaniels.
Really, Andrew wasnt the worst option.
Kind, attentive, generous. Dare she say it? The first man who actually asked her to marry him.
So it was decided. Ring on her finger, a date booked at Kensington Town Hall, and only twenty-nine days to go.
Mum was only too happy to help choose the wedding dress, plan the reception, and send invitations thatd put the Royal Mail to shame.
Andrew said there would be space for a hundred guests; the Blackwells could invite anybody whod ever so much as smiled at them in Tesco.
Everything was in placebut Claire was hardly beside herself with joy.
Instead of wedding giddiness, she felt distinctly out of sorts. No sparkling eyes, no beaming smilejust a gnawing sense she was making a colossal mistake.
“Claire, get a grip,” huffed Sally, her best mate, when Claire tried to speak of her doubts. “Youre set for life! Hes rich and adores you. He might not be a prince on a white horse, but at least he wont be looking elsewhere. Look around youloves a fairy tale. Most people settle for a three-bed and a holiday in the Canaries. Id kill for that ringhave you seen it? I dont know whats wrong with you!”
Even Mrs Blackwell spied her daughters hesitation and doubled down, extolling Andrews virtues, promising Claire would never find another like him, and all the rest.
*****
Sitting in the back of an outrageously ostentatious white limousine, adorned in ribbons, Clairecombo of pure white dress and confused mindtried very hard to look happy and not think about how Andrews eyes looked uncomfortably like currants.
Instead, following her mums sage advice, she attempted to see past his (rather large) face and peer deep into his soul.
“Every person has a soul, darling, and every soul is beautiful in its own way,” Mrs Blackwell had declared.
Yet, somehow, no matter how hard Claire squinted, Andrews inner beauty remained elusive.
Soon they were off, nipping through London traffic towards the Town Hall, half an hour to spare. Claire, nervously, had delayed until the last possible moment. Andrew and her mother had practically frogmarched her straight into the limo.
“Driver, do you mind putting your foot down a bit? Were running a tad late,” Andrew said, oozing authority from every double-breasted button.
Andrew just couldnt wait to wed, already picturing Claire as his wife, his property, his everything.
Claire, meanwhile, would have preferred the limo crawl alongmaybe sputter to a halt mid-Trafalgar Square.
Shed noticed other troubling quirks in Andrew lately. No matter where they were (and hed been parading her about for weeks)dinners, his friends partieshe made it very obvious Claire was his. The slightest glance from another bloke led to a possessive death-grip on her hand and daggers from Andrews eyes.
“What if I wasnt so attractive? What if, heaven forbid, he met someone even prettier?” Claire wondered.
The doubts multiplied like tourists outside Buckingham Palace.
The driver glanced back at Andrew in the rearview mirror and nodded obligingly before speeding up. Claire just barely held back tears.
“What am I doing? What am I doing?”
She desperately needed some exit strategy, something to justify leaping from the limo and sprinting from her own wedding.
Just then, with timing the BBC would envy, the limo lurched to a stop.
Andrew tumbled elegantly (like a sack of potatoes) onto the floor.
“Oi! Have you lost the plot?” bellowed Andrew, hastily regaining his composure. “Did you buy your driving licence in a cereal box?”
“Sorry, sir theres a kitten in the road. Tiny thing, zipping back and forth.”
“So drive around it!”
“Hes darting everywhere, sir!”
“Who cares! He gets run over, thats his own fault! Drive on. Were terribly late already, Mums waiting. Guests are waiting.”
“Andrew! How can you say that?” Claire burst out, appalled.
“What? Are we really going to miss our wedding because of some random kitten? Think, Claire!”
“We have to help it!”
“No, we have to get married,” Andrew snapped.
Claire pressed her nose to the window, scanning for the kitten among the wheels of passing cars but couldnt spot it.
When the driver finally geared up to go, Claire shouted for him to stop, flung the door open, and jumped out, miraculously not breaking an ankle.
“Claire! Where are you going? Stop!” Andrew cried, emerging from the limo, horror-struck.
But Claire wasnt listening. Not today.
When Andrew tried to grab her hand, she wrenched it free.
In full bridal regalia, Claire chased the kittendashing between cars, ignoring honking and dog-walkers alike.
Finally, she caught it, hugging the trembling ball of fur to her chest.
“Look what youve done!” Andrew scolded, aghast at the muddy state of her dress. “What will people say when they see you like that? Did you not think?”
“Oh, pish. The dress can be cleaned. Ive saved the kitten,” she shot back. “Would you really have let it die?”
“The kitten? Of course I would,” Andrew scoffed.
Claires eyebrows shot up.
“But I am upset about your dress; it didnt come cheap, you know. What were you thinking?”
“Money again?” Claire sighed, gazing at the scruffy kitten. “I knew my doubts were justified. Andrew looks soft and harmless, but hes got a cold bean-counting heart.”
“Claire, love, lets go. Put the cat down and get back in the car. Someone else will handle it. We have a wedding to get to!”
“No, Im not leaving this kitten. Enough. You may go alone if you like. I should have tried harder to see your soulits clearly unpleasant. Keep your ring, too.”
Claire peeled the glittering platinum band off her finger and plonked it in the gutter.
While Andrew and the driver scrambled in the road for the ring, Claire strode away, kitten in arms.
Moments later, her phone vibrated. Andrew? Mum? Both, no doubt. She ignored it.
She wasnt about to let her ex-fiancé or her mum talk her out of her spontaneous act of sanity.
She, like the little cat, had endured quite enough.
For once, Claire decided to live life for herself.
First Mum wouldnt let her have kittens growing up; now her almost-husband wanted her to abandon one. Shed had it with selfish menand selfish mothers.
“Claire, wait!” she heard Andrew shouting.
She glanced back to see him puffing after her, intent on dragging her back if he had to.
Claire picked up speed, the kitten clutching at her lacy sleeve in terror.
Suddenly, a small blue car screeched to a halt beside her. The driver, a handsome man in a tweed jacket, threw open the door.
“Jump in if you dont fancy being tackled in a wedding dress!” he grinned.
Without thinking, Claire slid into the passenger seat, kitten and all.
As the car sped off, putting blocks between her and dowdy Andrew, she grinned for the first time all day.
“Changed your mind about the whole marriage thing?” the driver asked, one eyebrow cocked. “Saw your little drama in the street. Names Oliver, by the way.”
“Claire. Yes, I changed my mind. No idea what I was thinking saying yes to him. If it hadnt been for this kitten, Id have ruined my whole life.”
“Hes a lovely thing. Well, the kitten I mean.”
Claire laughed. “He is. But I cant keep himwith Mum, animals are strictly prohibited. Unless I get my own place Oh, Ive no idea what to do.”
“If you like, I can foster the kitten for a bit. I live alonea big flat, lots of space. He wont be any bother.”
“Really?” Claire lit up. “You wont just dump him outside, will you?”
“No chance. You can come check up on him! Im home evenings, after work.”
For reasons she couldnt explain, Claire trusted this cheerful stranger. Maybe it was the tweed jacketor maybe it was simply the kindness.
Oliver dropped her home, then took the kitten away for temporary safekeeping. He left his number, promising daily updates.
She called that very evening, turned up later with cat food, a tiny scratching post, and treats.
“I thought you might find these handy,” Claire said, a little sheepishly.
“Thanksa couple of puddles have appeared under the bed. Tea?”
“Love one.”
Claire and Oliver quickly became friends, not just because of the kitten, but because there was a lightness when they were together. Each evening, Oliver would recount the kittens latest shenaniganstoday, the curtains got shreddedand both laughed instead of fuming.
“What about calling him Marmalade?” Claire suggested on her third visit.
“Perfect. Id thought the same, actually. So, little chap, youre Marmalade, alright by you?”
“Meeow!” cried the kitten, bounding from under the sofa to nuzzle its new family.
“I wonder when these daft humans will just cut to the chase and move in together,” thought Marmalade, dashing off to bat a jingly ball.
Oliver wondered, too. A month and a half after the non-wedding, Claire was still trying to rent a flat she could afford, but no dice.
Finally, Oliver summoned up the nerve. “How about moving in with me?”
Claire agreed instantly. Living with Mumstill frosty about the wedding debaclewas unbearable. Andrew, too, still held out hope, but Claire had started locking herself in her room at his approach. Shed quit her job, toomuch as she loved a generous bonus, working with your ex-fiancé isnt exactly ideal.
“Id love to,” Claire beamed.
This time, she was saying yes to Olivers proposalof marriage, that is. Six months into sharing a home, and it just felt right.
The wedding was small, only their nearest and dearest. And, obviously, Marmalade.
Mrs Blackwell didnt come. Didnt call. Shed chosen her path.
But Claire, Oliver, and Marmaladethe happiest of trioscould not have cared less: theyd found the family they needed in this wild and bewildering world.
And thats how the story goes.
