Evelyn sat stunned, unable to tear her gaze from Oliver. His words echoed in her skull like a sledgehammer shattering every belief she’d clung to.
“See, Evie, women like you aren’t the marrying kind,” he said flatly, adjusting a cushion with disinterest. “There are women for love, for fun, for fleeting affairs. Then there are those who save themselves for marriage. You, unfortunately, aren’t one of them.”
“What’s wrong with me, Ollie?” Evelyn’s voice trembled with hurt. “I cook, I keep myself up, the flat’s spotless, and you’ve no complaints in the bedroom. What more do you want?”
“That’s just it,” he snapped. “You’re spoiled goods, understand? No one marries a woman like you. They enjoy you, no strings attached. But a wife? She ought to be pure, untouched—someone whose first and only is you. A woman who’d walk through fire for her husband, as they say.”
Pleased with his speech, Oliver turned to the wall and soon snored. Evelyn lay awake, her insides twisting with pain. Just a week ago, she’d sat with her girls at a cosy café along the Thames, laughing over dreams of weddings and children. Now, her world crumbled.
Evelyn was thirty-two. Not a girl, but life had been kind—a successful career as a dentist, a flat in Kensington, a sleek car, looks that turned heads. She knew her worth and felt certain: it was time to settle down. Especially with a man like Oliver in the picture.
Oliver was forty-one. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver streaks lending charm. Never married, lived alone—but close to his mother, their flats in the same building. No vices, a high-ranking job at an insurance firm. A catch, by all accounts.
They’d met in her practice. Oliver came for a check-up and left smitten. That same evening, he waited outside with a bouquet—not roses but delicate dahlias, in January! Dinner followed. And so it began.
Evelyn worked tirelessly—NHS by day, private practice by night—leaving little time for love. But with Oliver, she felt desired. Yet two years in, no ring materialised. Her friends nudged: surely it was time? Evelyn grew uneasy. Heeding their advice, she broached the subject—and got the wind knocked out of her. Spoiled goods. Unworthy.
Who was he to judge?
The next day, she met her friends at a café, shaking with outrage.
“Can you believe it? He called me spoiled goods!” she burst out.
“Bloody hell, Evie!” gasped Sophie, the bluntest of the lot. “You’re gorgeous, sharp as a tack—flat, car, career! Most blokes aren’t half as sorted!”
“He wants ‘pure’,” Evelyn scoffed bitterly. “Apparently, I’m third-rate. And I don’t know what to do. I fancy him—clever, well-off, good in bed.”
“Dump him,” cut in Martha, a single mum post-divorce. “He’ll mess with your head, and you’ll spend years picking up the pieces.”
“Come to ours in the Cotswolds,” Sophie offered. “Tom and I are celebrating twelve years. Bring Oliver—show him what a real marriage looks like.”
Evelyn agreed. Oliver, who rarely socialised, surprisingly did too. He drove, and Evelyn, anticipating a weekend with friends, relaxed slightly.
The country house was warmth itself. Children—Sophie’s two and a gaggle of cousins—darted across the lawn. Winston, their hyper corgi, zipped between guests. The grill sizzled with kebabs, the air thick with herbs and smoke.
The feast lasted till evening. Elders retreated indoors; children conked out. Only Sophie, Tom, the girls, and Oliver remained, sipping tea over blackberry pie. The talk turned to marriage. Then Oliver dropped his bomb.
“Sophie,” he began smoothly, “you think Evie ought to marry. But why’s she still single? You’ve twelve years under your belt—she’s still footloose.”
“How should I know?” Sophie blinked. “Tom and I married young—final year at uni. Evie studied, worked—no time.”
“Were you pure when you wed?” He narrowed his eyes.
“Christ, the interrogation!” Sophie snorted. “Medics are blunt, but you take the biscuit. No, not pure. Tom and I were together since first year.”
“But he met you untouched?” Oliver pressed.
“Oi, back off!” Tom bristled. “What’s it to you?”
“Exactly,” Oliver smirked. “Pure. Wise choice. But why marry a woman who’s had heaven knows how many men? If she’s tarnished, why stain your family name?”
Martha burst into giggles.
“What family? The Windsors? Why’s purity matter? And why string Evie along? She could’ve found someone decent!”
“No one’s stringing anyone,” Oliver said coldly. “Evie must understand—she’s second-best. Marriage requires justification, and I see none. You, Martha? Third-rate—divorced with a kid. No hope of remarriage. Pity you and your boy.”
Tom—six-foot-four and built like a brick wall—hauled Oliver up. “You’ll not speak to women like that in my home! Out!”
Oliver, affronted, spat, “Evie, I’m leaving. With me or staying?”
Evelyn choked on laughter, speechless. Oliver, ignored, snatched his bag, slammed the gate, and sped off.
“Tom, you’ve done me a favour!” Evelyn cackled. “Now I’m man-free—even if he was past his sell-by!”
“Bad call inviting him,” Sophie sighed. “But what a pillock! ‘First-rate’—as if we’re factory rejects!”
The girls howled at Oliver’s absurdity. Martha drove Evelyn home, and life resumed—patients, paperwork, routine. Oliver never called.
Months later, a nurse handed Evelyn an envelope. Inside—a wedding invite, all doves and gilt. Oliver’s petty revenge.
Over tea, Evelyn showed her friends.
“Don’t go,” Sophie said. “Why torment yourself? Two years wasted!”
“I’d go,” Martha smirked. “Wonder what ‘pure’ gem he’s dug up in months!”
Evelyn hesitated but went. She bought a sharp crimson suit, styled her hair, arrived early. Oliver stood proud beside a doll-like bride—twenty, maybe, drowning in white lace.
Spotting Evelyn, Oliver preened, “Meet my friend Evelyn. This is Grace.”
“And she’s pure?” Evelyn arched a brow.
“Naturally,” Oliver beamed. “Her family and I take pride in that.”
Grace blushed—nerves, Evelyn assumed. The ceremony was swift, guests scant. At the reception, colleagues and distant relatives piled in. Speeches, laughter, the usual. Then Grace’s father grabbed the mic.
“Oliver, we’ve given you our Gracie!” he boomed, ushering forward two boys. “Meet your new sons—Jamie and Noah!”
Evelyn spat out her wine. Oliver recoiled. His mother turned sheet-white.
“Pure, was she? Terrified of men? She’s had kids!”
Oliver shrieked, “Divorce! Tomorrow! I won’t raise another man’s brats! And you—” he whirled on Grace, “I thought better of you! ‘Nothing before marriage’? You’re not third-rate—you’re off the scale!”
Grace whimpered, “Mum and Dad said you’d never marry otherwise. Two others refused.”
Oliver crumpled into a chair. Guests panicked, called an ambulance. Evelyn, assured he’d live, slipped out, stifling giggles. Karma’s a bitch.
Oliver divorced fast. He crawled back to Evelyn—she slammed the door. Why take expired goods? Especially when a kind, divorced colleague was already bringing her coffee.