The Fiance - Stefanie London Page 0,1

rejected a suitable proposal, only to fall for a guy later on who turned out to be a scumbag. He got her pregnant and left her to raise a baby—a.k.a. me—on her own. She ended up a single mother with trust issues who’d “wasted” her youth. By the time she was ready to date again, nobody was interested in a woman with baggage.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. I appreciate the sacrifices she made to raise me. I really do.

But I think her still being single in her fifties has more to do with her attitude than the life she’s lived. Unfortunately for me, she’s become fixated with marrying me off before I turn thirty so I don’t follow in her footsteps.

“I’m not you, Mum.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”

“I never thought I would make those mistakes, either.”

Every so often I glimpse the woman she used to be—the woman I’ve seen in old photos. Shiny brown hair, a wide smile, hazel eyes with unusual hints of orange-gold...an image eerily similar to what I see in the mirror. She was vivacious and loved to throw parties and go to rock concerts and write achingly beautiful poetry. She was full of life.

Some days I wish I’d met that version of her.

“We’re not having this discussion,” I say, pushing back on the dining chair so it scrapes against the tiled floor. “I’m not marrying Anthony and I don’t need your help finding a man.”

“Because you already have one?” The hope in her voice is like nails on a blackboard.

“Whether I do or not is none of your business until I decide it’s time to make an introduction.” Like in the year twenty-never. “I love you, Mum. But you drive me bananas.”

“Think about it,” she cajoles. “He’s a good boy.”

“Yes, exactly. He’s a boy.” I pick up my bag and sling it over one shoulder. Time to make an exit. “And if I ever get married, it will be to a man.”

I pull my mum in for a hug. Despite our differences, I won’t ever leave without telling her I love her. Even if I want to shake her. Even if I think she’s got her priorities all messed up. Even if she meddles more than the town gossip in a Hallmark movie.

We’re close...but we’re fundamentally different.

“You aren’t going to say goodbye to him?” she asks, incredulous. Her bony, unadorned hand flicks toward the frosted doors sealing off the living room.

“He’s your guest, Mum. You invited him over.” I plant a peck on her cheek and head for the front door, already digging my phone out of my bag because I need to call my best friend and vent. “I’ll see you next week.”

Before she can get another protest out of her mouth, I slip outside and glare at Anthony McCreeperson’s secondhand BMW with the gaudy personalised plates as I walk down the driveway.

B1GM2N.

I think the 2 is supposed to be an A, but obviously someone else got to that number plate first. It takes everything in me not to vomit in my mouth. I would rather die than marry him. I would rather be tied to a post and have one million hungry rats set on me than marry him.

I would rather—

My phone vibrates in my hand, interrupting the slide of gruesome thoughts. Emery. It’s like she knew I needed her. I slide my thumb across the screen.

“Hey,” I say with a sigh. “You have no idea how much I need to talk to you right now. I’ve had the day from hell.”

“Spill,” she replies in that short-and-to-the-point way of hers.

For a minute, I’m totally overwhelmed. You see, my mother the wannabe matchmaker isn’t my only issue right now. It’s simply the gleaming cherry on top of a giant shit sundae.

“I...” I shut my eyes for a moment. “Shit.”

“Take it slow, girl. Tell me everything.”

I head toward where I’ve parked my car on the street. The footpath is littered with fluffy, yellow wattle blossoms that look like tiny polka dots against the grey concrete.

“I heard back about the teaching job at that school in Epping.” I suck on the inside of my cheek. “They found a candidate with more experience.”

“After they dragged you through three rounds of interviews? Bastards.” She makes a noise of irritation. “I’m sorry. I know you had your hopes up for this one.”

“One more rejection letter for the growing collection.” I’ve been surviving on a mix of casual relief teaching