The Anticipation of Happiness
They say the wait for happiness is sweeter than happiness itself. While you wait, you hope, you dream—already, in that moment, you are happy. But the instant you grasp it, it slips away too soon. Before you can savour it, relish it, it fades into the ordinary, the expected. And so, you begin waiting all over again.
Mark had everything: a flat in London, a sleek Jaguar, a well-paying job, and a wife—strikingly beautiful, no less. They’d been sweethearts since secondary school, childhood love blossoming into marriage against all odds.
And then there was his daughter, little Lottie, four years old. His wife, Claire, stayed home to care for her. Lottie was his sunshine, his pride and joy—he adored her beyond words.
What more could anyone want? Yet, isn’t that always the way? When you have it all, you crave more.
Years had smoothed the edges between him and Claire. They understood each other in silence, in glances, in half-spoken words. The fire of youth had settled into warmth, familiarity.
Every morning, Mark sipped the strong coffee waiting for him after his shower, slipped into crisp shirts that smelled of fresh linen, kissed Claire’s cheek with gratitude, and drove to work in his Jaguar.
Evenings brought home-cooked meals. Weekends were for barbecues at his parents’ cottage in the Cotswolds or sledging in winter. No—Mark counted himself lucky. Few men his age had it so neatly sorted.
And yet…
One day, a new colleague joined the office. Her name was Lucy Harper—Lucy, soft as a melody. She had dark, wide-set eyes, timid as a deer’s. Something about her—those eyes, the lilt of her name, the thrill of the unknown—struck him. He realised, with a jolt, that she was what he’d been waiting for. His heart recognised her, trembling at the promise of happiness.
He kept crossing paths with her—by the coffee machine, in the corridor, at lunch. He knew she sought him out too. So, he obliged.
One morning, he lingered in his car outside the office, waiting until he saw Lucy’s light, quick stride. Timing it perfectly, he stepped out just as she reached the entrance, holding the door open with practised ease.
In the lift, he stole glances. Sometimes, he caught her looking back—quick, curious. But they never spoke. The office was always crowded.
Until one day, the lift was empty. They rode up to the eighth floor alone. He asked about her job, the weather, her weekend plans. She answered, smiling faintly, a playful glint in her gaze.
Autumn passed. Winter settled in. The office Christmas party loomed—his chance. No hurry to go home, no suspicious late returns.
Mark kept Lucy in his sights all evening. When the music started, he was the first to ask her to dance. As he pulled her close, his pulse raced, his skin prickling—just like the first time he’d danced with Claire at a school disco years ago. Lucy’s dark deer-eyes promised him everything.
Flushed from dancing and wine, they slipped into the hallway for air. “Let’s ditch this,” Mark whispered. Lucy agreed without hesitation. They grabbed their coats and spilled into the night, laughing.
The security guard watched them go, envious. No one had thought to invite him—left to sulk at his post while others celebrated. A bottle of champagne, a box of chocolates—he’d have taken them home to his wife, proof he was valued. But no one remembered. He sighed and turned back to his crossword.
Mark and Lucy wandered London, talking of nothing and everything. He avoided mentioning his marriage; she pretended not to care.
With Lucy, everything was easy. “Lucky, lucky…” his heart thrummed in time with their footsteps in the snow.
Mark grew tired. He regretted leaving his car at the office. Still, Lucy didn’t say, “This is my place.”
“Lucy, do you live outside the city?” he finally asked.
She laughed. “The outskirts, near the new builds.” Her flat was tiny, a shoebox for young professionals or those scraping by.
At her door, he hesitated, reluctant to let the taxi go. The alcohol had worn off, and guilt whispered—Lottie’s bedtime story. But then Lucy invited him in for coffee. “Just fifteen minutes,” he told himself.
Coffee never happened. They barely made it inside before they were tangled in each other, waking hours later in her bed.
When Mark rose and looked out the window, darkness swallowed everything—no stars, no streetlamps, just void. It stole his breath. Lucy joined him. For a moment, they were alone in the universe, floating above the snow-glazed earth. His heart swelled—this was what he’d craved.
Leaving was agony. But suspicion was worse. He showered, dressed, and promised Lucy he’d return soon. A taxi took him back to his car. The office was dark. He drove home, slipping into bed beside Claire at half two.
She lay still, eyelids shut too tight. He knew she wasn’t asleep—just pretending. So he pretended too, careful not to disturb her.
He expected guilt to keep him awake. Instead, sleep took him instantly.
Their marriage had always been quiet—no shouting, no scenes. Thin walls demanded discretion. Even if he confessed, Claire wouldn’t scream.
Friends envied him. Colleagues saw husbands dragged in after rows—bruised, exhausted. Not Mark. Claire never nagged, never counted his drinks. They were the perfect couple.
Until Lucy.
Morning brought a strange lightness. He hummed in the shower. Claire handed him coffee, turned her cheek for his kiss.
After that, he visited Lucy often. The outskirts were safe—no one they knew lived there. Only the young or the struggling.
Sometimes, guilt gnawed at him. Why betray a good woman? He weighed it—Claire, Lottie, stability on one side; passion, youth, recklessness on the other. How could he give up the thrill?
A year passed. Passion waned. More and more, he longed for quiet evenings at home.
He’d known Claire since childhood. Lucy? Who knew what she’d be as a wife? And Lottie—he couldn’t upend her life.
But Lucy grew impatient. “When will we be together?” she pressed. He stammered excuses—Lottie was too young, just wait…
The scales tipped. Claire was safe, familiar. Lucy? A gamble.
He tried to end it. One kiss from her, and his resolve crumbled. If only he could merge them—Claire’s steadiness, Lucy’s fire.
At work one day, rehearsing breakup lines, pain lanced through his chest. Iron claws squeezed his heart. He staggered, desperate for air—then, nothing.
Voices swam through cotton wool.
“Would’ve cracked sooner, most blokes do…”
“Worn out by women, poor sod…”
“Mark, wake up, don’t leave me—” Lucy’s voice?
“Don’t leave us—” Claire’s whisper.
“Daddy, read to me—” Lottie’s tears.
The voices blurred.
“God, am I dead? I’m only thirty-two. I’ll fix everything—just let me live!”
“Promise? No more lies? No more Lucy?” A voice, clear and quiet, silenced the rest.
“Yes! But—who are you?”
“You can’t see me. You’d go blind.”
“I’m not ready—”
Air rushed back into his lungs, brutal and sweet. Pain confirmed life.
“Doctor—he’s awake!”
Light blinded him. That other place had been softer.
“You scared me,” Claire murmured.
Breathing grew easier. Lucy visited twice, crying in corners, fleeing before Claire noticed.
Two weeks later, home but off work, Mark revelled in Lottie’s laughter, bedtime stories, Claire’s quiet care. How had he wanted more?
Then, his phone buzzed.
“I miss you. When will I see you?” Lucy.
“Not now.”
“Is she there?” Lucy guessed. “I just… I miss you.”
This was his chance—to end it, clean. Instead:
“Tomorrow.”
“Work?” Claire asked, towel twisting her hair.
“Yeah. Asking when I’m back.”
Tomorrow. One last time—to end it properly.
Pain speared his chest again. Darkness. A warning? He grabbed his phone.
“It’s over. Don’t wait for me.” Send. Block.
There. Simple.
Because he wanted to live.
