One Step from Happiness
Polly had been pretty since childhood—petite, fair-haired, with a lovely figure and a face like a porcelain doll. After finishing university, she stayed to work in London. Yet her love life never quite blossomed. She had no shortage of admirers, but none ever proposed. And now, before she knew it, she was nearly thirty.
At first, she joked that there was no rush—she had time. But as the years slipped by, her smile faded. Time, as they say, is a cunning trickster.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think—did you ever cross someone’s path?” her mother’s friend had asked last New Year’s.
“I’ve never crossed anyone, never taken what wasn’t mine, never broken a family,” Polly had replied firmly.
“Then someone must have envied you terribly,” Aunt Irene, her mother’s friend, declared.
Polly didn’t argue. She’d been envied before, even by girls at school. Boys had always flocked to her. She’d done well in her studies, leaving love for later.
Her mother had raised her alone. They were never poor, but never lavish either. Mum was a gifted knitter, and Polly had an endless supply of delicate, lacy, warm, and fashionable jumpers—many of which her mother sold.
“Don’t put ideas in her head, Irene! She has suitors enough. The important thing is not to rush,” her mother had defended.
“Suitors are one thing. What she needs is a husband—or at least a proper lover,” Aunt Irene had retorted.
“And what’s the difference?” her mother had snapped.
She refused to imagine her clever daughter as anyone’s mistress.
“No difference, except the stamp in the passport—which matters for a child’s future. Some lovers are better than husbands…” And Aunt Irene launched into her usual tale of how she’d taken a lover who bought her a flat and paid for her son’s schooling, all while she’d kicked out her good-for-nothing, drunken husband.
That was the year Polly decided she wouldn’t spend New Year’s with her mother again. She was tired of these conversations—better to be alone.
As the holidays neared, Polly walked home, eyes down to avoid slipping on the icy pavement. She stepped aside to let a woman with a pram pass.
“Polly!” the woman suddenly cried, stopping short. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Tanya—well, Tanya Davies now!”
“Tanya,” Polly forced a smile. “You’ve changed. Are you in London now? How long?”
“Three years! Fancy bumping into you like this. I heard you—” Tanya was clearly gearing up for a long chat.
“Yours?” Polly cut in, eager to steer the topic. Mothers loved boasting about their children. “May I see?”
“Of course. This is my little girl.” Pride warmed Tanya’s voice.
Polly leaned over the pram. Nestled in lace, under a pink knitted cap, slept a tiny miracle—long lashes on plump cheeks, lips like a bow. The scent of milk, sleep, and wool drifted up.
“Beautiful. Takes after her father?” Polly asked.
“Oh, yes! When she was born—” Tanya began eagerly.
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. We’ll catch up another time,” Polly said, hurrying away.
Her mood soured. Of all people to run into in this vast city. Tanya had been a mousy, forgettable girl in school, yet here she was—married, a mother, brimming with happiness. And where was Polly’s own happiness? Years passed, and she was still alone.
Lost in thought, she reached her flat. She’d decorated the Christmas tree a week ago, but now it only annoyed her—a reminder that the holidays were near, and she had no one to share them with.
She’d just changed and put the kettle on when her phone rang. It was William.
“Home already, love? I’ll be over soon,” he said.
Polly almost lied—said she was at a friend’s, told him not to come. The passion had long faded, leaving only habit. He’d divorced years ago, and Polly hadn’t been the cause, but he still lived with his ex-wife—for their daughter’s sake, he claimed.
She sighed, said she was home, and started dinner. Half an hour later, William arrived with a gift bag.
“Here, love. In case I don’t see you before New Year’s. Work’s mad with the annual reports, and I promised my girl I’d take her to the pantomime…”
Polly didn’t care about his excuses, but the gift pleased her. Inside was red lingerie and a velvet box holding a gold heart pendant.
“Thank you!” She kissed his cheek. Her mood lifted.
“Won’t stay for dinner, sorry,” he said, pulling her toward the bedroom.
It was pleasant, but brief. Afterward, as he dressed, Polly asked suddenly, “How old is your daughter?”
She sat on the bed, clutching the sheet. William froze, trousers in hand, eyes rolling upward as if the answer were on the ceiling. His bare legs struck her—one in a black sock, the other pale and sparsely haired, repellently cold, like plucked chicken skin. She looked away, wondering what she’d ever seen in him.
“Ten, I think. Yes, ten.”
Polly remembered herself at ten—skinny as a rake, with thin plaits and wide eyes. Her father had left when she was seven. She pitied William’s daughter.
When he finally left, she bundled the sheets into the wash and stood under the shower. “No more,” she decided. “Let him live with his family.”
The next day, well-rested, Polly went shopping for her mother’s gift—she’d visit after all. She’d already bought yarn, but perhaps boots—they wore the same size.
Lost in thought, she stepped onto a crossing without checking the lights. Car horns blared as drivers braked sharply. Polly crossed anyway, shoulders hunched, ignoring the noise.
“You’re crying. What happened? Has someone died?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes someone risk their life like that.”
Bewildered, she stared.
“Come on.” He opened a café door.
Polly obeyed, shedding her coat and sitting. He touched her hand.
“Freezing. Let’s warm you up.” He ordered coffee, and soon steam curled between them. She cupped her mug, eyes closing in relief.
“Fight with your husband?” he asked, slipping into familiarity.
She didn’t notice, nor the wine that appeared.
“Drink—it’ll warm you faster.” He sipped first, and she followed. Warmth spread through her.
“That’s better. You’ve got your wits back. I’m Henry.”
“Polly.”
“Really? That was my mother’s name. Care to share?”
Before she knew it, she told him everything—William, her knitting mother, her loneliness nearing thirty.
Henry listened without interruption. Then, finishing his wine, he said, “You’re a catch—pretty, domestic, a knitter. So many pretty girls only care for clubbing and shopping. Ditch that bloke of yours.”
“I already did. He has a daughter.”
“Good. Forget the past. Mine’s messy too—another time.” He checked his watch. “I’ll walk you home. Then, properly, I’ll come back with flowers, and we’ll start fresh.”
They welcomed the New Year together—as the saying goes, how you greet it is how you’ll spend it. They visited her mother, married by April.
That May, strolling in the park, Polly spotted William with his stout wife and equally stout daughter—her double. She turned away, searching for Henry. He was hurrying back with ice creams.
“You’re so lovely, men can’t help staring,” he said, kissing her cheek. She smiled but didn’t look back.
By the next winter, they had a beautiful son. New Year’s was now a family affair—her mother came, bringing piles of knitted blue and white baby clothes.
Once, pushing the pram, Polly met Tanya, leading her bear-cub of a daughter in pink. Proudly, she showed off her son.
Walking home, Polly smiled. Soon, she’d undress and smother her long-awaited joy in kisses, make dinner, and wait for Henry. What more could a woman want?
