**Shades of Happiness**
“Oh, hello, mate,” said George, welcoming his childhood friend Oliver into his house. Oliver had grown up in the village but now lived in the city.
“Alright?” Oliver hugged him. “Been a while. It’s been four months since my grandma’s funeral—kept meaning to visit sooner, but life got in the way. Finally took some time off, thought I’d relax here in the countryside.”
“Brilliant idea,” George grinned. “We’ll go fishing at the lake in the woods, maybe the river—remember how we used to?”
Childhood friends, they’d raced through village lanes, splashed in the river, pulled pranks, and gone to the same school. Oliver had always been the quick-witted one, full of mischief, while George was the steady hand, always there to back him up.
“You on your own? Where’s your missus?” Oliver asked.
“She’s just popped to the shop—she’ll be back soon,” George said proudly. “She’s a proper homemaker, cooks like a dream, feeds me up like I’m going to the slaughter.”
They’d married six years ago, but children hadn’t come yet. Daisy had gone with him to the local clinic, but the doctors said everything was fine—just a matter of time.
George doted on her, though—always helping, never letting her lift anything heavy. The village women envied her, some with good cheer, others with resentment.
“Lucky Daisy,” they’d say. “George spoils her rotten, doesn’t drink, adores her.”
Daisy lived contentedly, changing outfits, keeping house, though sometimes a pang of sorrow crept in when she watched the neighbours’ children playing. She worked as an accountant at the village council.
They rarely spoke of children, but George often wondered, *”A baby would bring us even closer.”* Sometimes he felt an invisible chill from her.
Daisy did feel his love—almost too much. It could be smothering.
“Hello,” Oliver heard a soft voice—Daisy, back from the shop, black bag in hand. George hurried over, taking it from her with a smile.
“Alright?” Oliver grinned, unable to help noticing her slim figure and wavy blonde hair. “I’m Oliver, George’s old mate.”
“Never heard him mention you,” she said, glancing at her husband.
“He’s been in the city. His gran passed a few months back—lived down the lane. Remember old Mabel?”
“Ah, right. So you’re her grandson. Oliver the city boy—left right after school.”
“Spot on,” Oliver laughed.
“Right, Daisy, we’ll take a walk while you sort supper,” George said, and they stepped outside.
It was early September, a weekend. Autumn painted the trees in gold and amber, leaves dancing on the breeze. Daisy set the table in the garden—too nice to eat indoors.
When the men returned, they settled in.
“Ollie, I’m chuffed you’re here,” George said. “About time we had a proper fishing trip. You should visit more—grew up together, herded cows with my grandad, even nicked apples from old Thompson’s orchard. And now you’re all city-fied.”
“Ah, give over. Born and bred here, this’ll always be home,” Oliver clapped him on the shoulder.
Daisy watched them reminisce, laughing over old stories, and marvelled at their bond. Remembering the pie in the oven, she hurried off and returned with it, slicing generous portions.
“Bloody hell, this is amazing!” Oliver said between bites. “Daisy, you’re a star.”
“She’s a cracking cook,” George boasted. “Look what she’s done to me!” They laughed, sipping wine as dusk fell.
Daisy watched them, relieved George wasn’t as handsome as Oliver—too flashy, too smooth. *Probably has women lining up in the city. No wonder he’s still single.*
Late that night, Oliver left. Over the next days, he dropped by often—George was at work, but evenings were theirs. One weekend, they fished under a golden September sun, grilling their catch over a fire with old friends.
At one gathering, Daisy caught Oliver’s gaze—different, intent. She knew she was pretty, but she was married.
Later, stepping outside to lock the shed, she turned—and nearly collided with him.
“Blimey, what are you doing here?”
“Admiring the moon,” he teased.
“Hardly. Just locking up. You sneaking a smoke?”
“No. I followed you,” he said bluntly. “I fancy you, Daisy. Fell for you the moment I saw you. Can’t you tell?”
“Oliver, have you had one too many?” She flushed, glad for the dark.
“Dead serious. Two weeks I’ve been thinking about you—”
“Dais?” George’s voice called out.
“Just locking up,” she called back, stepping away.
Oliver laughed. “Yeah, just asking where the loo is.”
Daisy played the dutiful wife but reeled from his words. That night, sleep wouldn’t come. *He’s just a flirt. Probably chases every skirt in town.*
The next day, Oliver arrived when George was at work.
“Alright?” he smiled, stepping inside. “Just popped by.”
“George isn’t here.”
“I know,” his grin was wicked. “Missed you. Can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Thought we were joking last night.”
“Joking? I’m in love, Daisy. Nothing’s the same now.”
She wavered, his hands closing over hers. She liked him—flattered, even.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, pulling her close.
Later, cheeks burning, she watched him devour her pie.
“Always wanted a wife like you—stunning, brilliant cook.”
“Right, better dash. See you later.”
Daisy floated on air, the autumn gloom now radiant. But guilt gnawed at her. *Should’ve waited, not rushed into marriage.*
When George returned, reality crashed back.
Secret trysts continued. Oliver’s sweet words spun her head—she’d never known a man like him.
“Dais, my holiday’s ending. I’ve got to go back,” he said one day at his place.
“Why not move here? You could commute.”
“You really want that?”
“Yes. I can’t be without you now,” she admitted.
“I’ll be back in two weeks. Everything’ll be perfect.”
“What about George?”
“Who cares? Not when you’re here.”
Oliver left. Daisy ached, her holiday ending too. She couldn’t face George—life without Oliver was unbearable. She packed a bag and left for her friend Lucy’s.
“Maybe you’re being daft,” Lucy said. “How’d George take it?”
“I left a note: *‘George, six years, and it’s run its course. I’ve fallen for someone else. You’ll see soon.’* Oliver’s coming back—we’ll live here.”
George didn’t come after her. Weeks passed; autumn turned wet and grey. Daisy waited, realising too late she’d never taken Oliver’s number.
Three weeks later, she saw lights in his window and ran over, heart pounding. Bursting in, she beamed.
“I left George! I’m free now!”
“Why’d you do that?” he asked coldly.
“What? For you! You said—”
“Never said I’d marry you. Got a fiancée in the city. George is a good bloke—where’d you find another like him? And why would I want you? One wink, and you dropped him.” He smirked. “Not coming back. Getting married.”
She walked out numb. Lucy took one look and understood.
“Called me unfaithful. Said he’s got a fiancée… He’s right, Luce,” she wept.
Two weeks later, still at Lucy’s, guilt ate at her. Rummaging in her bag, she froze—the note. *”I never gave it to George.”*
Hope flickered.
Leaving work, she bumped into him outside the shop.
“Alright?” he smiled slightly. “How’ve you been?”
“Managing,” she mumbled, ashamed to meet his eyes.
“Come home, Dais. Lucy said you’ve been poorly—need some fruit for vitamins.” He offered his arm, like old times.
They walked back in the dusk. Inside, she exhaled. *Forgiven.*
George had always known Oliver played games. But when it touched his wife, he waited. Saw her rush to Oliver’s—then flee, shattered.
He found Oliver packing his car. One punch sent him sprawling. George walked away—never hit a man down.
Now, with baby Alfie lighting their days, Daisy lives with quiet guilt. George never mentions the past. Happiness has returned—in shades deeper than before.
