Happiness at the New Year’s Rate
“Thanks, Mum,” said Edward, stretching as he stood from the table. “I’m going for a drive. Don’t worry—there aren’t many cars out this late.”
“You’ve done nothing but drive that car since you bought it. It’s time you settled down. They’re not wrong—men and their cars.”
“Mum, not this again,” Edward chuckled, walking over to hug her. “You know how long I dreamed of having my own car. Just let me enjoy it for a bit longer, then I’ll think about marriage. Promise.”
“Fine. Nearly thirty and still playing with cars,” she sighed, ruffling his hair. “Go on, then.”
Outside, Edward brushed fresh snowflakes from the windscreen of his car. He’d had his licence for years—his dad had let him drive the old Rover before he wrecked it. He knew his way around a car. But owning one of his own? That was still a thrill.
He’d saved for ages, researched carefully, and now spent evenings cruising the city, sometimes venturing onto the motorway. If he saw someone hitchhiking, he’d pull over, never charging a penny.
Settling into the driver’s seat, he turned the key, grinning at the engine’s purr. Turning up the radio, he eased out of the car park.
Snowflakes danced in the headlights—winter had arrived abruptly this year, blanketing everything in days. Edward drove aimlessly until he spotted a woman with a child flagging him down. Lowering the volume, he rolled down the passenger window.
“Could you take us to Builders’ Street?” She leaned in—young, pretty.
“Hop in,” he nodded to the seat beside him.
“How much will it be? It’s quite far,” she hesitated.
“Don’t worry. I don’t take money from pretty women.” Seeing her tense, he added quickly, “Ten pounds do you? Come on, I don’t bite.”
She opened the back door, ushering in a boy of about five before climbing in herself. Edward merged onto the main road.
“How many horses does it have?” the boy asked.
“Horses?” Edward laughed. “No idea.”
“How don’t you know?”
“Well, when I bought it, I cared about looks and comfort. Not horsepower. You know cars, then?”
“I do,” the boy said seriously.
“And what’s your name, car expert?”
“Charlie. And you?”
“Edward. Can’t shake your hand—driving.” He grinned, enjoying the lad’s company.
“Charlie, stop bothering him,” the woman chided.
“Let him talk. He’s lovely—Charlie the charmer.” Edward caught her eye in the rearview mirror. His chest warmed unexpectedly.
The city glittered with shop displays and lamplight. Christmas trees outside shopping centres twinkled—still weeks to go, but the festive spirit was everywhere.
“Just here, by this building,” she said.
“Want me to take you to the door?” He glanced back, but she was looking away.
She stepped out, holding the door for Charlie.
“Come on, hurry up,” she urged.
“Are you picking me up tomorrow?” His voice wobbled.
“Sunday. And don’t cry—you’ll get a cold. Out you get.”
Charlie inched reluctantly toward the door. Edward got out.
“Here.” She handed him a tenner.
He folded it, tucking it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll keep it as a lucky charm.”
Charlie finally clambered out. Edward offered his hand. “See you.”
The boy placed his small, warm palm in Edward’s.
“Come on, Gran’s waiting,” she said, pulling him along.
A few steps later, Charlie glanced back. Edward waved. Then he noticed a man—her date, probably—approaching from a parked car. He kissed her, offered Charlie a hand. The boy turned away sharply.
*Mum’s got a boyfriend, and he’s not happy about it*, Edward thought, oddly pleased.
Back in the car, he turned up the radio—Elton John crooning “Your Song.” The faint scent of her perfume lingered. He almost checked the mirror, half expecting to see her still there.
Suddenly, driving held no appeal. The song grated. He switched stations, but her face stayed with him. Pretty, ordinary. So why couldn’t he shake her?
Years ago, he’d fallen for an older woman with a daughter. Proposed, introduced her to his mum.
“She’s older, with a child. You’re young, handsome—find someone your age. Don’t make a mistake,” Mum had pleaded after she left.
Later, she’d agonised over “ruining his happiness.” Other women liked him, but none stirred him like she had. And now…
Days passed. He drove past Charlie’s gran’s street, the pickup spot—but never saw them again. He could’ve asked around, knocked on doors. But what would he say? *Hi, I’m the bloke who drove you once*? Maybe she was happy with that man.
New Year’s Eve arrived. Mum bustled in the kitchen, the tree glittered. *Love Actually* played on telly. Edward helped prep food, fetched the good china. But as dusk fell, restlessness tugged him out.
“Mum, snow’s coming down—it’s magical. I’ll take a quick drive, or I’ll snooze before the Queen’s speech.”
“It’s nearly midnight!”
“Just a spin around town. Taxis are scarce tonight—everyone’s busy.”
Snow dusted the car. The heater hummed to life; the streets lay quiet, windows glowing with last-minute festivities.
A bulky man in an unbuttoned coat flagged him down, handed over fifty quid for a short ride. *Holiday generosity*, Edward mused. Next, a bickering couple—he refused their money. They left arm in arm, grateful.
Then he took his usual route past Charlie’s gran’s. Fireworks popped in the distance.
And suddenly—there they were. Walking toward him. Her beige coat, white bobble hat. Charlie dragging his feet, miserable. Edward’s pulse jumped.
He braked, stepping out. They halted, wary. *They don’t recognise me.*
“Need a lift? Special New Year’s rate—free.”
They approached. He offered Charlie his hand. “Hiya, Charlie.”
The boy glanced at his mum before placing his small, icy hand in Edward’s.
“Forgot your gloves? You’re freezing. In you get.”
They settled in the back.
“Don’t remember me? Gave you a lift a month ago.” In the mirror, her eyes were red-rimmed. “Where to?”
“The station,” she said flatly.
Charlie stayed silent.
“Less than an hour till midnight. No trains now. And why leave? I don’t know what’s wrong, but you can’t cry tonight. Right, Charlie?”
“We came to Gran’s for the party, but they argued,” Charlie whispered.
“Charlie!” she snapped.
“These things happen. Listen—no station. Think about him—he’s freezing. Don’t ruin his night.”
“What’s it to you? Just drive us.”
“Mum’s cooked enough for an army. It’s brilliant—I’ve tasted it. Come celebrate with us. Fancy that, Charlie?”
“Yes!” The boy beamed. “Mum, can we?”
“Come on. Where will you go tonight? Mum’ll be chuffed. Leave the tears in this year—start fresh.” He turned up the radio—Elton’s voice swelled. *Maybe this time…*
*Fate. Same song. And they say miracles don’t happen.*
Parking outside his flat, he herded them inside. “Quick—we’re cutting it close!”
“Yay!” Charlie dashed ahead.
“Mum! Guests! Starving and frozen. Coats off—ten minutes!”
His mother emerged, eyes widening.
“This is my mum, Margaret. And this is Charlie and—”
“Emily,” she murmured, shy without her coat, delicate and lovely.
“Mum, get them fed,” Edward said, steering them toward the dining room.
As they sat, he turned up the telly.
“I had a feeling—set an extra plate,” Margaret said, blinking back tears. “Still miss your dad.”
“Mum, none of that. No crying tonight—Queen’s speech is on.”
They listened, each lost in thought.
Big Ben chimed. Edward popped the champagne, filling glasses. They all stood—even Charlie, clutching a juice-filled flute.
“Happy New Year!” Edward raised his glass.
“To new happiness,” Margaret smiled, glancing at Emily.
“Happy New…” Emily faltered.
Charlie rescued her. “To new friends!” he piped up. Laughter rang out.
That night, four strangers sat together by chance. None could know their lives were now entwined. Each would get their heart’s desire—at the New Year’s happy rateAnd as the first light of the new year spilled through the curtains, Emily reached for Edward’s hand under the table, her fingers squeezing his with a warmth that whispered of beginnings.
