Well-Earned Happiness
Emily came home from work, changed into something comfortable, and had a cup of tea. Dinner could wait—James wouldn’t be back for another two hours. She picked up a book, stretched out on the sofa, and sighed in relief, kicking off her heels. A long day in sensible court shoes had left her feet aching.
Emily was a primary school teacher. Trim and tidy, with a neat bob, she dressed in smart skirts and understated blouses—the unspoken uniform of educators. Every day, she met parents from all walks of life, some well-off, others scraping by. She’d learned to hold her own without standing out, speaking clearly and kindly without raising her voice. The children respected her, and so did their parents.
After a few pages, her eyelids grew heavy. She drifted off, only waking when the book slipped from her hands and thudded to the floor. Rubbing her eyes, she bent to retrieve it—just as the doorbell rang. James had his own key, and it was too early for him anyway. The bell chimed again, timid and quick.
Emily checked herself in the hallway mirror, smoothed a stray hair, and opened the door.
Standing there was Simon, James’s mate and colleague.
“Hello, Emily.”
“Simon. James isn’t home yet,” she said.
“I know. Actually, I came to see you.” He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Come in.” She stepped aside, letting him in.
He shrugged off his coat, hung it on the hook, stuffed his scarf into the sleeve, and toed off his shoes. Emily watched, puzzled. Had something happened to James?
Simon straightened his jacket, waiting for an invitation further in.
“Go through to the kitchen,” Emily said.
After all, the best conversations happened over tea.
Simon sat at the table while Emily flicked the kettle on. It hummed to life immediately.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, thanks.”
She fetched a cup. The biscuit tin was already on the table. The kettle bubbled to a boil with a sharp whistle.
Emily poured his tea, nudged the biscuits toward him, and sat down.
“Not joining me?” Simon asked, clearly uneasy.
“You didn’t come just for a chat. What’s going on? Is James all right?”
“He’s fine,” Simon muttered, studying a custard cream wrapper like it held the meaning of life.
“Spit it out,” Emily pressed.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He unwrapped the biscuit slowly. “You’re a brilliant woman—smart, capable, a proper homemaker. Didn’t want to stick my nose in, but… James is seeing someone else.” He took a bite and promptly choked.
Emily half-rose, thumped him on the back, then sat back down—laughing.
“Did you hear me? Or did you already know?” Simon looked crushed.
“Oh God, I thought it was something serious,” she said, wiping her eyes.
Now it was Simon’s turn to gape.
“So what? James is fit, in his prime,” Emily said. “Why’s it your business anyway? I thought you were mates. Mates don’t grass each other up. How many times have *you* strayed?” Her gaze turned icy.
“Wrecked your own marriage, so now you’re after mine?” She shoved her chair back.
“I was trying to help. You do everything for him—cooking, cleaning, baking. And he doesn’t appreciate you!” Simon flushed, whether from shame or the strong brew.
“Had your say? Good. Now sod off. James’ll be home any minute.”
Simon scrambled into the hallway, flailing for the shoehorn before giving up and wrestling his loafers on. Emily leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching impatiently.
Finally, he grabbed his coat and fumbled with the latch. His scarf trailed behind him as he stepped out. He turned, mouth open—but Emily shut the door in his face.
She returned to the kitchen, dumped his half-finished tea in the sink, and slumped into a chair.
She and James had met at a West End play. During the interval, the bar queue snaked halfway round the theatre.
“God, I’m parched. Think we’ll make it?” her friend fretted.
“Stay here,” Emily said, marching to the front.
Near the counter, she spotted two blokes. She tapped one on the shoulder and asked if they’d mind grabbing her a bottle of water.
James—tall, grinning—nodded. He handed her the water, refusing her money. She thanked him and rejoined her friend. They passed the bottle back and forth like schoolgirls.
Later, during the second act, James kept glancing over his shoulder. Their eyes met; Emily looked away, cheeks warm.
After the show, he and his mate were waiting outside.
“Enjoy the play?” James asked.
“Loved it.”
“James. This is Tom.”
The girls introduced themselves. They wandered through the cooling streets, chatting about the performance, then drifted into pairs.
James had been working two years post-uni; Emily had just finished her teacher training.
She couldn’t recall what they’d talked about that night—only the giddy, bubbling joy of walking beside him under the streetlamps.
Her friend and Tom fizzled out. She and James didn’t.
They married that spring, got a tiny flat in a housing association block where James worked. A year later, their son arrived; two years after, their daughter. The council upgraded them to a two-bed. It was bliss.
The waiting lists for social housing vanished, but they bought their flat under Right to Buy. Later, they sold it and—with help from their parents—moved to a proper house. Young, resilient, they weathered storms, made up, thrived. It felt endless.
Their son moved to London after uni, chasing his career, in no rush to settle down. Their daughter married young, a student still, renting with her husband, postponing babies.
Emily stared blankly ahead. She and James had grown into each other, two halves of one life. The kids were grown. Now it was just them—still young, not even fifty.
And then Simon had to stick his oar in. Jealous, probably. Plenty were. Friends divorced, remarried; they’d stayed solid.
Simon’s own marriage had imploded a decade back. They’d been couple-friends once. His wife, Lucy, had been lively, fun. After the split, Emily refused to host his parade of new girlfriends. He’d made a pass at her once. She’d shot him down.
*Maybe he’s nursing a grudge. Or maybe it’s all rubbish. Did he catch them? A bit of flirting’s not an affair. Even if it was—so what? Men stray. Doesn’t mean it’s serious. I’ve had blokes flirt with me. That dad at parents’ evening last month practically declared undying love. It’s harmless. I won’t throw away twenty-five years over gossip. The kids adore him. I couldn’t live without him. I wouldn’t want to.*
Decision made: she’d say nothing. For now.
She whipped up dinner just as James got home. Normal evening—except for Simon’s nonsense. She picked at her mash, appetite gone.
“You alright?” James asked.
“Just tired.”
He thanked her, vanished into the lounge. The telly murmured.
She washed up, sat at the table, and took in their cosy kitchen—walls that had witnessed laughter, tears, rows, makeup sex. Countless kid secrets. Could she really toss all that aside?
Days passed. She tried to act normal. James seemed his usual self. If he worked late, he called.
Then one afternoon, she cracked. Canceled her last lesson (to the kids’ delight) and headed to his office.
“Emily?” James blinked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Lesson got canceled. Had lunch?”
“Yeah, just now.” He still looked thrown.
“Thought we could grab a bite. Popped into that boutique near here—wanted a new dress for my birthday.” A flicker of guilt crossed his face. *He forgot.*
“Anyway, what d’you fancy for dinner?” She babbled to mask her nerves.
Before he could answer, a petite woman peeked in. Their eyes met. *Her.*
“Busy, James? I’ll come back.” The door clicked shut.
Emily deflated.
“I’ll go. Don’t want to interrupt.” She headed for the door.
“Em—”
She waved him off.
In the corridor, she cursed herself for coming.
“Wait!”
She turned. The woman hurried over.
“You’re Emily. His wife.”
Silence.
“I’d like to talk. There’s a café next door—we go there sometimes. The team, I mean.”
The café was empty—too late for lunch, too early for after-work drinks. They took a corner table.
Emily didn’t stare, but she noted the woman’s crimson lips, smoky eyes, the clingy red jumper that showcased her curves.
“Coffee?”
She walked away, her heart aching but her resolve unshaken, knowing that some love stories weren’t meant to be rewritten, only cherished for what they were.
