The New Year’s Surprise
Emily hurried home, paying no mind to the icy pavement beneath her feet. She had good reason—tucked in her handbag were two plane tickets. Down south, a seaside hotel suite awaited them. She and James had long dreamed of ringing in the New Year by the ocean, far from the biting cold, free from cooking marathons and endless chores. Just rest, sun, and the shimmering pool—a proper fairy tale.
Yet something always got in the way. First, there were no savings—they’d been scraping together for the deposit on their flat. Then, caught up in the daily grind, they’d simply forgotten to book anything in time.
Now, the flat was nearly theirs, the mortgage almost paid off. Time to think about children. And if not now, then with a little one in tow, their dream would be shelved for years. So Emily decided—this year, she’d give James the perfect New Year’s surprise.
Of course, her mother-in-law would have plenty to say. “Wasting money on nonsense,” she’d scold. “Who goes to the seaside in winter? And what about us? Didn’t even ask our opinion!” There’d be accusations, grievances—Emily would bear the brunt of it all. That woman had never warmed to her, and now? She’d be intolerable. Still, not the end of the world. She’d survive. And James’s face—oh, his face would be worth it.
If she’d asked for advice, the whole plan would’ve been shouted down before it began. No surprise left. And they’d never have gone. It never crossed Emily’s mind that James might dislike the surprise or have other plans. He’d always griped about forced merriment—staring at the telly all night, stuffing himself with roast potatoes. He loved company, laughter, life.
Until today, the envelope had lain hidden in her desk drawer. Now, she carried it home, ready to place it beneath the Christmas tree. Their flight was in two days.
Inside, she tucked the envelope where James couldn’t miss it, changed, and started dinner, ears pricked for the click of the front door. The clock’s ticking grew louder with each passing minute.
By half eight, unease crept in. Dinner had long gone cold. No sign of James. She rang his mobile again and again—straight to voicemail. Pacing, peering out the window, she imagined the worst. That detached automated voice—”The number you have called is unavailable”—gnawed at her nerves.
She forced herself to think rationally. Perhaps he’d met old friends and lost track of time. But why switch off his phone? Why no warning?
Twice, she cracked the door open, half-expecting to find him slumped outside. Years ago, her own father had been left like that—drunk mates abandoning him on the landing, too wary of her mother’s temper to face her. A neighbour had found him, knocked, saved him.
No one outside now. No footsteps. The tickets, the surprise—all forgotten. All she wanted was James, safe and sound.
Sleep was unthinkable. She curled onto the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, bracing for the long haul. The phone’s sudden shrill made her jump.
“James? Where are you?” she blurted, snatching it up.
“Nothing’s wrong,” purred an unfamiliar voice—syrupy, slow. Startled, Emily pulled the phone away, checked the screen—his number. “James is sleeping. Like a baby.”
“Who is this?” Emily demanded, already knowing.
Her friend had warned her about surprises. A spa day pass for two, gifted by her sister to her own husband. They’d gone a few times. Then excuses piled up—work, a cold. One day, the sister went alone, only to find her membership card missing. The receptionist said it had been swiped half an hour prior. The truth dawned. Moments later, she saw him—arm in arm with another woman.
All this flashed through Emily’s mind in an instant.
“James is at my place,” the voice continued. “He’s fine. Don’t wait up. We’ve been seeing each other six months. He pitied you, didn’t know how to say it. So I helped.” A click.
The phone slipped from Emily’s grasp. The screen darkened—like her hopes, her joy, her bright New Year’s plans. Only numbness remained, then pain, sharp and raw.
She’d heard stories like this, read them online. Never thought it would be them. Six years together—was that not enough? Surely this was a prank. James would walk in any moment, laughing.
She dialled again. Still off. She pictured some bleached blonde slinking from the bedroom, plucking his phone from his pocket, locking herself in the loo to make that call. That face—too perfect, like the glossy girls in adverts. Lips swollen from kissing.
Six months. Since July. And all this time, she’d been plotting her silly little surprise.
The envelope still waited beneath the tree. No tears came—just a churning mind. What now? How? Why?
She curled tighter on the sofa, drifting into fitful sleep, waking just as quickly, the truth crashing back.
A key turned. Light spilled under the door. Fabric rustled.
“I’m awake,” she said flatly. “Late at work? Why was your phone off? What if something happened?”
“Battery died,” James hedged.
Emily grabbed her phone, thrust it at him. “Look. You rang me at half-twelve. Explain that. No—don’t. Your mistress already did. She said you’ve loved her half a year. You pitied me.”
He stammered, but she cut in, voice eerily steady.
“I had a surprise for you too. Under the tree. Two tickets. Remember how we dreamed of New Year’s by the sea?”
“I’m sorry—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll never forgive you.”
He reached for her.
“Don’t touch me!” Her voice cracked, rising to a scream. He caught her as she thrashed, then slumped, sobbing.
He left.
For a long while, Emily sat frozen. Then, she snatched the envelope, nearly tore it—stopped. The tickets—30th December. Time. Destination.
A lifeline.
She’d go alone. The hotel had parties, festivities. She’d sell the spare ticket.
She rang her mother. “We’re flying south. Back in a week.”
Packing was mechanical. On the way to Heathrow, she almost turned back. Easier to move than to sit and ache.
Even aboard the plane, it felt unreal—until the coast emerged below, dotted with resorts. To the sea first, she decided.
At the hotel, she stood out—no other lone women. Except one: pale, scarf-clad. “Post-chemo,” Emily guessed. But then a young man appeared, guiding her gently away.
They nodded on the promenade. Too young to be the woman’s husband—her son, then. One day, Emily found him alone.
“Your mother?”
“Not well.”
Up close, he looked younger than thirty. Andrew, he introduced himself. His wife had left two years prior—refused to care for his ailing mother.
“The sea was her dream. Doctors said winter sun would be gentle.”
They walked most evenings after his mother slept. Emily left first. They exchanged numbers—like childhood pen pals, though she never expected to use his.
Returning home, she was calm. The pain, oddly bearable.
“James rang,” her mother said. “You said you were going together. A row?”
“Tell you later,” Emily deflected.
The flat bore traces of James—some things gone, some not. Hoping to return? Her phone lit up immediately—his call. Pleading.
“I don’t want to see you. I’m filing for divorce.”
March. Andrew rang.
“Sorry I’ve been quiet. Mum died two weeks ago. I’ve thought of you often.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m free. Could offer you my heart.”
“You barely know me.”
“Call me when you’re ready.”
After the divorce, she cleaned furiously—then stopped mid-motion.
“Why? I don’t want to live in the past.”
She rang Andrew. Outside, May bloomed.
“I thought you’d never call.”
“I wasn’t free then.”
She wasn’t ready yet. But the past faded quicker each day—the future, bright and beckoning.
