Happiness Under the Bench
Christine popped into the shop after work. With just four days left until New Year’s Eve, her fridge was still bare. She hadn’t had a spare minute—not even to decorate the tree.
An icy wind whipped through the street. After a brief thaw, the slush on the pavements had frozen into treacherous, slippery patches. And, of course, she’d chosen today of all days to wear heeled boots. Now she was mincing along like a nervous flamingo, praying she wouldn’t take a tumble. Half the streetlamps were out, as usual, and the early winter dusk made it hard to see. Her shopping bags dug into her palms, weighing her arms down like lead. Her legs ached from the effort. *Why did I buy so much? I could’ve done half tomorrow*, she scolded herself.
Christine finally reached the bus stop and plonked her heavy bags onto the narrow bench. She rubbed her stiff, frozen fingers and sat down beside them, giving her weary legs a much-needed break while tucking her hands into her coat pockets. The wind still found her.
She watched cars zip past, imagining how nice it would be to sit warm and cosy inside one. She’d always wanted her own car but had avoided loans like the plague. Right now, she was regretting that decision.
A bus pulled up with a hiss, its doors swinging open. People stepped off and hurried home, not one of them sparing Christine a glance.
She was about to get up when she heard a faint groan. She glanced around—no one else was at the stop. The sound came again, much closer this time. Christine jumped to her feet just as the headlights of a passing car lit up something dark curled behind the bench.
Her first instinct was to bolt. But then she thought—what if no one found this person until morning? In this cold, they’d freeze to death, especially if they were drunk.
She fished her phone out of her bag and flicked on the torch. A sleek black coat and polished designer shoes caught the light. Not something a homeless person would wear.
She shone the light on his face—his lashes fluttered, but his eyes stayed shut. He was young, well-groomed, dressed smartly. Christine leaned in but caught no whiff of alcohol.
“Hey, are you alright? Get up, you’ll freeze,” she said, giving his shoulder a shake.
No response.
Without overthinking it, she dialled 999 and explained the situation.
“Wait there,” a weary female dispatcher replied.
Christine tucked her phone away, shoved her hands back into her pockets, and hunched over like a shivering sparrow. She was freezing—so how was this bloke faring on the ground? Maybe she should just leave? But then again, who knew when the ambulance would arrive? A well-dressed man like this could easily get robbed…
By the time the ambulance pulled up, her teeth were chattering. A man and a woman in blue uniforms stepped out.
“Over there, in the corner,” Christine pointed.
The medics crouched beside the stranger just as another bus arrived. Two passengers got off and lingered, peppering Christine with questions about the commotion.
“Step back, don’t crowd us,” the doctor snapped at the onlookers.
He returned to the ambulance with the driver and a stretcher.
“Help us lift him,” he said to the bystanders.
They vanished like leaves in the wind.
“What’s wrong with him?” Christine asked anxiously.
“Likely a heart attack. You found him just in time—another hour and he might not have made it. Here, jot down your number—just in case we need to follow up.” The doctor pulled a notepad and pencil from his bulky jacket and handed them to her.
“Am I needed for anything else? I’m absolutely frozen,” she said, returning the notepad.
Christine watched the ambulance drive off, grabbed her shopping, and trudged home. Her legs were so stiff they barely moved.
Back home, she ran her icy hands under hot water for ages before unpacking her groceries. All evening, she kept thinking about the man at the bus stop. What had happened to him? Why was he even there? She wished she’d asked which hospital he’d been taken to—she could’ve called to check on him tomorrow.
Two days later, an unknown number flashed on her phone. Snow tumbled outside, burying the icy streets and painting the world in pristine white. She hesitated, then answered.
“Christine?” A warm male voice asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“You saved me—called the ambulance when I was at the bus stop…”
“You’re alive?” she said, relieved. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. I wanted to thank you—you left your number.”
“What actually happened?” Christine asked, suddenly embarrassed she hadn’t checked on him herself.
“Hard to explain over the phone. Maybe I could drop by when they discharge me? What’s your address?”
“Oh no, don’t worry about it,” she fumbled.
He paused. So did she. She knew nothing about this man. After a beat, he said goodbye and hung up. Only then did she realise she hadn’t even asked his name.
She’d dated someone for four years—two of them living together. But he’d never proposed. Things fizzled out, and it’d taken her a year to move on. Now she was terrified of new relationships—terrified of loss, of disappointment.
Her friends were in the same boat. Rebecca was divorced, and Tanya’s boyfriend had died overseas. They’d drink, chat, watch New Year’s shows, cry on each other’s shoulders, daydream… Misery loved company.
On the 31st, Christine lazed in bed until late. While chopping veggies for salads, the doorbell rang. Too early for the girls.
She opened the door. A tall, handsome man stood there, holding flowers and a bulging bag.
“Christine?” He flashed a Hollywood smile. “Came to say thank you.”
“You…?”
“Yep. Convinced the doctor to let me out.”
“How did you get my address?” she asked, forgetting to invite him in.
“Not too hard—had your number. Mind if I come in?”
“Oh! Of course. Please.” She stepped aside.
He handed her the bouquet. “And this.” She took the heavy bag—the neck of a champagne bottle peeked out, wrapped in gold foil, alongside something with green leaves (pineapple?). He was ridiculously good-looking, the kind you’d see on a magazine cover.
“You didn’t have to,” she stammered.
“If it weren’t for you, who knows what’d have happened,” he said, his eyes not leaving hers.
“Take your coat off, come through,” she said, hiding her blush in the roses.
He hung up his coat and followed her to the kitchen. He looked like he’d stepped out of an ad.
“Expecting guests?” he asked, nodding at the veggies.
“My friends are coming over.”
“What’s on the menu?”
She shrugged. “The usual—prawn cocktail, beef Wellington…”
“Let me help. I didn’t introduce myself—Max. I work at The Savoy. Know my way around a kitchen. Got an apron?”
She blinked but handed him her floral one.
Max chopped like a pro, and soon the table was laden with beautifully arranged dishes. They set the dining table together, slipping into first-name terms along the way.
“What were you doing at that bus stop?” Christine asked.
Max explained there’d been a New Year’s party at his restaurant. His girlfriend was there—until he caught her kissing someone else.
“Couldn’t just ignore it. Made a scene, got told off. Stormed out, drove around with no plan. Hurt like hell—I thought she loved me.” His grip tightened on the knife. “Car skidded a couple times, nearly crashed. Then my chest tightened—couldn’t breathe. Never happened before. Pulled over at the bus stop, sat on the bench… next thing I know, I’m in hospital. They said a Christine saved me and gave me your number.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
Max shook his head. “Didn’t even visit. Doesn’t matter now.” For some reason, that made Christine happy.
“This looks like restaurant quality,” she said, eyeing the spread. “Oh—should we start the beef?”
“Plenty of time. When are your friends arriving?” He checked his watch.
“An hour. I should change.” She hurried off but paused. “You’re… staying for New Year’s, right?” she asked, cheeks pink.
“If you’ll have me. That’s why I’m here,” he smiled.
She took ages picking a dress, fussing in the mirror. She wanted to look at least half as polished as he did. *What kind of idiot lets a man like that slip away? Gorgeous, can cook… My ex couldn’t even scramble eggs.*
A stranger, and here she was, giddy as a schoolgirl. Nothing would come of it—just a shared New Year’s.
When she stepped out, Max actuallyShe opened the door to find Max standing there, snowflakes dusting his shoulders, holding a bottle of champagne and grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
