**Shades of Happiness**
“Oh, hello there, old mate,” said Oliver, ushering his childhood friend Liam into the house. Liam had come down from the city for a visit.
“Good to see you,” Liam replied, pulling Oliver into a quick hug. “Been too long. It’s been four months since my nan’s funeral. Kept meaning to come sooner, but life got in the way. Finally took some leave—thought I’d get away to the countryside for a bit.”
“Brilliant idea,” Oliver said, grinning. “We’ll go fishing at the lake in the woods, maybe the river—just like when we were kids, eh?”
They’d been inseparable growing up—racing through village lanes, splashing in the river, dreaming up mischief, sharing a classroom. Liam had always been the quick-witted one, full of wild schemes, while Oliver was the steady hand, ever loyal.
“Just you then? Where’s the missus?” Liam asked.
“Popped to the shops—she’ll be back soon. Gemma’s a proper homemaker, cooks like a dream. Feeds me up proper, she does,” Oliver boasted.
They’d married six years ago, but children hadn’t come. Gemma had gone to the local clinic with Oliver, but the doctors insisted everything was fine—just a matter of time.
Oliver doted on her, fussing over every little thing, never letting her lift anything heavy. The village women envied her—some kindly, others with sharper bitterness.
“Lucky Gemma, that one. Oliver treats her like a queen—never touches a drop, adores her.”
Gemma lived comfortably, enjoying her pretty dresses and keeping house, though sometimes a quiet sadness crept in when she watched the neighbours’ children. She worked as an accountant at the village council.
They avoided speaking of children, but Oliver often wondered—*A baby would bring us even closer.* Sometimes, though, he felt an invisible chill from her.
Gemma *did* feel Oliver’s love—so much it almost smothered her at times.
“Hello,” came Gemma’s soft voice as she stepped inside, a shopping bag in hand. Oliver hurried over to take it from her.
“Alright?” Liam said brightly, unable to help admiring Gemma’s slender legs and fair, wavy hair. “I’m Liam—Oliver’s old schoolmate.”
“Can’t say he’s mentioned you,” Gemma said, glancing at her husband.
“Lives up in Manchester. His nan passed a few months back—remember old Margaret from the other end of the village? You’re not from here, so you wouldn’t know him.”
“Ah, right. So *this* is her grandson. Liam here’s a proper city boy—left right after school.”
“Spot on,” Liam confirmed with a grin.
“Right, love—we’ll take a stroll while you whip something up,” Oliver said, and the two men stepped out.
Gemma had the day off, with her leave starting Monday. Early September painted the village in russet and gold, leaves twirling like lost dancers in the breeze.
She set the table in the garden—too fine an evening to stay indoors. When the men returned, they settled in, pints in hand.
“Liam, mate, I’m chuffed you’re here. Finally—proper fishing trip. You ought to visit more. Grew up together, didn’t we? Herding old Mr. Higgins’ cows, pinching apples from gardens—now you’re all posh and city-fied.”
“Posh? Born and bred here, this’ll always be home,” Liam said, clapping Oliver on the shoulder.
Gemma watched them, bemused by their easy banter, the laughter over shared memories. When she remembered the pie in the oven, she leapt up and returned with it steaming, slicing thick wedges.
“Bloody hell, this is good!” Liam exclaimed. “Gemma, you’re a marvel.”
“Oh aye, my wife’s a cracking cook,” Oliver bragged. “Look what she’s done to me!” The men roared, raising their glasses.
The evening stretched, voices loud with nostalgia. When dark fell, Gemma switched on the lights, watching them with quiet amusement.
*Thank God Oliver’s not as handsome as Liam. Too pretty, too sharp, too smooth. Bet he’s got women queuing in Manchester. No wonder he’s not married—probably hops from one to the next.*
Liam left late. After that, he dropped by often—Oliver was at work, but evenings and weekends were theirs. One sunny weekend, they camped by the lake, frying their catch over a fire, joined by other old mates. Laughter bubbled like the ale.
At one such gathering, Gemma caught Liam’s gaze—different this time. She knew that look. She *was* pretty, after all. But she was married.
Later, stepping out to lock the shed, she turned—and there was Liam.
“You scared me!”
“Admiring the moon?” he teased.
“Hardly—forgot to lock up. You nipped out for a smoke?”
“No. I followed you,” Liam said plainly. “You’ve got me hooked, Gemma. Fell for you the moment I saw you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Liam, have you lost the plot?” Her cheeks burned—thank God for the dark.
“Dead serious. Two weeks I’ve been thinking about you—”
“Gem!” Oliver’s voice cut through. She stepped back.
“Just locking the shed—hens’ll scatter otherwise.”
“You here too?” Oliver frowned, spotting Liam.
“Yeah, just asking Gemma where to, uh—” He laughed, and Gemma waved vaguely toward the fence.
She played the dutiful wife, but Liam’s words hummed in her skull. That night, she tossed, guilt gnawing.
*Stop this. He’s a flirt, a city charmer. Probably lies through his teeth.*
Yet the next day, Liam came while Oliver was at work. She was cooking when the knock came—*his* knock.
“Alright?” he said, sauntering in. “Just dropping by.”
“Oliver’s at work.”
“I know, Gem.” His grin was sinful. “Missed you. Can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Liam, I thought we were joking last night.”
“Joking? I’m gone for you, Gemma. Life’s not the same.”
She wavered, resolve crumbling as he took her hands. She *liked* him—flattered by his attention, his easy charm.
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, lips at her ear, arms tightening.
What happened next left her breathless, pulse racing. By the time she steadied, Liam was at the table, devouring her pie.
“Always wanted a wife like you—proper homemaker, stunning, cooks like an angel.”
“Right, well—best be off. See you later.”
After he left, Gemma floated, the autumn gloom now gold-lit. But guilt followed.
*Should’ve waited. Maybe Liam was meant to be mine.*
When Oliver came home, reality dragged her down. She cooked for him, mood dimmed.
The secret meetings continued. Liam’s sweet nothings spun her head—she’d never known a man like him.
“Gem, my leave’s nearly up. I’ve got to go back,” he said one day at his place.
“Couldn’t you move here? Commute?”
“You’d want that?”
“Yes. I can’t bear the thought of you leaving.”
“Course I can. Boss, aren’t I? Flexi-hours.” He kissed her. “I’ll be back in two weeks. Promise.”
“But—what about you and Oliver?”
“Doesn’t matter. Not when I’ve got you.”
Liam left. Gemma ached, her leave ending too. She couldn’t face Oliver, so she packed a bag and fled to her divorced friend Tasha’s.
“Gem, you sure about this? What’d you tell Oliver?”
“Left a note: *‘Oliver, six years, and it’s run its course. I’ve fallen for someone else. You’ll understand soon.’* Liam’s coming back—we’ll live here.”
Oliver didn’t come after her. Weeks passed, rain lashing the village. Gemma waited, realising—*I never got his number.*
Then, one evening, she saw his lights on. Heart pounding, she raced over, bursting in.
“I left Oliver! I’m free!”
“Why’d you do that?” Liam said coolly.
“*What?* To be with you! You said—”
“Never said I’d marry you. Got a girl in Manchester. Oliver’s a good bloke—where’d you find another like him? And what use are you to me, eh? One wink, and you drop your husband.” He smirked. “Anyway, not coming back. Getting married.”
She didn’t cry. Just left.
Tasha took one look and understood.
“Tash, he *laughed*. Said I was a faith
