**Shades of Happiness**
“Oh, hello there, mate,” said George, welcoming his childhood friend Ian into his house in the small village.
“Good to see you,” Ian replied, hugging him. “Been ages, hasn’t it? Four months since my grandmother’s funeral. Kept meaning to visit sooner, but life got in the way. Finally took some time off—thought I’d relax out here in the countryside.”
“Brilliant idea,” George grinned. “We’ll go fishing at the lake in the woods, maybe even down by the river—remember how we used to?”
He always had her back.
They’d grown up together—racing through the village lanes, swimming in the river, playing pranks, attending the same school. Ian had always been the quick-witted one, full of mischief, while George was the steady, loyal friend.
“You here alone? Where’s the missus?” Ian asked.
“Just popped out to the shops—she’ll be back soon,” George said proudly. “She’s a proper homemaker, cooks like a dream, feeds me till I’m stuffed.”
They’d married six years ago, but children hadn’t come yet. Daisy had been to the local clinic with her husband, but the doctors said everything was fine—just a matter of waiting.
George adored her, fussing over her, helping her with everything, never letting her lift anything heavy. The village women often envied her—some with admiration, others with bitterness.
“Lucky Daisy,” they’d mutter. “George treats her like a queen, doesn’t drink, adores her.”
Daisy lived contentedly, changing outfits, keeping house, though sometimes a pang of sadness struck when she watched the neighbours’ children. She worked as an accountant at the village council.
They rarely spoke of children, but George often wondered, “Once we have a baby, we’ll grow even closer.” He sometimes sensed an icy distance from his wife.
Daisy did feel his overwhelming love—sometimes it even smothered her.
“Hello,” Ian heard Daisy’s soft voice and turned.
There she stood with a shopping bag in hand. George jumped up, took it from her, and carried it to the kitchen.
“Hi,” Ian said cheerfully, admiring Daisy’s slender legs and fair, wavy hair. “I’m Ian, George’s childhood friend.”
“Funny, he’s never mentioned you,” she said to her husband.
“He lives in London. His gran passed a few months back—remember old Mrs. Agnes, from the other side of the village?”
“Oh, right. So this is her grandson. Ian’s a proper city boy now—left right after school.”
“Spot on,” Ian confirmed with a smile.
“Right, Daisy, we’ll take a walk while you cook,” George said, and they headed out.
It was the weekend. Daisy’s holiday started Monday. Early September had painted the village in gold and russet, leaves twirling in the breeze.
She set the table outside in the gazebo—who’d want to eat indoors in weather like this? The men returned and settled in.
“Bloody good to have you here, mate,” George said. “About time we went fishing. You should visit more. Grew up together, herded cows with my grandad, pinched apples from gardens—now you’re all city-slicker.”
“Ah, come off it—I was born here, this is home,” Ian clapped him on the shoulder.
Daisy watched them reminisce, laughing and joking, and marvelled at their friendship. Remembering the pie in the oven, she dashed inside and returned with a golden-brown delight, slicing it up.
“Blimey, this is incredible!” Ian exclaimed. “Daisy, you’re a star.”
“Yeah, my wife’s a genius in the kitchen,” George boasted. “Look at me—she’s fattened me right up!”
They laughed, drank wine, stayed late. Daisy watched them, relieved George wasn’t as handsome as Ian.
*Too charming, too sharp. Probably has women lining up in London. No wonder he’s single—proper heartbreaker.*
Ian left late that night. Over the next days, he dropped by often—George was at work, but evenings were theirs. One weekend, they went fishing—perfect weather, warm and golden. They grilled their catch in the garden, friends joining in.
At one gathering, Daisy caught Ian’s gaze—different this time. She knew she was attractive, but she was married.
Later, stepping out to lock the shed, she turned—and there he was.
“Oof! What are you doing here?”
“Admiring the moon?” he teased.
“No time for that—just locking up. You sneaking a smoke?”
“No. I followed you,” he admitted. “I fancy you, Daisy. Fell for you the moment I saw you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Don’t be daft,” she flushed, glad for the dark.
“I’m serious. Been thinking about you for weeks.”
“Daisy?” George’s voice cut in.
“Just locking the shed—don’t want the chickens wandering off,” she said quickly.
“You here too?” George asked, spotting Ian.
“Yeah, just asking Daisy where to, uh—” He laughed, and Daisy pointed vaguely.
That night, Daisy tossed and turned. *Why am I thinking of him? Probably a player. Flirts with anything in a skirt.*
Next day, Ian arrived when George was at work. Daisy was cooking when she heard his knock.
“Hi,” he smiled, stepping in. “Just visiting.”
“George isn’t here.”
“I know,” he said, eyes glinting. “Missed you. Can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I thought we were joking last night.”
“Joke? I’m in love. My life’s changed.”
Daisy faltered. His hands warmed hers, his whispers melted her resolve. She liked him too—flattered by his attention.
Then—heat, breathlessness, heart racing. Later, Ian sat at the table, devouring pie.
“Always wanted a wife like you,” he said. “Brilliant cook, gorgeous.”
“Right, better run. See you tonight.”
After he left, Daisy floated—even the melancholy autumn air felt golden.
*Maybe I rushed into marriage. Should’ve waited for real love.*
When George came home, reality crashed down.
Secret meetings continued—Ian’s sweet words dizzying her.
“My holiday’s ending,” he said one day. “I’ll have to go back.”
“Couldn’t you move here? Commute to London?”
“You’d want that?”
“Yes. I can’t be without you,” she admitted.
“I’ll come back in two weeks. Everything will be perfect.”
“What about George?”
“Doesn’t matter—not with you here.”
Ian left. Daisy pined. Her holiday ended. She couldn’t face George—she needed Ian. Packing a bag, she left for her friend Rita’s.
“Maybe this is a mistake,” Rita said.
“I left a note: *George, six years weren’t enough. I’ve fallen for someone else.* Ian’s coming back—we’ll live in his house.”
George never came for her. Weeks passed, autumn turned wet and grey.
Then—lights in Ian’s window. Heart pounding, she rushed over.
“Hi! I left George—we’re free now!”
“Why’d you do that?” he asked coldly.
“What? For you! You said—”
“I never said I’d marry you. I’ve got a fiancée in London. George is a good man—where’d you find another like him? Why would I want you? You dropped him the second I crooked a finger. And I’m not coming back—getting married soon.”
His calm words cut deeper than anger.
She walked out, numb. Rita took one look and understood.
“Told me I’m unfaithful. He’s right, Rita,” she sobbed.
Two weeks later, still at Rita’s, Daisy found the unsent note in her bag.
*He never read it.*
That evening, she bumped into George outside the shop.
“Hi,” he smiled slightly. “How’ve you been?”
“Alright.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Come home. Rita said you’ve been sick—let’s get you some apples. Vitamins’ll help.” He offered his arm, like old times.
They walked back in the dusk. Inside, Daisy exhaled.
*He forgave me.*
George had known Ian’s games. He’d waited. And when Ian returned, he gave him one solid punch, then walked away—never hit a man on the ground.
Now, with baby Mark lighting up their home, Daisy lives with quiet guilt, grateful George never mentions the past. Happiness has returned—in shades deeper than before.
