**The Wait for Happiness**
They say the anticipation of happiness is sweeter than happiness itself. While you wait, hope, imagine—you’re already happy. But the moment you grasp it, it’s fleeting. Before you can savour it, it fades into the ordinary, and the longing begins anew…
Markham had everything: a comfortable flat in London, a sleek Jaguar, a steady job with a generous salary, and—between you and me—a wife who was still quite lovely. They’d been sweethearts since grammar school, childhood affection blooming into marriage against all odds.
Then there was his four-year-old daughter, little Lottie, his sunshine, his heart’s delight. His wife, Claire, stayed home to care for her. By all accounts, what more could a man want? Live and be glad. But such is human nature—to crave more even when contentment is at hand.
With Claire, life had settled into an easy rhythm. The fiery passion of youth had cooled into warm familiarity, their silences as comfortable as their conversations. Each morning, Markham drank the strong coffee she left steaming for him after his shower, slipped into crisp shirts that smelled faintly of lavender, kissed her cheek in gratitude, and drove to work. Evenings brought hearty suppers; weekends, jaunts to his parents’ country cottage in the Cotswolds—barbecues in summer, sledding in winter. Fate had been kind to him. Few men had luck like his.
And yet…
One day, a new secretary arrived at the office—young, fresh-faced, with doe-like dark eyes that held a quiet fear. Her name was Melanie Redwood. Mel. Not a name so much as a melody. Perhaps it was those eyes, or the whisper of adventure in her voice, but something about her struck Markham deeply. His heart recognised her before his mind did, trembling with the promise of something new.
He began crossing paths with her—by the lifts, at the coffee machine, in the canteen at lunch. Soon, he realised these were no accidents. Mel sought him out, too. So, he played along. One morning, he lingered in his car, waiting until he spotted her light step on the pavement before “bumping into” her at the entrance, holding the door with practised nonchalance.
In the lift, he stole glances, catching the flicker of her gaze in return. Words rarely passed between them—too many colleagues, too little privacy. But one quiet afternoon, they rode up alone. He asked about her work, the weather, her plans for the weekend. She answered with a smile, one eyebrow arched just so.
Autumn slipped into winter. The office Christmas party loomed, and Markham pinned his hopes on it. No curfew, no excuses needed if he stumbled home at dawn.
All evening, he kept Mel in sight. When the music started, he cut in before anyone else could claim her. As they danced, his pulse quickened, fingers burning where they touched her waist. For a fleeting instant, it was like being fifteen again, swaying awkwardly with Claire at their first school dance. Mel’s dark eyes promised everything.
Flushed with wine and laughter, they slipped into the corridor for air. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmured. Without hesitation, she agreed. They grabbed their coats and dashed into the frosty night, giggling like truants.
The security guard, left to mind the desk with only a crossword for company, watched them go with hollow envy. No one had thought to bring him so much as a mince pie.
Markham and Mel wandered the city, chatting of nothing and everything. He carefully skirted talk of his wife; she pretended not to care. With her, everything was effortless, exhilarating. *Lucky bastard*, his heartbeat thrummed in time with their footsteps through the snow.
Fatigue gnawed at him. He wished he hadn’t left the car at the office.
“Tell me, Mel,” he finally asked, “do you live in the middle of nowhere?”
She laughed, bright as sleigh bells. “The very edge of town, past the new estates. Let’s get a cab.”
Outside her building, Markham lingered, reluctant to send the taxi away. Sobriety crept in, and with it, guilt—he still had time to read Lottie her bedtime story. But then Mel invited him up for coffee. Just a quick rest before the journey home.
The coffee never came.
Two hours later, he woke in her bed. Outside the window, the world had vanished—no moon, no stars, just darkness so complete it stole his breath. Mel stood beside him, and for a dizzying moment, he felt they were the last two souls on earth.
Leaving was agony, but better not to arouse suspicion on the first offence. He dressed quickly, showered away the scent of her, and kissed her goodbye with whispered promises. The office was dark when he returned. His car waited, solitary on the empty lot.
At half-two, he crept into the flat. Streetlight spilled through the curtains, casting Claire’s face in sharp relief. She feigned sleep; he played along, sliding under the covers without touching her.
They never fought, never raised their voices. Thin walls bred discretion. Sometimes, he wondered—if he confessed, would she even shout?
Guests envied him his elegant, even-tempered wife. Colleagues arrived red-eyed after marital storms; Markham never did. Before Mel, he’d thought himself content.
Morning found him rejuvenated, humming in the shower. Claire brought his coffee, offered her cheek for the usual peck.
From then on, he met Mel at her flat—out in the soulless new estates where no one they knew would see. At times, guilt gnawed at him. What was the point? Claire wasn’t cruel, wasn’t cold. Why throw it all away?
On the scales of his conscience, Claire and Lottie sat on one side, wild, thrilling Mel on the other. The latter gave him vigour, the rush of being twenty again. How could he walk away?
A year slipped by. But even sweetness cloys. The trysts began to exhaust him. More and more, he craved quiet evenings at home.
Mel, once a respite, now demanded promises. “When will we be together properly?” she’d ask, eyes flashing. He fumbled excuses—Lottie was too young, they must wait—but her patience frayed. The fear took root: What if she told Claire?
The scales tipped. Claire was safety, Mel—chaos.
Breaking it off proved impossible. One kiss from her, and resolve crumbled. If only he could blend them—Claire’s steadiness, Mel’s fire.
One afternoon at his desk, drafting polite farewells in his head, pain lanced through his chest like a vice. He staggered up, gasped for air—then nothing.
Voices filtered through the fog.
“Lasted longer than I would’ve…”
“Women’ll be the death of a man…”
“Markham, wake up, don’t leave me—” Mel’s voice, ragged with tears.
“Don’t leave us,” Claire whispered.
“Daddy, read to me—” Lottie’s sob tore at him, but his eyelids were lead.
A voice, clear as chapel bells, cut through the noise:
“You truly wish to live? No more lies? No more Mel?”
“Yes! I swear it—who are you?”
“Look upon me, and be blinded.”
Air rushed back into his lungs with searing pain. Alive.
“He’s awake!” someone shouted. Light stabbed his eyes—harsh, hospital-bright. Not the soft glow from… wherever he’d been.
Claire hovered, pale but composed. “You scared me half to death.”
Mel visited twice, hovering in the doorway, weeping silently before fleeing.
Home at last, Markham savoured every bedtime story, every stroll with Lottie. Claire was tenderness itself. How had he ever wanted more?
Then his phone buzzed.
“Missed you. When will I see you?” Mel’s voice was honeyed.
“Not now,” he muttered.
“She’s there, isn’t she?” A sigh. “Just say you’ll come.”
A chance to end it—yet he hesitated.
“Tomorrow.”
“Work?” Claire called from the bathroom, towel twisted atop her head.
“Yes. Asking when I’ll be back.”
*One last time, then. She deserves that much.*
The pain returned—brief, brutal. A warning. He snatched up his phone. *I won’t come. Not tomorrow, not ever.* Send. Block.
Simple as that.
After all—he very much wanted to live.
