The Promise of Happiness
They say waiting for happiness is better than happiness itself. Because while you wait, you hope, you dream—you’re already happy. But the moment you grasp it slips away too quickly. You don’t have time to savour it before it turns ordinary, familiar. Then you’re left waiting all over again…
James Whitmore had everything: a flat in London, a reliable car, a decent job with good pay, and a wife—though he rarely bragged about it, she was lovely. They’d been sweethearts since secondary school. Their childhood romance had blossomed into marriage against all odds.
Then there was his four-year-old daughter, little Emily, his sunshine and joy, whom he adored more than anything.
What more could a man want? Life was good. But human nature is never satisfied—when you have everything, you crave more.
His wife, Charlotte, understood him without words, sometimes without even a glance. The fiery passion had settled into something comfortable, predictable. Every morning, James drank the strong coffee waiting for him after his shower, put on crisply ironed shirts that smelled of fresh linen, kissed Charlotte’s cheek gratefully, and drove his Ford to the office.
Evenings meant a warm meal at home. Weekends were for barbecues at his parents’ cottage or sledging in winter. He knew he was lucky—few men had things fall into place so smoothly.
And yet…
One day, a new employee arrived at the office—young, bright-eyed, with a shy, almost doe-like grace. Her name was Lucy Beckett. Lucy Smith, they called her. Lucy. A name like a melody. Maybe it was her deep brown eyes, the music in her name, or just the thrill of something new—but James was captivated. His heart recognised her, trembling with the promise of happiness.
He kept running into her—by the coffee machine, in the lift, at the café during lunch. Soon it was clear she sought him out too. So James made it easier.
One morning, waiting in his car, he spotted her walking lightly towards the office. He timed it just right, “accidentally” bumping into her at the entrance, holding the door open with a smile.
In the lift, he stole glances. Sometimes he caught her looking back, amused. But they were never alone—until one day, riding to the eighth floor, just the two of them. He asked about her work, the weather, her weekend plans. She answered, smiling, with a teasing glint in her eyes.
Autumn turned to winter. Then came the office Christmas party. James had high hopes—no need to rush home, no suspicious questions if he came back at dawn.
All evening, he watched Lucy. When the music started, he was first to ask her to dance. The moment she swayed into his arms, his pulse quickened, memories of his first dance with Charlotte flooding back. Lucy’s deep eyes promised everything.
Flushed from wine and laughter, they slipped into the hallway for air. James suggested sneaking away. Lucy agreed without hesitation. They hurried out, grinning like teenagers, the security guard watching enviously from his cramped booth.
They wandered through London, chatting easily. James avoided mentioning his wife; Lucy pretended not to care.
With Lucy, everything was effortless. His heart pounded with excitement. But as they walked through the icy streets, fatigue set in.
“You must live miles away,” he joked, breath fogging in the cold.
“Outskirts,” Lucy laughed. “Let’s get a cab.”
At her door, James lingered. Sobriety and guilt crept in—he still had Emily’s bedtime story to read. But then Lucy invited him up for coffee, “just to rest” before heading back. Fifteen minutes, he told himself.
They never made it to coffee.
Hours later, he woke in Lucy’s bed, disoriented. Outside the window, London had vanished—just endless darkness, no city lights, no stars. A hush fell over him, as if they floated above the world.
Leaving tore at him. But he couldn’t risk Charlotte suspecting—not yet. He showered, dressed, promised Lucy they’d meet again soon, then took a cab back to the office. The party was long over, the building dark. His car sat alone in the car park.
Home by half past two. Streetlight filtered through the curtains. Charlotte lay still, eyelids twitching—pretending to sleep. He pretended to believe her, slipping quietly into bed.
Sleep came faster than expected.
They never fought, never raised their voices. The walls were thin; no need for neighbours to hear their troubles. Even if he confessed his affair, James doubted Charlotte would shout.
Visiting coworkers envied his perfect marriage. Many men arrived at work haggard from arguments, but Charlotte never nagged, never demanded explanations. Until Lucy, James thought he had it all.
But now he was happy, humming in the shower. Charlotte made his coffee as usual, tilting her cheek for his kiss.
From then on, he and Lucy met at her flat on the outskirts, where no one knew him. Guilt gnawed at him—what was the point? His wife wasn’t cruel, his life wasn’t lacking.
Yet passion made him feel alive.
A year passed. Then, slowly, the excitement waned. He wanted quiet evenings at home again. Lucy’s persistence unnerved him—when would they be together? He mumbled excuses about Emily, but Lucy grew impatient.
Doubts festered. He had too much to lose.
Breaking it off proved impossible—one kiss, and his resolve melted. If only he could blend Charlotte’s steadiness with Lucy’s fire.
Until one day, at his desk, drafting his goodbye, pain lanced through his chest. Breath fled. He stood, collapsed.
Voices blurred—
“Poor sod couldn’t keep up…”
“Women ran him ragged…”
“James, wake up! Don’t leave me!” Lucy’s voice.
“Don’t leave us…” Charlotte’s whisper.
“Daddy, read to me…” Emily’s tears.
Amid the haze, a quiet voice spoke: “Do you really want to live? No more lies? No more Lucy?”
“Yes! I promise!” James gasped.
“Then wake up.”
Air burned his lungs. Light stabbed his eyes.
Charlotte hovered over him. “You scared me.”
Lucy visited twice at the hospital, crying in the corner before slipping away.
Two weeks later, discharged, James revelled in time with Emily. How could he have risked this?
Then, one evening, his phone buzzed.
“Miss you. When will I see you?” Lucy whispered.
“Not now,” he murmured.
“She’s there, isn’t she?” A pause. “Tomorrow?”
He should’ve ended it. Instead: “Tomorrow.”
“Work?” Charlotte asked, towel wrapped around her hair.
“Yeah. Asking when I’m back.”
He’d go just once more. Break it off properly.
Then, like before—crushing pain. Darkness.
A warning.
He grabbed his phone.
*It’s over. I won’t come.*
Sent. Blocked.
Easier than he’d thought.
After all—he wanted to live.
