“Edward! Edward, Lord help me, what have you done?” Lucy cried, her voice raw with despair. “You know exactly how I feel about you! Why are you doing this to me?”
“Don’t, Lucy! Don’t make it harder!” Lucy spun towards the rain-streaked window, unable to face his expression. “It’s settled. Alexander is a good man. Financially secure. We’ll have a respectable life.”
“And love? What we shared? Does none of that matter?” Edward’s eyes pleaded.
Lucy clenched her fists until her nails dug crescent moons into her palms. Of course it mattered. It meant more than she dared admit. But Mum lay in the hospital after a second heart attack, and the treatment cost more than she or Edward could ever dream of having.
“It was lovely,” she stated, her tone icy. “But life isn’t a fairy tale.”
Edward stepped closer, hand reaching out, then dropped it to his side untouched. “Lucy… remember that day on the coast? When you fell from the cliff path? I pulled you up. We made promises…”
“Stop it!” She whirled around, facing him at last. “Don’t bring that up! It’s over.”
Edward stared at her like he was seeing a stranger. He gave a slow, defeated nod. “Right. I see. So be it.” He picked his coat from the chair. “Best wishes to you, Mrs. Lucy Spencer.”
He left without slamming the door. Lucy listened to his footsteps fade on the stairs, and only then did the tears finally fall.
Alexander Wright was indeed a good man. A fifty-year-old widower, managing director of a major firm, he offered Lucy not just marriage, but stability. When Mum fell ill, he’d quietly covered all the medical bills, asking only for her hand in return.
“You’re young, beautiful, intelligent,” he’d said, holding her hand gently. “I’m not. I need a companion. We suit each other.” Lucy nodded, feeling like a commodity. But choice was a luxury she didn’t have. Mum was recovering, doctors promising a full rebound with the right care and expensive prescriptions.
The wedding was a quiet register office affair. Alexander proved a considerate husband, expecting no demand for love, seeming content with respect and gratitude. Lucy tried earnestly to be a good wife.
She didn’t glimpse Edward for three months, then bumped into him at the GP surgery.
“How are you?” he asked politely, like an acquaintance.
“Alright. And you?”
“Same. Working hard.”
He was thinner, tanned, wearing a sharp new suit. Lucy bit back the question about the money.
“How’s your mum?” Edward had always cared for her mother; Mum, in turn, adored him.
“She’s mending. Slowly.”
“Give her my best.”
“Will do.”
They lingered in the sterile corridor, and suddenly, Lucy remembered that coastal day with piercing clarity. She was seventeen, he nineteen. Walking the cliffs near Brighton. The path had crumbled underfoot. A muted crack, but Edward heard. He yelled for her to stay still, crawling towards her on his stomach over the loose earth. When she slipped, he grabbed her wrist. Minutes of frantic struggle followed, his desperate pull against gravity, the thick jumper he ripped off to warm her when she was safe.
“It’s alright now,” he’d whispered, fiercely rubbing her frozen hands. “I won’t let you go. Never.” Seventeen and believing fervently in promises.
“I need to go,” Edward said, snapping her back to the stark present.
“Yes. Of course.”
He left. Lucy stood motionless in the corridor long after, a referral slip crumpling in her hand.
Life with Alexander unfolded steadily. He built Mum a neat bungalow in Guildford, hired a carer, secured Lucy a coveted position in his company’s administration. She handled documents, drew a good salary, and felt utterly hollow inside.
“You seem low this evening,” her husband observed over supper.
“Just tired.”
“Shall we get away? The cottage for the weekend?”
Alexander noticed her moods, tried to please her, bought thoughtful gifts. Lucy knew many women would envy her position.
“Alright. That sounds nice.”
His Surrey cottage was luxurious, complete with garden and pool. Lucy lay on a lounger watching clouds drift. Alexander read the paper beside her. “Listen, remember Edward Clarke?” he asked abruptly. Lucy flinched. “Yes. Why?”
“Saw something here about him in the business section. He’s making quite a name for himself. Started his own building firm. Developing those new executive estates near Farnham. Apparently, very successfully.” Alexander showed her a newspaper photo. Edward stood surveying a half-built house, smiling at the camera. He looked confident. Thriving.
“Good for him,” Lucy said, her voice flat.
“Quite. Pity he couldn’t compete for you back then,” Alexander mused, a wry twist to his mouth.
Lucy studied him. No anger or jealousy coloured his words, just a tinge of regret.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Just sometimes wonder how things might’ve been… differently.”
Alexander Wright was rich but also shrewd. He understood precisely why she’d married him.
“Circumstances don’t just happen; we make choices,” she countered.
“True enough.”
Silence fell. Lucy thought of Edward’s success. He was always driven, hardworking; he’d just lacked the initial capital back then.
“Alexander, may I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you regret marrying me?”
He set the paper down, meeting her gaze directly. “No. Do you regret saying yes?” Lucy’s automatic denial caught in her throat. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I see.” He picked up the paper again. The conversation ended.
That night, sleep evaded Lucy. Memories crashed in – the coastline, the vows exchanged with Edward, how easily shattered they’d been by grim reality. Mum was well, the house built, money worries gone. But something vital withered the day she made her choice.
Alexander departed on a business trip the following week. Lucy visited Mum. Her mother greeted her warmly, sat her down, plied her with scones.
“You’ve lost weight, love. Alexander not feeding you?”
“Mum, he treats me like royalty.”
“But are you happy?” The question struck like a bolt. Lucy froze, scone halfway to her lips.
“What kind of question?”
“A fair one. Money’s well and good, but happiness matters.”
“Mum, without Alexander, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I know. And I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean you sacrifice your life.”
“Nobody’s sacrificing anything.” Mum looked at her steadily.
“Edward came by last week. Asked after you.”
“Why tell me that?”
“Because he loves you. And you love him. That kind of love, love… it’s rare, darling.”
“Love doesn’t pay bills,” Lucy snapped.
“It could now. He’s doing very well for himself.”
Lucy pushed back her chair.
“I should go.”
“Think on what I said.”
Lucy drove home churning with confusion. What was Mum playing at? Undermine her marriage? Make her feel worse? Alexander returned weary and preoccupied. Over a quiet supper, he finally spoke. “Lucy, we need to talk.” “About what?”
“Us. What exists between us.” Lucy felt her pulse quicken.
“What do you mean?”
“You know. You’re unhappy. I see it every day. You try, but it brings you no joy.”
“Alexander…”
“Let me finish. I married you for more than your beauty. I’d hoped… for more than gratitude to grow. It hasn’t.” Lucy held her silence, adrift.
“I won’t hold you against your will. If you choose to leave, I won’t stand in your way. Your mum’s bungalow stays hers. I’ll continue funding any care she needs. I’ll help you, if required.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I respect you. Because life’s too short to waste on unhappiness.”
They sat in the quiet until late. Lucy thought about the sheer decency
He’d pulled her from the sea long ago, saving her body, while she’d drowned his heart in betrayal, leaving only the cold, enduring tide of regret.
