Never stop believing in happiness
In her early twenties, Ella slipped into the clamor of the Brighton Fair. A Romani woman with eyes as dark as a moonless sea seized her wrist and sang in a lilting voice:
You, my dear, will live in a sunkissed land where the air smells of sea and vines.
Ella laughed, fierce and bright:
Nonsense! Ill never leave my hometown.
Life drifted on. She married James for love, welcomed a daughter named Grace, and dreamed of a second child. Yet before leaving her job, she promised herself a few steady years: Five, maybe six years, then perhaps I can think about a son.
That promise shattered the day a work trip forced her out of the routine. Her neighbour, nurse Jill, called breathlessly:
Ella, theyve taken Simon to the hospital! The ambulance came from an unknown address on the next street.
Family secrets have a habit of surfacing where you least expect them.
The drive home felt like a lowbudget thriller. That very evening, James staggered into the kitchen, pale, his arm in a sling, eyes darting away.
Where did they pick you up from? Ella whispered, the words barely a breath.
Silence answered louder than any accusation.
It emerged that the flat on the adjoining lane belonged to a lone womana colleague of Jameswhod been sharing a friendship with him for over a year.
Temperaments clashed. Some turned a blind eye, some erupted in fury, then, teeth clenched, offered a soup bowl to the cheater. Ella, however, was of a different mould. She didnt wait for James to come home from the ward; she needed to tend to the wounded heart of her family.
She packed the essentials into an old suitcase, took trembling Grace by the hand, and fled their shared flat without a backward glance.
Were starting anew, my love, she said, squeezing the tiny hand.
***
Jamess mother took them in for a while. Soon after, Ella divorced, split the square footage with James, and secured a mortgage on a modest terraced house in Manchester. She lived on autopilot, striving to provide for herself and Grace.
Years later, exhausted by work and solitude, Ella booked a flight to the English countryside, to the welcoming home of Oliviaher mothers old friendjust an hours drive from Oxford. She had lingered, fretting over the cost of a holiday, until the ache became unbearable. She hoped the English sun would melt the ice around her heart.
Olivia listened to Ellas bitter confessionsIll never learn to trust again, Love feels dead to me.and could bear it no longer. She whispered to a friend who owned a vineyard in Kent:
George, find me a man named Lloyd. Tell him I have a bride waiting.
Lloyds thoughts were far from romance. He was already in his nightshirt, a soft robe draped over his shoulders, a book in his lap, trying to shove away the gloom of the long English night.
A sudden knock shattered the silence. Within minutes, Olivia burst into the bedroom, eyes alight:
Ella, get up! Your fiancé has arrived!
Ella scoffed, chuckling, but slipped on the robe and shuffled into the sitting room.
There he stood: tall, a silver thread at his temples, eyes twinkling. Lloyd clutched a motorcycle helmet; behind him, a battered bike leaned against the stone wall, fresh from a twentykilometre ride up the rolling hills under a canopy of stars.
Olivia told me youre a proper English lady? he said in broken English, his accent a melody of his Midlands roots.
Ella, stunned, extended a hand. Lloyds large, warm palms covered hers, refusing to let go. They sank onto the sofa, fingers intertwined, the language of gestures and smiles bridging their gulfshe spoke no Italian, he barely managed English. Olivia, smiling, slipped away, leaving the two strangers to the miracle of their sudden connection.
At dawn Lloyd vanished again, astride his iron steed. Later Ella learned his life had been a string of misfortunes: two failed marriages, no children, no home, a cramped flat above his brothers garage, and a belief in happiness that had long since dimmed.
Ten days before his departure they made a pact. Ill come back, she answered his quiet promise. Well live together.
***
Back in Manchester, the next few months spiraled: she was made redundant, packed boxes, endured heated arguments with relatives who could not fathom her madness. Her phone buzzed nonstop:
My sunshine, how are you? I miss you. Lloyd
Our new window looks onto an olive orchard. Your room is waiting. Your Lloyd
The sevenyear age gap (Lloyd was younger) and Grace, now twelve, never unsettled him.
One afternoon, perched on the sundrenched terrace of their newly bought cottage overlooking the Cotswold hills, Ella wrapped her arms around Lloyds shoulders and asked:
Lloyd, why did you believe in us so quickly? Why werent you scared?
He turned, his eyes reflecting the whole of the rolling countryside:
An old vintner once told me Id meet a woman from the east, a soul stormtossed, a heart seeking peace. He said shed bring the luck Ive been planting in my vines for years, yet never harvesting. That woman is you, Ella.
And? she whispered, tears gathering. Did you find that luck?
Lloyd gave no answer. He simply drew her close and kissed her as if it were both their first and last kiss, then, with a radiant smile, declared:
She found me herself. Im infinitely happy.
Life, at last, fell into place. A perfect job appeared, they took out a mortgage on a cosy cottage with a view of the hills. Lloyd adored his stepdaughter Grace, now eagerly learning to speak French. Each morning he slipped a cup of cinnamonspiced coffee into Ellas bed; evenings filled the house with the scent of his flawless pasta sauces. Love bloomed in the wildflowers on the table, in tender touches, in the caring glance he gave Ella each sunrise.
Ella blossomed. She could no longer convince herself that lasting happiness was a myth. Now she knows: happiness is not a fairy tale. It walks the world, stubbornly seeking its other half, and when it finds it, it binds the pair together so tightly that no storm can ever tear them apart.
