The Difficult Decision. A Return
“Go on then, fly if you want,” said Oliver, setting his cup in the sink. His voice was flat, almost indifferent. “Just don’t expect my support. Not morally, not physically.”
“I don’t,” murmured Eleanor, not looking at him.
“Don’t say later you regretted going.”
“I might. Or I might not. The important thing is not to regret never trying.”
And so she left.
Her connecting flight was delayed, and the second plane departed without her, indifferent to her delay. Seven hours in a stifling airport, a limp sandwich, and a shoulder bag instead of her suitcase—her dress still tucked away in the hold of another continent.
At the hotel, they told her the booking “hadn’t gone through.” The young man at reception smiled as if it were nothing.
“Apologies, madam, we’re fully booked. I can offer you a list of nearby motels.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor replied dryly. “Just what I needed—another tally of life’s disappointments.”
She sat in a café around the corner, ordered coffee, and scrolled through her contacts. Her finger paused over a name: Elizabeth Broadwood. A university friend from their days in Manchester. Years of sparse messages, occasional likes… then silence.
“Should I risk it?” she thought, and sent a short message.
The reply came in three minutes:
“Of course, come! We’ve a guest room. And we’ll find you a dress—no trouble. Though you’re likely slimmer now—we’ll adjust. How long it’s been!”
By morning, they were driving through the outskirts of London. With each turn, Eleanor felt herself slipping further into a past long buried. Elizabeth had changed—polished, assured, but still kind, without a trace of arrogance. She gave the club’s address, scrutinised Eleanor, styled her hair, spritzed it with hairspray, and handed her a brooch.
“You’re not going there as a ghost of the past, but as a woman who knows her worth. They’re all the same there—same faces, same lips. But not all of them have souls. Stand tall, Eleanor.”
The party was pretentious.
Marquees, manicured lawns, waiters with champagne, women in designer gowns—as if moulded from the same template. Expensive, ornate, and… foreign. She recognised no one. Only new faces—tanned, tightened, self-assured.
William was the first to appear. A little older, but still the same. He approached, gave a guilty smile, embraced her, whispered:
“I’m glad you came. I didn’t tell Isabelle. Wanted her to just… see you.”
Eleanor didn’t answer. She already understood.
Isabelle arrived moments later, not alone but with an entourage. A designer dress, a flawlessly sculpted face, eyes like glass.
“Eleanor? What a surprise,” she said, her smile more like a grimace. “You’re… here?”
“I’m me. And here is just a place,” Eleanor replied evenly. “Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you. I hope the journey wasn’t too tiring?”
“A little. But Elizabeth Broadwood helped. Funny how old bonds hold, even after years.”
“Elizabeth? Oh yes… She was a great help when we moved. They say she has excellent taste. Is that her dress?”
“It’s comfortable. And it fits better than some memories.”
Isabelle faltered for a second.
“Well… I hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I already am. Thank you for the invitation.”
“I… didn’t invite you.”
“But you’re not tossing me out,” Eleanor replied with a faint, knowing smile.
Later, when one of the guests suddenly slumped in his chair, turning pale, panic erupted.
“He’s choking!” shrieked a woman in a leopard-print gown. “Someone call an ambulance!”
“I’m a doctor,” Eleanor said calmly, already beside him. No hysterics, no fuss—just precision. A check of his pulse, a bag under his head, his collar loosened. She moved as if she did this daily. Because she did.
The ambulance arrived in fifteen minutes. In all that time, neither Isabelle nor any of her circle came near.
By morning, Eleanor woke in Elizabeth’s spare room. Her dress was neatly folded on the chair; coffee and a note waited on the table.
“You did the right thing. If you ever vanish into this city again, call. The room’s yours.”
At the airport, she felt light.
Not because it was over.
But because everything had finally settled into place.
That friendship had died long ago. The funeral was just overdue. Now it was done. No flowers. No tears. Just farewell.
Oliver was waiting at arrivals. His scruffy terrier, Winston, nearly bowled her over with joy.
“So, how was it?” he asked.
“Closed the chapter.”
“With a bang?”
“A small one. But with dignity.”
“And?”
“And I don’t feel the pull anymore.”
He took her bag.
She took his arm.
And they walked home.
