The Actress
Emily stepped into the tube carriage and sank onto the seat. Why had she worn heeled boots? Because at any age, a woman ought to look like a woman.
She caught her reflection in the dark window across from her. Not bad at all. “Especially after a good sleep, a layer of makeup, and a dim reflection,” her inner voice remarked.
“Yes, the eyes look sad. Probably from exhaustion.” Emily glanced away. “I should dress my age, at least ditch the heels,” she decided. “Blast these boots. Just get home, take them off, shed this heavy coat. What was I thinking, dressing up like this?”
She’d long been forgotten, unrecognised on the street, but the habit of presenting a polished face in public lingered. Not that Emily had ever been famous. But after a few films, people started noticing her. And the men who’d courted her! Barely a day passed without someone waiting at the stage door with flowers.
Back then, she wasn’t Emily Whitmore—she was Alice Fairleigh. Now that had a ring to it! She’d swelled with pride seeing her name in the credits, even if it was only in two films.
The carriage felt stifling. Emily undid the top button of her coat, tugged off her scarf, and shook her head to ward off fatigue. Her hair had thinned, but the right cut and dye gave the illusion of volume. She glanced up—but instead of her reflection, she saw a young man smiling straight at her.
Alice’s old instincts kicked in. A slight tilt of the chin, a fleeting smile, then a deliberate look away. Acknowledgement, appreciation, and dismissal all in one.
“I should’ve taken a cab. Expensive, but faster. Wouldn’t be so worn out,” she muttered. Her third husband had urged her to get a driver’s licence, but she’d never dared.
Edward, husband number three, had been the best of the lot. A shame he’d died so young. After him, she’d sworn off marriage—not that anyone had asked.
Goodness, how striking she’d been in her youth! Delicate nose, crimson lips, lashes like spun silk. And those eyes—alive, sparkling with mischief. Even now, her figure turned heads. Not many her age could say the same. “Kept yourself trim, never had kids. Now look at you—alone, forgotten,” sneered the voice in her head.
“Quiet,” Emily murmured, then glanced around. Lately, she’d caught herself talking aloud more often.
No one paid her any mind. The carriage was near empty—a few dozers, some blank stares. Only the man opposite still watched her. She looked away and drifted back into memory.
Born too late, that was her trouble. She’d had the looks and talent to rival Julie Andrews in “Mary Poppins.” Pity about the voice—shrill, not suited for singing. But that could’ve been dubbed. Dancing? Now that she could do.
On her first film set—a dance sequence—she’d met her first husband, a dashing actor. A whirlwind romance, a hasty marriage. It lasted barely a year.
He gambled. First it was money disappearing, then her jewellery. Debts piled up. Tears and rows changed nothing. When he hit her, she left.
Almost immediately, she married Vincent. A decade older, wealthy, stable. She didn’t love him, but she’d had her fill of passion. He left his wife and son for her. His ex called often, begging him to visit the boy. He’d return quiet and withdrawn.
Then came the heart attack. At the funeral, his first wife clung to the coffin, wailing, “Who’ll care for us now? Bury me beside him! This actress drove you to your grave…” Alice walked out.
There were flings, but no more marriages—until five years later, when she met retired Colonel Edward. The flowers! The furs! The diamonds! How could she refuse?
Twelve years they had. He wanted children; she didn’t. Then the stroke took him. This time, her tears were real. She’d loved him—like a father, a rock. His relatives eyed her with icy disapproval. Typical actress.
For a week, she didn’t leave the house. Her friend Kate found her haggard, forced brandy into her, put her to bed. When Alice woke, there was homemade soup and a stylist to fix her hair and face. One look in the mirror, and she chose to keep living.
She returned to the stage—but the spark had dimmed, and youth had fled. Fewer admirers, matronly roles. The new ingénues eclipsed her. No more film offers. Bitter, she quit.
She needed income. Emily took a job at a community theatre—poor pay, but Edward’s legacy cushioned her. Sold furs, jewels. Finally retired. Tired of coaching amateurs.
So lost in thought, she barely noticed the young man sliding onto the seat beside her.
“I recognised you straightaway. Alice Fairleigh. My mum adored you—watched your films on repeat, saw all your plays.”
Emily arched a brow.
“You haven’t changed much,” he smiled.
“Flatterer,” she said—but straightened her spine.
“Shame you left the stage. Yours is a face people remember.”
She studied him. Mid-thirties, well-dressed, handsome. And gazing at her as if she were royalty. No one had looked at her like that in years.
She nearly missed her stop. He followed her out.
“Let me walk you home?”
“If you insist,” she consented regally. “But don’t expect coffee.”
The outskirts were icier than central London. Taking his arm helped. At her door, he kissed her hand. Inside, under the harsh light, every wrinkle glared back. She sighed. Age always won.
Next morning, she peered out—and there he stood, shivering on the pavement.
“Why are you here?”
“Wanted to see you.”
His teeth chattered.
“Come in. Tea will warm you.”
He sipped mint tea with biscuits, eyes closing in bliss.
“Divine.”
She appraised him. Too long since she’d had a man—let alone one so young. “He’s a boy. Control yourself,” hissed her conscience.
No makeup—she must look dreadful. “Too young for me,” she conceded with a sigh.
“Warmer now?”
“Much. Forgive my boldness—might I see your photos? Not stage shots. The real you.”
She fetched an album, narrating as he lingered on images.
“First husband here. Second in Brighton…”
“Why keep their pictures?” he asked, almost curtly.
“They’re part of my life, my youth.”
“Sorry. Might I have this one? How old were you? No—still radiant.”
“No. Pick another.” She reached for it.
“Why?” He leaned back, holding it aloft.
She stretched closer—and he kissed her.
“How dare you!” She jerked upright.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded.
She was glad when he left.
Next day, he returned—flowers and pastries in hand. Soon, he came nightly. She’d freshen up, dim the lamps. Soft light hid flaws.
Kate visited, took one look.
“You’re glowing. New lover?”
“Noticeable?” Emily flushed.
“You’re mad! What if he’s a fraud?”
“He recognised me on the tube! Thirty-five, and I’ve still got it!”
“Metro romance? How long?”
“Two weeks. I’ve not been this happy in—”
“He can’t want you. Not at your age. It’s money he’s after.”
“Rubbish! He works with computers.”
Kate scanned the room.
“No PC here. Techies are glued to screens.”
“He works at home,” Emily sniffed. “We’ve better things to do.”
“You’re deluded. He’ll rob you blind. Probably married with kids.”
“Jealous, are you?”
Kate lost patience.
“He clocked that coat, that gold. You’re a mark. Stay with me. Change the locks!”
“Not a chance.”
Kate left in a huff.
Emily watched Matthew closely that evening—but his gaze was so adoring, her doubts melted.
Days later, her old theatre invited her to a premiere.
“May I come?” Matthew asked.
“You’d enjoy amateur dramatics?”
“I enjoy whatever you do.”
“Then I’ll buy a new dress. And a shirt for you.”
Next morning, she dressed carefully—heels included. Shopping for couture demanded polish. Beside Matthew, she’d shine.
After hours of browsing, she found the perfect gown. Dusk fell as she trudged home.
The flat was ransacked—wardrobes emptied, clothes strewn. Gone: the mink, jewels, silverware, TV, cash.
Hysterical, Emily collapsed onto the ruins of her life.
Kate found her there, called an ambulance.
At the hospital, Emily lay catatonic.
“Private room? She was an actress,”Kate squeezed her friend’s limp hand, whispered, “You deserved better, darling,” and watched as the last flicker of the spotlight faded from those once-brilliant eyes.
