**The Actress**
Eliza stepped into the tube carriage and slumped onto the seat. Why had she worn heeled boots? Because at any age, a woman ought to look like a woman.
She studied her reflection in the dark window opposite. Not bad at all. *Especially when you’ve slept enough, caked on makeup, and avoided proper mirrors in favour of dim glass,* her inner voice remarked.
*Yes, the eyes look tired.* Eliza looked away. *Maybe it’s time to dress my age—at least ditch the heels. God, just let me get home, kick off these cursed boots, shed this heavy fur coat. What was I thinking?*
No one recognized her anymore, but the habit of facing the world with a “face” remained. Not that Eliza had ever been truly famous. After a few film roles, people sometimes knew her. And the men who’d courted her! Not a night passed without some admirer waiting outside the theatre with flowers.
Back then, she wasn’t Eliza Whitcombe—she was Alice Fairfax. Glamorous! She’d swelled with pride seeing her name in the credits, even if only in two films.
The air was stifling. Eliza undid the top button of her coat, yanked off her scarf, and tossed her head to shake off the fatigue. Her hair had thinned, but the right cut and dye gave the illusion of volume. She glanced up—only to lock eyes with a young man across from her, smiling directly at her.
Alice reacted instantly, as she always did to male attention. A slight lift of the chin, a smile, then averted eyes. *Noticed, appreciated, now move along.*
*Should’ve taken a cab. Expensive, but quicker. Less exhausting.* Her third husband, Richard, had begged her to learn to drive. She never did. Too afraid.
Richard had been the best of her official husbands. Pity he died so young. After him, she swore off marriage. Not that anyone asked.
God, how stunning she’d been in her youth! That sharp little nose, scarlet lips, lush lashes. And her eyes—alive, sparkling with joy. Even now, her figure held up. Not many her age could say the same. *You took care of yourself, never had children. Now you’re alone, forgotten,* the inner voice sneered.
*Oh, shut up,* Eliza muttered, then glanced around. No one noticed. The carriage was half-empty—some dozed, others stared blankly. Only the man across still watched her. She looked away and let her mind drift.
A shame she’d been born too late. She’d have been perfect for *The Holiday Revels*, just like Julie Andrews. Her voice was shrill, but that hardly mattered—someone else could’ve sung for her. She could dance, at least.
On the set of her first film—a dance scene—she’d met her first husband, a dashing actor. A whirlwind romance, a hasty marriage, over barely a year later.
He had a gambling problem. Money vanished, then her jewellery. Tears and screaming changed nothing. When he hit her, she left.
Almost immediately, she married Victor. A decade older, rich, established. She didn’t love him, but after the first disaster, passion seemed overrated. Victor left his wife and son for her. His ex called constantly, begging him to visit. He’d return silent, brooding.
Then, a heart attack. Dead. At the funeral, his first wife clung to the coffin, wailing. Eliza walked out.
There were flings after, but no more marriages—until Richard, a retired colonel, swept her off her feet. Flowers, furs, diamonds. How could she refuse?
Twelve years together. He wanted children. It never happened, and she wasn’t keen. When he died of a stroke, she wept genuinely at his grave. She’d loved him—like a father, a protector. His family eyed her with disdain. *Actress.*
For a week, she didn’t leave the house. Her oldest friend, Margaret, finally barged in, horrified. She forced brandy down Eliza’s throat, tucked her into bed, then made broth. When Eliza woke, rested, a hairdresser waited. She looked in the mirror and decided to keep living.
Back to the theatre—but something had dimmed. The roles dried up. Younger actresses eclipsed her. Film offers stopped. She quit in a huff.
Still, she needed income. Eliza took a job at a community centre, directing amateur plays. The pay was meagre, but Richard had left her comfortable. She sold furs, jewellery. Eventually, she retired. Teaching amateurs grated on her.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the young man sliding into the seat beside her.
*I recognized you straight away. Alice Fairfax. My mother adored you. Watched your films, saw your plays.*
Eliza arched a brow.
*You’ve hardly changed,* he smiled.
*Flattery, young man,* she said, but her shoulders straightened.
*Shame you left the stage. You’ve got one of those faces—unforgettable.*
Eliza studied him. Mid-thirties, well-dressed, handsome. And the way he looked at her—like she was still a star.
She nearly missed her stop. He followed her out.
*Mind if I walk you?*
*If you insist,* she said airily. *But don’t expect coffee.*
The outskirts were icy. She took his arm, grateful for the support. At her door, he kissed her hand and left. Inside, under the harsh chandelier light, every wrinkle glared back. She sighed. *Age always wins.*
The next morning, she spotted him outside her window. Shivering, hands stuffed in his coat. She threw on her fur and hurried out.
*What are you doing here?*
*Wanted to see you.*
She brought him inside. He sipped tea, eyes fluttering.
*Divine.*
Eliza studied him. *He’s just a boy. Stop it.* She hadn’t even put on makeup.
*Warmed up?*
*Yes. Forgive my boldness—but could I see your photos? Not the staged ones. The real you.*
She brought an album.
*First husband. Second, in Brighton…*
*Why keep their pictures?* he asked, sharp.
*They were part of my life.*
*May I have this one?*
*No. Pick another.* She reached—he leaned back, stretching the photo away. As she lunged, he kissed her.
*How dare you!* She stood, furious.
*Sorry—God, I’m sorry.*
He left. She was relieved.
Yet he returned the next day—flowers, pastries. Soon, he visited nightly. She waited, freshened up, lit lamps to soften her face.
One evening, Margaret dropped by.
*You look radiant. New lover?*
*Noticeable?* Eliza grinned.
*You’re mad. What if he’s a conman?*
*He recognized me on the tube! He’s thirty-five. I’ve still got it!*
*You’re deluded. How long’s this been going on?*
*Two weeks. I haven’t been this happy in years.*
*He’s after something. What’s his job?*
*Computers, I think.*
Margaret scoffed. *You don’t even own one. Tech blokes live on screens. He’s lying.*
*He works from home. We have other hobbies.*
*You’re being played. He’s married. Kids, probably. Once he’s sure you’re alone, he’ll rob you. Or worse.*
*You’re just jealous.*
*Jealous? Please. I don’t parade in furs and gold on public transport.*
*What’s that got to do with—*
*He clocked you as an easy mark. Alone, wealthy. Change the locks. Stay with me. Please.*
*No.*
Margaret left in a rage. Eliza shrugged. *If he wanted to rob me, he’d have done it.*
Yet she watched him closely that night. His gaze was so earnest, so adoring, she relented.
Days later, the community centre called—a premiere.
*I’ll come,* he offered.
*Really?*
*Anything for you.*
*Then I’ll buy a new dress. And a shirt for you.*
The next morning, she dressed carefully—heels included. She wanted to shine beside him. Hours later, exhausted but triumphant, she returned home—to chaos.
Open drawers, clothes strewn. Fur coat gone. Jewellery, silver, TV—vanished.
She collapsed, wailing. Margaret found her amid the wreckage, called an ambulance.
At the hospital, Eliza lay silent, hollow-eyed.
*She needs a private room!* Margaret demanded.
*Who’s paying? She won’t last.*
At the bedside, Margaret wept. *I warned you. He waited till you left.*
Eliza died that night. No investigation. *Just some has-been actress.*
At the graveside, Margaret stood alone.
*OhThe young man watched from a distance as the grave was filled, then slipped the stolen photograph of Eliza in her prime into his pocket and walked away without looking back.
