The Actress
Emily stepped into the tube carriage and sank onto the seat. Why on earth had she worn heels today? Because, at any age, a woman ought to look like a woman, she told herself.
She glanced at her reflection in the dark window opposite. Not bad at all. *Especially with a full night’s sleep, a layer of makeup, and the forgiving dimness of a train window,* her inner voice chimed in.
Her eyes looked weary. Probably from exhaustion. Emily tore her gaze away. *Maybe it’s time to dress my age—at least ditch the heels,* she thought. *Oh, just get home, kick off these wretched boots, shed this heavy coat. What was I thinking, dressing up like this?*
She’d long been forgotten, unrecognised on the streets, yet the habit of facing the world with her “face on” remained. Not that Emily had ever been a household name. But after a handful of film roles, people had started recognising her. And the men who had pursued her! Rare was the evening after a play when someone wasn’t waiting at the stage door with flowers.
Back then, she wasn’t Emily Whitaker. She was Elise Fairfax. Now *that* had a ring to it. She’d swelled with pride seeing her name in the credits, even if it was only ever in two films.
The carriage felt stifling. Emily undid the top button of her coat, yanked off her scarf, and shook her head to ward off fatigue. Her hair had thinned, but a clever cut and dye job kept it looking full. She glanced up—only to find a young man across from her, staring with a smile.
Elise reacted instantly, as she always did to male attention. A slight lift of the chin, a fleeting smile, then averted eyes. *Message received, appreciated, and that’s quite enough.*
*Should’ve taken a cab. Expensive, but quicker. And I wouldn’t be this exhausted.* Her third husband had begged her to learn to drive. She never had. Fear held her back.
Edward, her third husband, had been the best of the lot. What a shame he’d gone so soon. After him, she’d sworn off marriage. Not that anyone had asked.
But oh, how striking she’d been in her youth! That delicate nose, rosebud lips, lashes like feathers. And her eyes—alive, sparkling with joy. Even now, her figure turned heads. Not many women her age could say the same. *You preserved yourself, never had children. Now you’re alone, forgotten,* her inner voice taunted.
“Leave me be,” Emily muttered, then glanced around. Lately, she’d caught herself talking aloud more often.
No one paid her any mind. The carriage was nearly empty—a few dozers, a couple of blank faces. Only the man opposite still watched her. Emily looked away and retreated into memory.
A shame she’d been born too late. She’d had the charm to rival Julie Andrews in *Mary Poppins*. Her voice was shrill, but that hardly mattered—someone else could’ve sung for her. Dancing, though? That she could do.
On the set of her first film—a dance number—she’d met her first husband, a dashing actor. A whirlwind romance led to a hasty marriage. It lasted barely a year.
He’d gambled away their savings, then her jewellery. Tears and rows changed nothing. When he struck her, she left.
Soon after, she married Vincent. A decade older, wealthy, stable. She didn’t love him, but she’d had her fill of passion. He left his family for her—his wife called often, pleading for visits with their son. Vincent would return quiet and withdrawn.
Then came the heart attack. At the funeral, his first wife sobbed over the casket: “How could you leave us? Bury me beside him! That *actress* drove you to this—” Emily walked out.
There were flings after, but no more marriages—until Edward, a retired colonel, swept her off her feet. Twelve happy years. He’d begged for a child, but it never happened, and she hadn’t minded. His stroke devastated her. For once, her tears were real.
For a week after the funeral, she didn’t leave the house. Her friend Catherine barged in, horrified, poured her a stiff brandy, and put her to bed. By the time Emily woke, there was soup on the stove and a hairdresser waiting. She looked in the mirror and decided to go on living.
She returned to the theatre, but something had dimmed in her. The roles dried up; younger actresses took the spotlight. When film offers stopped, she quit in a huff.
Money ran low. She took a job directing amateur dramatics at a community centre. The pay was meagre, but Edward’s savings kept her afloat. Bit by bit, she sold her jewellery, her furs. Then she retired. Teaching talentless hacks had worn her down.
Lost in thought, Emily didn’t notice the young man sliding into the seat beside her.
“I recognised you straight away. You’re Elise Fairfax. My mum adored you—watched all your films, saw every play.”
Emily arched a brow.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he smiled.
“Flattery won’t get you far,” she said, though her shoulders straightened.
“Shame you left the stage. You’ve got one of those faces—unforgettable.”
Emily studied him. Mid-thirties, well-dressed, handsome. And gazing at her as if she were still a star. How long since anyone had looked at her like that?
She nearly missed her stop. He followed her out.
“Let me walk you home?”
“If you insist,” she said loftily. “But don’t expect coffee.”
The outskirts were icier than central London. Taking his arm helped. At her door, he kissed her hand and left. Inside, the hallway mirror showed every wrinkle her dim lighting usually hid. *Age spares no one,* she sighed.
The next morning, she spotted him outside her window, shivering. She threw on her coat and stepped out.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
She made him tea. He drank it rapturously.
*He’s too young,* her inner voice warned. *And I look a fright without makeup.*
“Warmer now?” she asked.
“Much. Could I… see your old photos? Not the stage ones. The real you.”
She brought an album, narrating as he lingered over shots.
“That’s my first husband. And this one’s with the second in Brighton—”
“Why keep pictures of them?” he asked, sharp-edged.
“They’re part of my past. My youth.”
He reached for one. “Can I have this?”
“No. Pick another.” She grabbed for it—and he kissed her.
She jerked back. “How *dare* you?”
He apologised profusely. She was relieved when he left.
Yet he returned daily—flowers, cakes, adoration. She waited for him, primped, kept the lamps dim.
Catherine visited, took one look, and sighed. “You’ve got a new beau, haven’t you?”
Elise blushed. “That obvious?”
“He’s after your money, you fool!”
“Don’t be absurd! He recognised me on the tube!”
Catherine glared. “A young, handsome man doesn’t woo a woman your age for love. What’s his job?”
“Something with computers.”
“Then where’s his laptop? They’re glued to screens!”
Elise waved her off. “He has a family. He’s using you!”
“You’re just jealous!”
Catherine stormed out.
Days later, the community centre invited Elise to a play premiere. Her young admirer insisted on joining. Thrilled, she splurged on a new dress—and a shirt for him.
She left him at home while she shopped. Returning at dusk, she froze.
The flat had been ransacked. Jewellery, furs, silver—gone.
She collapsed amidst the wreckage. Catherine found her there, called an ambulance.
In the hospital, Elise lay hollow-eyed, mute. Catherine begged for a private room.
“Who’ll pay for it?” the doctor scoffed. “She won’t last.”
Catherine wept by the bed. “I warned you, you silly woman. He played you perfectly.”
Elise died that night. No one cared to investigate.
At the graveside, Catherine stood alone. “You just wanted love, didn’t you?”
The groundskeeper shrugged. “Famous, was she?”
Catherine handed him twenty pounds and walked away.
Some lessons come too late: loneliness makes fools of us all, and not every admirer has pure intentions.
