Not Quite Like the Films, But Close
Clarissa adored romantic dramas and dreamed of a life as perfect as those silver-screen stories where every ending was happy. But dreams remained dreams, and reality flowed grey and mundane in the tiny village tucked away in the Yorkshire Dales.
She married Alex thinking it was love. But Alex, flighty and unreliable since his youth, never changed. He brought her to his crumbling old house, and three years later, declared:
“I’m off to London. Do as you please. Too cramped here—my soul needs freedom.”
“Alex, what are you on about? We’re fine,” Clarissa stammered, bewildered.
“You might be. I’m not.”
With that, he left, taking his passport and a frayed backpack. The village buzzed with gossip, the neighbours whispering:
“Alex abandoned Clarissa, gone to find himself in the city. Probably met some floozy.”
Clarissa stayed silent. No tears, no complaints. She carried on in Alex’s house, with nowhere to go—her sister’s family crowded her parents’ cottage, no room left. She had no children.
“Guess the Lord decided Alex wasn’t father material,” she thought, watching the neighbour’s kids play.
Each evening, chores done, she sat before the telly, losing herself in soap operas where passions flared and lives crumbled. She let them consume her, then tossed and turned in bed, restless.
Mornings began with duty: feeding the pig, hens, and the calf, Bonny, tied behind the garden—she never let him graze with the herd.
“Clarissa!” a neighbour called. “Bonny’s loose, tearing through the village!”
“Where?!” She dashed out. The calf butted a neighbour’s fence, testing his new horns.
“Bonny, Bonny,” she coaxed, offering bread. He shook his head. “Oh, for pity’s sake!” she snapped. Bonny bolted, scattering geese in his wake.
God knows how long she’d have chased him if not for Eddie the mechanic. He snatched the rope, hauled Bonny to the fence, and tied him fast. Clarissa stared at his strong hands, the muscles beneath his faded shirt. A sudden ache rose—she wanted those arms around her, holding tight.
She shook it off:
“What’s got into me? Like some lovesick girl.”
She flushed. Eddie—a schoolmate, ginger, always grinning. Lived with Nora, a sturdy woman next door. He wasn’t for her.
“Never fancied him before,” she thought, looking away.
She divorced Alex the moment he left. Suitors came, even proposed, but none took her fancy. Alone, unloved.
Eddie wiped his hands on the grass. Clarissa suddenly said:
“Come in. Wash up proper.”
Silently, he followed. She felt his gaze burning into her back.
She noticed him looking at her differently, puzzling:
“What’s got into him?”
He dried his hands, glanced at her—heavy, lingering—and left.
From then, an invisible thread tied them. When Eddie passed, Clarissa blushed. He started cutting through her yard, though he never had before. She rose early, weeding in the cool dawn—so she told herself. But she knew: she waited for him. Their eyes met, and his burned with something raw.
She shoved the thoughts aside, fearing Nora:
“If she sees—God help me. The whole village’ll know.”
But Eddie kept coming, his gaze scorching. Clarissa answered with soft eyes and half-smiles. It felt like a telly drama—no end, no clear finale.
One day, sweeping the yard:
“Hello, love,” came a voice. Only Alex ever called her that.
She turned. Her ex stood there: the same cocky smirk, squinty blue eyes, stubble.
“Back for good. You’ll have me?”
“What, London didn’t suit you?”
Her heart didn’t flutter. The love was gone, or burnt out. The door in her soul slammed shut when he fled for “better things,” leaving her behind.
Alex moved back in. With nowhere else, she let him. At night, she barricaded her door with a wardrobe. Alex lurked in the other half, rarely home, always out drinking.
Eddie grew sullen. Then one night, spotting Clarissa climbing through the window, something in him snapped:
“So she never took him back.”
Next morning, stepping out, she found two makeshift steps beneath the sill.
“Who did this?” she wondered. “Not Alex—he’s never here.”
Eddie had built them in the dark, just for her. He and Nora weren’t married, just living together years. No kids, though he doted on her daughter from a past fling. Nora had moved in after a pub night, stayed, brought the girl along.
Winter came. Alex’s money ran dry, the pub crowd shunned him, and he slunk back to London. Clarissa breathed free. Then disaster struck Eddie: Nora fell ill. The sturdy woman faded fast. Her mum took the girl, Eddie nursed her, but the hospital claimed Nora. She never came home.
The village buried her kindly.
“Big woman, but soft-hearted. Never a cross word,” sighed old Maude.
Eddie stayed alone. Mornings, Clarissa saw him shovelling snow by her house, glancing at her window.
Spring. Returning from work, she froze: her door wide open. A heavyset woman sat in her kitchen, sipping tea from her mug, spooning her jam.
“Surprise,” Alex drawled. “Me and Tracey are moving in. My house.” He smirked, spiteful. “My future missus. Pack your things—unless you fancy watching us be ’appy.”
Tracey cackled. Clarissa decided to leave at dawn. Again, she shoved the wardrobe against the door.
“Lord, why?” she whispered. “Aunt Mabel might take me in…”
Morning came. Hauling her bags out, Eddie appeared. Without a word, he took them, carried everything to his home. Clarissa stayed silent. Alex and Tracey exchanged looks.
“Oho, what’s this? Lovebirds?” Alex sneered. “Look at Eddie, lugging your rags.”
Eddie took Clarissa’s hand and led her away.
“Passions flamed while I was gone,” Alex muttered. Tracey thumped his arm, shutting him up.
Inside Eddie’s house, Clarissa wept—relief, joy. He lifted her, spun her. The ceiling whirled. They were happy.
They married quickly, a baby on the way. Alex watched from his yard, but Clarissa didn’t care. Behind her stood Eddie—her solid wall.
