“You know how he looks at you? With love and admiration,” said Emma, clearly pleased with herself.
Oliver stepped out of the bathroom, a towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water glistened on his toned chest. More than just a man—he was a dream. Eleanor felt her heart flutter sweetly in response.
Oliver sat on the edge of the bed, reaching to kiss her. She turned her head away.
“Don’t, or I’ll never leave. I have to go. Emma’s probably home already.” Eleanor nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder.
He sighed.
“Ellie, how much longer? When are you going to tell Emma about us?”
“Three months ago, you didn’t even know I existed and were perfectly happy,” Eleanor countered, standing to dress.
“I don’t think I was truly living until I met you. I can’t go a single day—”
“Don’t break my heart. Don’t walk me out,” Eleanor said, slipping quietly from the room.
Outside, she kept her eyes down, avoiding strangers’ stares. It felt like everyone knew where she’d been. Men glanced with curiosity; women with disapproval.
Hardly surprising—she had it all. A striking figure, elegant posture, expressive eyes, and full lips. Dark hair escaped its clip at her nape. Yet all she wanted was to vanish.
***
She’d married young—at twenty—madly in love. Almost immediately, she fell pregnant. Her husband urged her to terminate—too soon, too unstable, they had time. But Eleanor refused and bore a healthy girl, hoping he’d change. He never grew to love their daughter. But then, many men were indifferent to children.
One day, a woman called, revealing an address where Eleanor’s husband often spent evenings. She didn’t rush to check. Instead, she waited, confronting him directly. He denied it at first, then made excuses, then erupted:
“Some madwoman says a thing, and you believe her? You’re not much better. I’m leaving, and you’ll regret it!”
The door slammed. She didn’t want to live, but her daughter needed her. Two weeks later, she went to that address, hiding behind a tree. Soon, her husband strolled past arm-in-arm with another woman, entering the building.
The next day, she filed for divorce. She knew herself—she could never forgive. She enrolled Emma in nursery and returned to work.
Over the years, men came and went—none compelling enough to risk her heart again. Until Oliver. Tall, handsome, her match in every way. Their romance burned fast. Once, Emma asked where she was going so dressed up.
“A date,” Eleanor replied, half-joking, half-serious.
“Ah,” Emma drawled knowingly. She never asked again.
Emma had inherited her mother’s slender frame but not her beauty. Some wondered how such striking parents had an ordinary-looking daughter. Eleanor didn’t mind—beauty wasn’t everything; often, it was more trouble than it was worth.
She’d never had close friends. Not by her choice—other girls envied her, afraid of paling in comparison. Maybe that’s why she’d married so young, seeking companionship.
“He’s a bit plain for you, even if handsome,” her mother had remarked.
***
“Emma, I’m home,” Eleanor called, stepping inside.
“I’m doing homework,” came the muffled reply.
Eleanor changed, then headed to the kitchen. Soon, Emma joined her, tearing off a piece of bread.
“Don’t spoil your appetite, supper’s almost ready,” Eleanor chided, setting plates on the table. “I wanted to talk.”
“So talk,” Emma said between bites.
“My birthday’s coming up.”
“I remember, Mum.”
“I’d like to invite… someone.”
“The one you’re sleeping with?” Emma kept her tone casual.
“We’re dating. Show some respect.”
“What’s the difference? At your age, dating and sleeping are the same thing.”
“So, can I invite him? You don’t mind?”
“Whatever. Is Gran coming?”
Relief washed over Eleanor. Fifteen was a tricky age—but Emma seemed unfazed.
“Gran’s coming Sunday. I want you to get along with him.”
“Sure, Mum, invite him.”
Saturday morning, Eleanor cooked feverishly, eager to impress Oliver. He arrived with a grand bouquet and a ring, overwhelming her with his intensity.
Worse, he tried too hard with Emma—loud jokes, endless chatter. Emma remained quiet, reserved. After he left, Eleanor tidied up, then approached her.
“You didn’t like him?”
“No.”
“Why?” The disappointment was plain.
“Just didn’t. He’s using you. Can’t you see?”
“Did Gran poison you against him?”
“This isn’t about Gran! I’ve got eyes.” Desperation flickered in Emma’s gaze.
Eleanor stood, turning away.
“Mum, do you love him?” Emma asked softly. Without turning, Eleanor nodded. “Then keep seeing him. Just don’t move him in.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t like him.”
No further explanation came.
Strangely, relief settled over Eleanor. Things with Oliver had escalated too quickly—the ring, the talk of a future—yet he’d revealed little about himself. Emma’s presence seemed merely a logistical hurdle to him.
When he called the next day, eager to meet, he never asked if Emma approved. Too confident, or indifferent?
Eleanor declined, claiming her mother’s visit.
“Tomorrow then?”
“Tomorrow.”
With Gran, Emma was cheerful—no mention of Oliver. Maybe she saw what Eleanor, blinded by love, couldn’t.
Things continued—brief meetings at Oliver’s. Once, he pressed about living together. When Eleanor urged patience, he snapped, calling Emma selfish.
“You’ll be alone when she leaves for love in a few years!”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“No, I just—it slipped out.”
Their first cold parting.
Two nights later, Emma returned late.
“Where were you? Homework?”
“Done. I’ve got news.” Emma’s excitement was palpable.
“Wash up first. You look pleased.”
“You might not like it. My friend Jake and I… we followed Oliver.”
Eleanor froze.
“Where?”
“He doesn’t live on Windsor Road. He’s on Kingsway—with a woman and a little boy, about four.”
Eleanor’s stomach twisted. “Maybe it’s his sister—”
“No, Mum. We watched them go in—he never came back. We saw him smoking by the window, shirtless…” Emma trailed off at her mother’s ashen face.
Eleanor fled to the bathroom, stifling sobs.
Later, she stepped onto the balcony, staring at the city lights. Memories surfaced—Oliver’s bare flat, devoid of personal touches. No food in the fridge. A love-nest, nothing more.
She’d been blind.
“Mum!” Emma yanked her back from the railing.
“I wasn’t—I just needed air.”
“Don’t scare me like that!”
Inside, Eleanor hugged her tightly.
The next day, she confronted Oliver, opening his wardrobe—two shirts. No life here.
“You rent this for me? You’re married.”
He paled, then attacked. “I thought you weren’t like other women—snooping, insecure—”
“Call me crazy next,” she scoffed. “Just like he did.” She left the ring on the table.
Walking helped, but the heart heals slowly. Like gangrene—cut the rot before it spreads. She’d survive, as she had fourteen years ago.
Three weeks later, term ended. Before Emma left for a school trip, she asked,
“Mum… what about Mr. Thompson? From downstairs?”
“Who?”
“The quiet one with the beard.”
Eleanor remembered the unassuming neighbour.
“He loves you,” Emma said. “You know how he looks at you?”
“How?”
“With love and admiration.”
Emma’s perceptiveness startled her. Oliver, the charmer, had repelled Emma—but this man…
Later, Eleanor recalled little things: him helping with the pram years ago, always “just passing by.” The women in the building relied on him—he fixed things, refused payment.
No one had ever seen him with a woman.
After her divorce, he’d helped change her locks—later, she learned he’d stopped her ex from stealing her things. He’d been there all along, unseen.
The day after Emma left, Eleanor knocked on his door. He answered instantly, as if waiting.
“My lock’s stuck. Could you check?”
“I’ll grab my tools.”
Fifteen minutes later, he returned—clean-shaven, in a suit.
“You’re fixing locks in that?”
He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Seems it’s working fine.”
The kitchen table was set for two.
“Sit. Emma’s away—too much food.”
He chuckled. “Wine?”
“Don’t drink. Just sit.”
And so she didAs she sat across from him, the quiet warmth in his eyes told her everything she’d been too blind to see before.
