Charles gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. “Eleanor! Eleanor, what on earth are you playing at? You know how I feel about you! Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t, Charles. Please don’t make it harder,” Eleanor murmured, turning to the rain-streaked window, unable to face him. “It’s all settled. Henry’s a good man, he’s established at the firm. We’ll have a proper life.”
“And love? What we shared? Does that count for nothing?”
Eleanor clenched her fists until nails bit deep into her palms. Of course it counted. It counted far more than she dared admit. But Mother lay in the Royal Infirmary after the second stroke, treatment costing mountains of sterling she and Charles could never hope for.
“It was lovely, Charles. But life isn’t a fairy tale,” she stated flatly.
Charles moved towards her, hand lifting, then falling back untouched. “Ellie… Remember that day by the reservoir? When you fell through the ice? I pulled you out… we swore then…”
“Enough!” she whirled. “Don’t dredge that up! What’s done is done.”
He looked at her as if seeing a stranger, then nodded slowly. “Right. Understood. Well then…” He picked his coat off the chest. “Wish you happiness, Eleanor Sinclair.”
The door clicked softly shut. Only when his footsteps faded on the stairwell did Eleanor allow the tears to fall.
Henry Sinclair *was* a decent man. Mid-fifties, a widowed director at a prestigious London firm, he offered Eleanor not just marriage, but security. When Mother fell ill, he covered all staggering medical costs without demand, save her consent.
“You’re young, beautiful, clever,” he’d say, holding her hand. “I need companionship. We suit.” Eleanor nodded, feeling like a shop window display. But choice was gone. Mother was recovering; doctors promised full health with expensive medication.
They married quietly in a Chelsea registry office. Henry was considerate, asking not for love but respect. Eleanor tried being a good wife.
Months passed before Eleanor glimpsed Charles at the outpatients’ clinic. “How are you?” he asked politely, distantly.
“Fine. You?”
“Busy. Lots of work.” He was leaner, tanned, wearing a smart new suit from Savile Row. Eleanor resisted asking how. “How’s your mother?” Charles always liked her mother. “Improving,” she said. “Give her my best,” he replied. “I will.”
Standing in the antiseptic corridor, layers of sky visible through high windows like stacked watercolour washes, Eleanor remembered that frozen day. Seventeen, him nineteen. Skating on the frozen reservoir near Oxford. She wandered too far from the bank.
The crack was faint, but Charles heard. “Don’t move!” he yelled, crawling flat on his belly across the treacherous ice. When she plunged in, his grip clamped her wrist. Minutes blurred into desperate struggle against the shocking cold green water, the frantic haul onto solid ice, his own coat wrapped tight around her shivering form.
“Easy now,” he’d whispered, rubbing her frozen hands raw with his scarf. “I’ve got you. Always.” Believers of eternal love then, they swore undying devotion.
“Must dash,” Charles said now. “Yes, of course.” He walked away, dissolving into the walking silhouettes beyond the glass doors. Eleanor remained frozen, clutching her referral slip.
Life with Henry unfolded smoothly. He bought Mother a cottage in the Cotswolds, arranged a carer, found Eleanor a position managing documents at his firm. Decent wages, profound emptiness. “You seem distant tonight,” Henry remarked over roast beef. “Just tired.” “Perhaps a weekend at the country house? Cheer you up?” Henry was observant, noticing moods, giving thoughtful gifts – tickets to the Royal Opera, scent from Liberty’s.
“Lovely. Let’s go.” The country house sprawled: heated pool, manicured lawns. Eleanor reclined, watching clouds morph like melting candle wax. Henry read the Financial Times nearby. “Remember Charles Beaumont?” he suddenly asked. Eleanor stiffened. “Vaguely.” “Here, in the paper. Made a name for himself. Property development now. Luxury estates. Quite successful.” He showed a photo. Charles stood confident beside a half-built Georgian manor in Buckinghamshire, smiling broadly. “Good for him,” Eleanor said, ice in her voice. “Indeed. Shame he couldn’t compete back then,” Henry mused, not unkindly. Eleanor studied him. No malice, only regret. “Meaning?” “Oh, nothing. Just pondering different paths.” Henry was perceptive; he understood precisely why she’d accepted his ring painted peacock blue in her memory. “Paths are choices,” she replied. “Quite.” Silence settled. Charles had succeeded – always driven, industrious, lacking only that first seed capital. “Henry… may I ask?” “Of course.” “Do you regret marrying me?” He set the paper aside. “No. Do you?”
Eleanor’s automatic ‘no’ jammed in her throat. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Ah.” He resumed reading.
That night, sleep evaded her. She pictured the reservoir’s cracked surface reflecting the endless cold stars, their youthful oaths, how easily they shattered against harsh necessity. Mother was healthy, the cottage secure, money no spectre. Yet something vital had perished within her on her choosing day.
Henry flew to New York on business the next week. Eleanor visited Mother. Over tea and scones, Mother asked bluntly, “Are you happy?” Eleanor froze mid-bite. “What?” “It’s a fair question, pet. Money’s grand, but happiness matters too.” “Mum, without Henry…” “I know. I’m grateful. Doesn’t mean you sacrifice your heart.” “No sacrifice,” Eleanor denied. Mother fixed her with a stare. “Charles visited last Tuesday. Asked after you.” “Why tell me?” “Because he loves you. And you love him. Imagine finding that twice.” “Love doesn’t pay NHS top-ups,” Eleanor snapped. “His does now. Earns well.” Eleanor rose. “I should go.” “Think on it, Eleanor.”
Driving home, London’s skyline a jagged cut-out against a bruised twilight sky, Eleanor felt untethered. What did Mother want? Wreck her marriage? Compound her guilt?
Henry returned weary, pensive. Over shepherd’s pie, he announced, “Eleanor, we must talk. About us.” Her pulse accelerated. “Go on.” “You’re unhappy. I see it daily. You try, but it brings you nothing.” “Henry…” “Let me finish. I had hopes… for warmth beyond gratitude. It hasn’t come.” Eleanor stayed silent, adrift. “I won’t chain you. If you wish to go, I won’t hinder. Your mother keeps the cottage. Treatments are paid. I’ll help you settle.” “Why?” “Because I respect you. Life’s too brief for joyless duty.”
They sat as Big Ben chimed midnight in the distance. Henry was a rare breed indeed. The next day, Eleanor sought Charles at his development site near Cambridge. Hard-hatted, he studied blueprints. “Eleanor?” Surprise etched his face. “What’s happened?” “Need to talk.” They stepped aside near skeletal steel frames gleaming under weak sun. “Henry will grant a divorce. No strings.” “And?” “I want… to try again. With you.”
Charles removed his hard hat, ran fingers through dusty hair. “Years lie between us, Eleanor. You’ve lived a whole other life. I’ve changed.” “But you care?” “I care. Doesn’t mean we rewind time.” “Then we start fresh.” He
Marina spent her days walking along the Thames, the murky water a chilling echo of that long-ago lake, haunted by the knowledge that while Igor had pulled her from the icy depths, she had plunged them both into a colder, darker abyss from which neither could ever truly surface.
