“Look at how handsome he’s become. If only he were a bit wealthier, worked for some posh company—I’d probably fall for him,” thought Eleanor.
“Alright, George, you’re in charge while I’m gone. If anything comes up, just ring me. I’m not jetting off to Mars—I’ll be around,” said William, offering his hand to his deputy and mate.
“Got it, don’t worry. By the way, you never said where you’re off to for your holiday. The Maldives or Turkey?” George shook his hand.
“Didn’t I mention it? Off to see Mum. Need to fix the roof and sort the fence. Dad used to keep the house in order, but since he passed, it’s one thing after another falling apart. Can’t even remember the last time I sat by the river with a fishing rod.”
“I’ve never even been fishing. Proper city bloke. Kind of envy you, honestly,” George sighed. “Tell me all about it when you’re back,” he called after William as he walked away.
Pleased that by tomorrow morning he’d be far from the noisy, grimy city, hugging his mum and breathing in the crisp air of his childhood, William cracked a smile on his way home.
He’d grown up in a tiny village. His mum was a teacher; his dad, a builder. Young Will often helped his old man on job sites—there wasn’t much he couldn’t do. His dad had hoped his son would follow in his footsteps, but Will was drawn to cars, computers, all the new tech. School came easy. When he finished, he declared there was nothing for him in the village—he’d head to London to make something of himself, more than just a builder like his dad wanted.
“What d’you mean, ‘nothing’? The village is growing. Builders’ll always be needed. You’ll never go hungry. Fancy it, we’ll put up a modern house for you. You’ll marry, kids’ll have room to run about,” his dad reasoned.
“Too soon to think about marriage. Gotta stand on my own feet first,” Will brushed him off.
His dad would get cross, arguing, while his mum patiently smoothed things over and backed her son. “Don’t clip his wings, love. Let him try. He’s clever—we’ll be proud of him yet,” she’d say.
His parents gave him some money to start and sent him off to conquer the capital. William studied at uni while labouring on construction sites. Over time, he got everything he’d wanted.
Back in school, he’d fancied Eleanor, a giggly, snub-nosed girl. She wasn’t aiming for the stars—just dreamed of being a hairdresser, opening her own salon. They each had their own path, and they drifted apart to different towns, hoping to cross paths again someday.
Whenever William visited home during breaks, it turned out Eleanor had already left. He could’ve asked her mum for her number or address—but he didn’t. Love would’ve derailed his dreams. If they’d married, kids would’ve come, and he’d be scrambling for pennies instead of chasing his goals. No, first he had to build his business, buy a car, get a proper house—then maybe…
“Watch it—time’ll slip away. Eleanor might not wait,” his dad would say.
“No matter. Plenty of other girls,” William would reply.
But he didn’t want anyone else.
Now William had everything—or nearly everything—he’d ever wanted. A posh house in a leafy suburb, a flash car, a business raking it in. Now he could think about a wife. There’d been women, sure. But they wanted the house, the car, the money tacked onto him. He wanted to be loved for himself.
Visiting his parents, he secretly hoped he’d bump into Eleanor. He kept his stories sparse and vague. They lived modestly, frugally, no frills—honest work for honest pay. They expected the same from him. When he mentioned his successes, his dad would scowl, his mum would blink nervously. How could anyone afford a London flat or a big house on honest wages?
“You bending the law? Is that what we taught you? Better you’d stayed a builder than have us ashamed,” his dad grumbled.
So William visited in a borrowed, modest secondhand car—swapping his Lexus for it—or took the train. Said he worked as an engineer. His dad would nod approvingly, proud of his Londoner son.
This holiday was no different, even though his dad had passed three years ago. He left the Lexus in the garage, bought a train ticket, and dressed down.
He’d scored a lower berth, while an elderly woman was meant to take the upper. Without a second thought, he offered her his spot. She gushed thanks the whole journey.
Lying on the top bunk, William gazed out at forests, fields, rivers flashing past, remembering his first trip to London years ago. The rhythm of the wheels made remembering easy.
The village seemed tiny and storybook-pretty. The air was fresh and clean, trees lush and green—nothing like the scrawny plants choking in city grime. Gardens bloomed with flowers, a feast for the eyes.
William stepped into his childhood yard. His mum spotted him, gasped, hands flying to her face, eyes welling up.
“Sweetheart, what a lovely surprise! I wasn’t expecting you. How long are you staying?” She studied him closely.
“Till you kick me out,” he said, hugging her.
Every day, she baked pies, showering her only son with his favourites. He ate them, then climbed onto the roof, fixed the fence, repaired and painted the shutters.
“You should rest, love. You’re on holiday, yet you’re working all day,” she fretted.
“Already done. Where are you off to?” he asked, spotting a smart dress and a big cloth bag in her hand.
His mum never left the house without dressing up.
“Just popping to the shops.”
“I’ll take the bike. What d’you need?”
She handed him a list.
“You’re going like *that*?” She gawped.
“Yeah—why not?”
For the village, he reckoned he looked decent enough: worn jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing strong, sun-darkened arms.
His trainers, though—they were top-brand, pricey. Couldn’t help it—he loved a good pair. Doubt anyone in the village would clock their worth.
He hopped on the old bike and pedalled off. The shop women didn’t recognise him, eyeing him openly, asking whose boy he was and who he’d come to see. They gasped when he named himself, prying about his work and life. He stayed quiet or gave clipped answers.
Leaving the shop, he spotted a red Audi near his bike. Against it, the battered bicycle looked like some ancient relic. William whistled, eyeing the Audi’s flat front tyre.
“Could’ve helped change the tyre instead of whistling,” a crisp voice rang behind him.
Goosebumps prickled his skin. A person could change beyond recognition, but their voice stayed the same. Something like that was in a book he’d read.
William turned and barely recognised the glamorous woman as Eleanor. She wore a knee-length dress hugging her slim figure, a chic short haircut, flawless makeup. Golden sandals completed the look.
He flushed, the whistle dying on his lips.
“Will?!” she finally placed him.
“You’ve changed. Hardly recognise you. That yours?” He jerked his chin at the car. “Smart.”
She couldn’t hide her pleasure at the compliment, cheeks blooming pink.
“Yeah, but the tyre’s flat. Roads here were always rubbish. Ruining tyres left and right.”
“Got a spare? Tools?”
Eleanor watched his deft hands, his lean frame as he changed the tyre. He felt her eyes, fighting the urge to keep glancing back.
“All done. Tyre’s in the boot—can be patched.”
“Brilliant. So glad I ran into you. Hop in, I’ll drop you home.”
“No need—I’ve got the bike. Might dirty your seats.” He dusted his jeans.
She waved and drove off. Pedalling away, he spotted the red car stopped down the road. She rolled the window down as he neared.
“We’ve years to catch up on—barely talked. Let me treat you to a coffee. Least I can do.” Her eyes held hope.
*Don’t want to say goodbye again*, he thought.
“Been ages since I was here. No idea where the cafés are. Give me the address—I’ll drop the shopping and come.”
“Off somewhere?” his mum asked as he dumped the bags in the kitchen.
“Ran into an old mate. Grabbing a coffee.” He dodged her curiosity.
She watched him go. *Know exactly which ‘mate’ you mean. Should’ve brought her home.*
In the café, he spotted Eleanor at the bar. They moved to a table. A waiter handed them menus. Without lookingAs William walked home alone that evening, he realized that no amount of wealth or success mattered if he couldn’t be honest with her—or himself—about who he truly was.
