The Actress
Eleanor stepped into the underground carriage and sank onto the seat with a weary sigh. Why had she insisted on wearing heeled boots? Because a woman, at any age, must look like a woman—that was why.
She caught her reflection in the darkened window opposite. Not bad, really. “Especially when you’ve slept well, piled on the makeup, and avoided proper mirrors,” her inner voice remarked dryly.
Yes, her eyes looked sad—probably from exhaustion. She glanced away. “I should dress my age, at least ditch the heels,” she decided. “Oh, just get home, kick off these wretched boots, shed this heavy coat. What was I thinking?”
She hadn’t been recognised in years, yet the habit of facing the world with a made-up face remained. Not that Eleanor had ever been famous. But after a few film roles, people had noticed her. And the men who had courted her! Not a day passed without someone waiting at the stage door with flowers.
Back then, she wasn’t Eleanor Whitaker—she was Eliza Fairbourne. Glamorous. She’d swelled with pride seeing her name in film credits, even if only twice.
Goodness, it was stifling. She unbuttoned her coat, tugged off her scarf, and shook her head to dispel the fatigue. Her hair had thinned, but a clever cut and dye job gave the illusion of volume. She glanced up again—only to meet the gaze of a young man across from her, smiling directly at her.
Eliza reacted as she always had to male attention: a slight lift of the chin, a fleeting smile, then a deliberate turn away. Noted, appreciated, and that’s quite enough.
“I should’ve taken a cab. Yes, expensive, but quicker. And I wouldn’t be half-dead,” she muttered. Her third husband had begged her to learn to drive, but she’d never dared. Fear held her back.
Edward, Eliza’s third husband, had been the best of the lot. A shame he’d died so young. After him, she’d sworn off marriage—not that anyone had asked.
Oh, but she’d been stunning in her youth! That delicate nose, crimson lips, lush lashes. And her eyes—alive, sparkling with joy. Even now, her figure turned heads. Not many her age could say the same. “Kept yourself trim, never had children. Now you’re alone, forgotten,” the inner voice sneered.
“Leave me be,” Eleanor sighed, then glanced around. Lately, she’d caught herself talking aloud often. No one noticed. The carriage was nearly empty—some dozed, others stared blankly. Only the man opposite kept watching. She looked away and retreated into memory.
A pity she’d been born too late. She could’ve outshone even Julie Andrews in “My Fair Lady.” Her voice was shrill, true, but that hardly mattered—someone else could’ve sung for her. Dancing, though? She’d had talent.
On the set of her first film, where she’d danced, she’d met her first husband—a dashing, charming actor. Their whirlwind romance led to a hasty marriage. It lasted barely a year.
He’d had a gambling problem. Money vanished, then her jewellery. Tears and rows changed nothing. When he struck her, she left.
Almost at once, she married Vincent. Ten years her senior, wealthy, well-positioned. She didn’t love him, but she’d had her fill of passion. He left his family for her—his wife rang often, pleading, “Your son misses you.” He’d return quiet and distant.
Then came the heart attack. At her home. His first wife had wailed at the funeral, clinging to the coffin: “Who will look after us now? Bury me beside him! That actress drove you to your grave…” Eleanor had slipped away early.
There’d been dalliances after, but no more marriages—until Edward, a retired colonel, swept her off her feet five years later. Flowers, furs, diamonds—how could she refuse?
Twelve years they had. He’d wanted children. It never happened—nor had she particularly wished it. His stroke left her genuinely bereft. She’d loved him—as a father, a steadfast friend. His relatives had eyed her with cool disapproval. Actress, they’d muttered.
For a week after the funeral, she hadn’t left the house. Her dear friend Catherine had found her a wreck, forced brandy down her, put her to bed. By the time Eliza woke, rested, there was broth waiting—and a hairdresser to revive her. One glance in the mirror, and she’d wanted to live again.
She returned to the theatre. But something had dimmed in her, and youth was long gone. Fewer admirers, fewer roles—just ageing matrons now. Fresh-faced actresses eclipsed her. Film offers dried up. Offended, she quit.
Still, she needed income. Eleanor took a job at a community centre, directing amateur plays. The pay was meagre, but Edward had left her comfortable. She sold furs, jewels. Eventually, she retired. Teaching talent wasn’t her calling.
So lost in thought, she didn’t notice the young man slide into the seat beside her.
“I knew it was you. Eliza Fairbourne. My mother adored you—watched your films, saw your plays.”
Eleanor arched a brow.
“You haven’t changed,” he smiled.
“Flattery, young man,” she said—but straightened her spine.
“Shame you left the stage. Yours is a face one never forgets.”
Intrigued, she studied him. Mid-thirties, well-dressed, handsome—gazing at her as if she truly were a legend. No one had looked at her that way in years.
She nearly missed her stop. He followed her out.
“May I walk you home?”
“If you insist,” she granted. “But coffee is out of the question.”
The outskirts were icy—nothing like the city centre. Taking his arm helped. At her door, he kissed her hand and left. Inside, under the harsh chandelier light, every wrinkle showed. She sighed. Age always won. A bouncy boy like that? Ridiculous.
Yet the next morning, she spotted him outside—shivering, hands jammed in coat pockets. She threw on her fur and went out.
“Why are you here?”
“Wanted to see you.”
He trembled violently.
“Come inside. You’ll catch your death.”
Over mint tea and biscuits, he groaned, “Divine. Thank you.”
She studied him. How long since she’d had a man—let alone one so young and handsome? “He’s a child. Stop this,” hissed the voice.
Aghast at her bare face, she agreed—then sighed.
“Warmer now?”
“Much.” He hesitated. “Might I see your photos? Not theatre ones—just you, as you were.”
She fetched an album, explaining as he lingered over shots.
“My first husband. The second, in Brighton…”
“Why keep their pictures?” he asked, oddly sharp.
“They were part of my life, my youth.”
“Forgive me. May I have this one? But no—you’re still beautiful.”
“No. Choose another.” She reached—he pulled back.
“Why not?”
She leaned in—and he kissed her.
“How dare you!” She sprang up.
“Forgive me,” he stammered.
She was glad when he left.
Yet he returned—flowers, pastries, nightly visits. She waited, preened, kept the lamp dim.
Catherine dropped by, aghast.
“You’re glowing. Found a lover?”
“Noticeable?” Eleanor flushed.
“Are you mad? What if he’s a conman?”
“He recognised me on the Tube! He’s thirty-five. I’ve still got it!”
“You’re delusional. How long?”
“Two weeks. I haven’t been this happy in years.”
“You think a man like that wants you? It’s your money.”
“Computers, his job,” Eleanor waved.
“Where’s his laptop? Those types never switch off.”
“Works from home. We’ve better things to do,” she simpered.
“He’s using you. He’ll rob you blind—or worse.”
“You’re jealous. No one courts you.”
“Because I don’t parade in furs and gold on public transport!”
“That’s not—”
“He saw a target. Alone, vulnerable… Stay with me. Change the locks!”
“Rubbish. He’d have robbed me by now.”
Catherine left in a fury.
Still, Eleanor watched Matthew closer—but his adoring gaze dissolved her doubts.
Days later, the community centre invited her to a premiere.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Of course. Didn’t peg you for amateur theatre.”
“I’m interested in whatever interests you.”
“Good. I’ll buy a new dress—and a shirt for you.”
Next morning, she dressed carefully—heels included. For once, she’d look impeccable beside him.
Hours later, laden with shopping, she returned at dusk—She froze in the doorway—every drawer ransacked, her furs and jewels gone, and with them, the last illusion that anyone could love her for herself.
