**The Actress**
Alice stepped into the tube carriage and sank onto the seat. Why on earth had she worn heeled boots? But then again, a woman must always look like a woman, no matter her age.
She caught her reflection in the darkened window opposite. Not bad at all. *Especially after a full night’s sleep, half a face of makeup, and the forgiving dimness of a train window*, her inner voice remarked.
*Yes, my eyes look sad—probably from exhaustion.* She looked away. *Still, I should dress my age. At least ditch the heels. Just get home, peel off these damned boots, shed this heavy coat. What was I thinking?*
People hardly recognised her anymore, but the habit of facing the world with a polished face lingered. Not that Alice had ever been truly famous. A few film roles had earned her fleeting recognition. And the men who had courted her! Not a night passed after a performance without some admirer waiting at the stage door, flowers in hand.
Back then, she wasn’t Alice Foster—she was Lillian Fairchild. Now *that* had a ring to it. She still swelled with pride seeing that name in credits, even if only in two films.
The carriage felt 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 colour gave the illusion of fullness. She glanced up—only to lock eyes with a young man seated opposite, watching her with a smile.
Lillian’s old reflexes kicked in. She lifted her chin slightly, flashed a smile, then averted her gaze. *Noticed you, appreciated the attention. Now be satisfied.*
*Should’ve taken a cab. Expensive, yes, but faster—and I wouldn’t be tired.* Her third husband had urged her to get her licence. She’d never dared. Fear held her back.
Edward, the third, had been the best of her official husbands. A pity he’d passed so soon. After him, she’d sworn off remarrying—not that anyone had asked.
Oh, but she’d been striking in her youth—that delicate nose, crimson lips, thick lashes. And those eyes! Alive, sparkling with joy. Even now, her figure held up better than most women her age. *Kept yourself trim, never had children. Now here you are, alone and forgotten*, her inner voice taunted.
“Bugger off,” Alice muttered, then glanced around. Lately, she’d caught herself speaking aloud more often.
No one noticed. The carriage was nearly empty—some dozed, others stared blankly. Only the man across still watched her. She turned away, retreating into memory.
A shame she’d been born too late. She could’ve shone in *Carnival Night*, rivalling even Julie Andrews. Her voice was shrill, but that hardly mattered—someone else could’ve dubbed her singing. Dancing had always been her forte.
On the set of her first film—a dance sequence—she’d met her first husband, a dashing actor. Their whirlwind romance led to a hasty marriage, which crumbled within a year.
He gambled. Money vanished, then her jewellery. No tears or screaming changed a thing. The day he struck her, she packed her bags and left.
Shortly after, she married Vincent. A decade older, wealthy, well-connected. She didn’t love him, but she’d had her fill of passion. He left his wife and son for her. His ex called often, pleading for visits—*”He misses you.”* Vincent would return quiet and brooding.
A heart attack took him. At the funeral, his first wife clung to the coffin, wailing, *”How could you leave us? Bury me beside him! This actress drove you to your grave—”* Alice walked out.
Flings came and went, but she resisted marriage—until Edward, a retired colonel, swept her off her feet. Flowers, furs, diamonds. How could she refuse?
Twelve years they shared. He begged for a child. It never happened—nor had she truly wanted one. A stroke claimed him. This time, her tears were real. She’d loved him—like a father, a steadfast friend. His relatives glared, whispering. *Typical actress.*
For a week, she shut herself away. Then her oldest friend, Kate, barged in, horrified. She poured Alice a stiff brandy, tucked her into bed, and simmered broth. When Alice woke, rested, Kate had arranged for a hairdresser. Seeing herself refreshed in the mirror, Alice felt the will to live return.
She went back to the theatre. But something had dimmed in her, and youth had fled. Roles dried up; younger actresses eclipsed her. When film offers stopped altogether, she quit in a huff.
She needed income. Alice took a job directing amateur theatre at a community centre. The pay was meagre, but Edward’s money cushioned her. She sold furs, jewels. Eventually, she retired. Teaching talentless hacks grew tiresome.
Lost in thought, Alice barely noticed the young man sliding into the seat beside her.
“I recognised you at once. You’re Lillian Fairchild. My mother adored your films—watched them endlessly, saw every play.”
Alice arched a brow.
“You haven’t aged a day,” he smiled.
“Flatterer,” she said, but straightened her spine.
“Shame you left the stage. Yours is a face no one forgets.”
She studied him—mid-thirties, well-dressed, handsome, gazing at her as if she were still a star. No one had looked at her like that in years.
She nearly missed her stop. He followed her out.
“May I walk you home?”
“If you insist,” she allowed. “But don’t expect coffee.”
The outskirts were icier than central London. Taking his arm steadied her. At her door, he kissed her hand and left. Inside, under the harsh chandelier, every wrinkle showed. She sighed. *Age spares no one.* A facelift? With what money?
The next morning, she spotted him outside, shivering, hands jammed in his coat pockets. She threw on her fur and hurried out.
“Why are you standing here?”
“Wanted to see you.”
His teeth chattered.
“Come inside. You’ll catch your death.”
He sipped her mint tea, eyes fluttering. “Divine.”
She watched him. How long since she’d had a man—let alone one so young and handsome? *He’s a boy. Get a grip.*
She realised she hadn’t done her face. *No, he’s too young.*
“Warmed up?”
“Yes. Forgive my cheek, but—could I see your personal photos? Not stage ones. I want to know the real you.”
She fetched an album, narrating as he lingered over shots.
“First husband. Second, in Brighton—”
“Why keep their pictures?” he asked, almost curtly.
“They shared my youth.”
He reached for one. “May I have this? How old were you—no, don’t answer. You’re radiant now.”
“No. Pick another.” She reached for it.
“Why?” He leaned back, holding it aloft.
As she strained forward, he kissed her.
“How dare you?” She jerked away.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded.
She was glad when he left.
He returned next evening with flowers and pastries. Soon, he came daily. She’d tidy up, switch on the lamp—its glow softened her lines.
One day, Kate visited.
“You’re glowing. Found a new beau?”
“Is it obvious?”
“Have you lost your mind? He’s using you!”
“He recognised me on the tube! I’ve still got it!”
“You’re mad. How long’s this been going on?”
“Two weeks. I haven’t been this happy in—”
“You think a man like that falls for a woman your age? It’s the money. What does he do?”
“Something with computers.”
Kate scanned the room. “You don’t even own one. They’re glued to screens night and day.”
“He works from home. We’ve better things to do.”
“You’re delusional. He’s married. Mark my words—he’ll rob you blind. Or worse.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Jealous? I don’t parade in furs and gold on public transport!”
Kate stormed out. Alice shrugged. *If he’d wanted to rob me, he’d have done it by now.*
That evening, she searched for deceit in Matthew’s eyes—found only adoration.
Days later, her old theatre invited her to a premiere.
“May I join you?” Matthew asked.
“Of course. I didn’t peg you for amateur plays.”
“I’m interested in whatever interests you.”
“Then I’ll buy a new dress tomorrow. And a shirt for you.”
Next morning, she dressed carefully—even the heeled boots. She’d look impeccable beside him.
After hours of shopping, she found the perfect dress. Exhausted, she returned at dusk to find herShe opened the door to chaos—drawers ransacked, her fur coat and silver gone, the last of her treasures stolen, and as she collapsed onto the scattered remnants of her past, she finally understood what it meant to be truly alone.
