**Diary Entry: The Actress**
I slumped onto the seat in the tube carriage, my heels aching. Why had I worn these boots? Because a woman must look like a woman, no matter her age, I suppose.
Catching my reflection in the dark window opposite, I tilted my head. Not bad, really. *Especially when you’ve slept well, caked on makeup, and avoided proper mirrors*, my inner voice chimed in.
Yes, my eyes looked tired. Probably from exhaustion. I turned away. *I should dress my age—at least ditch the heels. Just get home, kick off these wretched boots, shed this heavy coat. Why did I even bother?*
No one remembered me now, but old habits die hard. I wasn’t famous, exactly, but after those films, people used to recognize me. And the men who’d pursued me! Not a night went by without someone waiting at the stage door with flowers.
Back then, I wasn’t plain Anne Fowler—I was Alice Farrow. Glamorous. I’d beam seeing my name in credits, fleeting as it was.
The carriage felt stifling. I loosened my coat, tugged off my scarf. My hair had thinned, but the right cut and dye gave the illusion of fullness. Glancing up, I froze—instead of my reflection, a young man stared back, smiling.
Instinct kicked in. Chin up, a quick smile, then a dismissive glance away. *Noticed. Appreciated. Moving on.*
*Should’ve taken a cab. Expensive, but quicker. Less exhausting.* My third husband had begged me to learn to drive. I never did. Too afraid.
Edward, husband number three, had been the best of the lot. Pity he died so young. After him, I swore off marriage—not that anyone asked.
Oh, but I’d been lovely in my day! Delicate nose, scarlet lips, lashes so thick they cast shadows. And my eyes—alive, sparkling. Even now, my figure held up. Not many women my age could say the same. *Kept yourself trim, never had children. Now you’re alone, forgotten*, my inner voice sneered.
“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, then checked if anyone noticed. Lately, I talked to myself too often.
No one batted an eye. The carriage was near-empty—dozing commuters, blank faces. Only the man across still watched. I ignored him, lost in memories.
What a shame I’d been born too late. I could’ve shone in *Carnival Night*, rivalling even the greats. My voice was shrill, but that hardly mattered—someone else could’ve dubbed me. And I could dance.
On my first film set, I’d met husband number one: a dashing actor. A whirlwind romance, a hasty marriage. It lasted a year.
He wasn’t just acting onstage. Soon, money and jewelry vanished from our flat. Gambling debts piled up. Tears and fights changed nothing. The day he hit me, I left.
Then came Vincent. A decade older, wealthy. I didn’t love him, but after the first disaster, I’d had my fill of passion. He left his wife and son for me. His ex called often, begging him to visit. He’d return quiet, distant.
One day, his heart gave out. At the funeral, his first wife clutched the coffin, wailing, *”Who’ll look after us now? Bury me with him! That actress drove you to your grave…”* I slipped away before the eulogies ended.
There were other flings, but I refused to remarry—until Edward, a retired colonel, swept me off my feet. Flowers, furs, diamonds. How could I refuse?
Twelve years together. He begged for a child, but I wasn’t keen. Then the stroke took him. At his grave, my tears were real. I’d loved him—like a father, a protector. His relatives eyed me with disdain. *Typical actress.*
For a week, I didn’t leave the flat. My friend Cathy barged in, horrified. She poured me brandy, tucked me into bed. By the time I woke, she’d made broth and called a hairdresser. I looked in the mirror—and for a moment, wanted to live again.
I returned to the theatre. But the spark was gone, and youth had fled. Roles dried up. Younger actresses eclipsed me. No more film offers. I quit in a huff.
Still, one must live. I took a job at a community centre, directing amateurs. The pay was pitiful, but Edward’s savings kept me afloat. Sold the furs, the jewels. Then I retired. Couldn’t stand coaching talentless hacks.
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice the young man sliding beside me.
“I knew it was you. Alice Farrow. My mother adored your films, your stage work.”
I arched a brow.
“You’ve hardly changed,” he smiled.
“Flattery won’t get you far,” I said, but straightened my spine.
“A shame you left the theatre. You’ve such a memorable face.”
I studied him. Mid-thirties, well-dressed, gazing at me like I was a star. No one had looked at me that way in years.
So engrossed, I nearly missed my stop. He followed me out.
“Let me walk you home.”
“If you insist,” I said airily. “But coffee’s out of the question.”
The outskirts were icy. I took his arm—steadier footing. At my door, he kissed my hand and left.
Inside, the harsh light revealed every wrinkle, every faded spark in my eyes. I sighed. No escaping time. A facelift? On what money?
Morning light showed him outside my window, hands buried in his coat. Shivering? I threw on my fur and hurried out.
“Why are you here?”
“Wanted to see you.”
He was trembling.
“Come inside. I’ll make tea.”
He sipped it, eyes fluttering. “Divine.”
I watched him. So young, so handsome. *He’s a boy. Snap out of it.*
I hadn’t put on makeup—must’ve looked a fright. *Too young for you.*
“Warmed up?”
“Yes. Forgive my cheek, but… might I see your photos? Not the staged ones. The real you.”
I fetched an album, narrating as he lingered on shots.
“First husband. Second, in Brighton…”
“Why keep their pictures?” he asked, almost annoyed.
“They were part of my life. My youth.”
“Apologies. May I have this one? How old were you here? Not that it matters—you’re stunning now.”
“No. Pick another.”
“Why?” He leaned back, holding it just out of reach.
I lunged—and he kissed me.
“How dare you?” I sprang up.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
I was relieved when he left.
Next day, he returned—flowers, pastries. Soon, he came nightly. I’d primp, dim the lamps. Soft light hides flaws.
Once, Cathy visited.
“You’re glowing. New beau?”
“Noticeable, is it?” I flushed.
“Are you mad? He’s after your money!”
“Don’t shout! He recognized me on the tube. Thirty-five, and *I* caught his eye!”
“You’re deluded. What’s his job?”
“Computers, I think.”
Cathy scoffed. “No computer here. They’re glued to screens. He’s lying. Probably married, kids at home. He’ll rob you blind.”
“Jealous, aren’t you?”
“I’m not the one parading furs on the tube! He sniffed out a lonely widow. Change the locks. Stay with me.”
“Nonsense. He adores me.”
She stormed out.
Days later, the community centre called—a premiere.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Of course!” I gushed. “I’ll buy a new dress. A shirt for you.”
Next morning, I dressed carefully—heels included. If I was to be seen with him, I’d look impeccable.
After hours of shopping, I returned at dusk to chaos—wardrobes ransacked, valuables gone. Fur coat, jewelry, dresses, silverware, telly. Cash.
I collapsed, sobbing. Cathy found me sprawled among the mess, called an ambulance.
At the hospital, I lay silent, vacant-eyed. Cathy begged for a private room.
“Who’ll pay? She won’t last,” the doctor shrugged.
“Oh, Annie. I warned you,” Cathy wept. “Gone shopping—perfect timing for him. Clean sweep.”
I died that night. No one cared to hunt my thief. Who was I? An actress? Never heard of her.
At the graveside, Cathy stood alone.
“Oh, Annie. If only you’d listened.”
“Famous, was she?” the gravedigger muttered. “SpAs the first snowflakes dusted her grave, Cathy sighed and whispered, “Rest now, love—your grandest performance is over.”
