I had turned sixty, and a heavy loneliness wrapped itself around me like fog. My husband and I had long ago gone separate ways, and my only son was living across the sea in Canada, far from the familiar drizzle of London.
You mustnt be left alone, my old friend Evelyn kept repeating, her voice a thin thread in the dim hallway of my mind.
Where am I to find that prince? I sighed. All the women my age look weary, their eyes dimmed. They dont need a husband; they need a caretaker.
Why not try someone younger? You still look radiant, she urged, and her words settled like a pebble in a pond.
Thus entered Harry Whitaker.
He was fortyfive, divorced, his grown daughter already living on her own in Manchester. We started with polite chats, then walks, then evenings of tea, and before long he moved into the flat above the bakery on Camden High Street.
For a while I floated on a cloud of contentment.
Later I sensed that his motives were not what they seemed
My first marriage had been a burden.
He never worked, lived off my wages, spent his days at the pub and constantly removed things from the house. I endured it, believing that was the proper course.
Then, one night, something shifted inside me. I gathered his belongings, placed them by the front door, and shut it forever. Relief poured over me like warm rain.
After the divorce, I had admirers, but I let none draw near. The past few years proved especially harsh. My son had taken a job in Toronto and decided to stay there for good. I was proud of him, yet I knew it was far too late to follow; changing country, habits, lifethose were not for me.
You cant stay solitary! Find someone, Evelyn coaxed again.
Where? Men my age wander like ghosts, tired of life. Theyre not after love; they need someone to look after them, I replied.
Then look at the younger ones!
Her suggestion seemed absurd then, but after that conversation fate slipped a new thread into the tapestry of my dream.
Every day in the little square outside my flat, I watched a tall, trim man with a splash of silver at his temples walking a small terrier named Baxter. At first it was just a glance, then a brief greeting, and slowly, almost unnoticed, Harry became a part of my world. He brought bouquets, invited me for walks along the Thames, spun curious tales. I felt myself blossom anew.
Neighbours staredsome with envy, some with judgment. It mattered little.
When Harry finally moved in, I welcomed the chance to cook hearty meals again, wash his shirts, tend to his needs. Everything seemed bright until one afternoon he said,
You could take Baxter for a stroll. It would do you good to get out more.
Lets go together, I offered.
Perhaps its best we dont appear together in public too often he murmured, and a cold shiver ran through me. Was he ashamed of me? Had he merely found a convenient housekeeper to feed and tend to him?
That evening I spoke plainly.
Harry, the domestic chores should be shared. You can wash your own clothes.
He stared, then grinned smugly.
You wanted a younger man, didnt you? Then you must serve him. Otherwise, why am I here?
I held my breath for three seconds.
You have thirty minutes to pack your things and leave.
Youre joking! I cant! My daughter has already brought her boyfriend into my flat.
Then live together! I snapped, slamming the door shut.
I felt no pain, no sorrowonly a faint, lingering melancholy.
I was left alone again.
And I wondered, in the quiet of that night, whether at my age one could still encounter true, honest love, or whether it was just a phantom fed to us by films and novels. I have no answer yet. One thing I know for certain: I am not for anyone else. I am for myself.