The Actress
Alice stepped onto the Tube and slumped into a seat. Why had she worn heeled boots? Because a woman should look like a woman, no matter her age.
She caught her reflection in the dark window opposite. Not bad at all. *Especially when you’ve had enough sleep, slapped on a full face of makeup, and your mirror is a dim Tube window,* her inner voice quipped.
*But the eyes look tired.* She glanced away. *Maybe it’s time to dress my age—at least ditch the heels. Just get home, kick off these damned boots, shed this heavy coat. What was I even thinking?*
No one recognized her anymore, but old habits died hard. She’d never been *famous*, exactly, but after a few film roles, people had started noticing her. The men who’d pursued her! Every night after a performance, someone waited at the stage door with flowers.
Back then, she wasn’t Alice Foster. She was Alice Fairfax—now *that* had a ring to it. She still swelled with pride seeing her name in credits, even if only in two films.
The carriage felt stifling. She undid the top button of her coat, tugged off her scarf, and shook her head to dispel the fatigue. Her hair had thinned, but a good cut and dye job kept it looking full. She glanced up—and instead of her reflection, a young man stared back, smiling.
Alice reacted on instinct, the way she always had to male attention. A slight tilt of her chin, a coy smile, then averted eyes. *Noticed you. Flattered. Now behave.*
*Should’ve taken a cab. Pricey, but at least I wouldn’t be exhausted.* Her third husband, Edward, had begged her to learn to drive. She never did. Too afraid.
Edward had been the best of her husbands. A shame he’d died so young. After him, she’d sworn off marriage—not that anyone had asked.
But God, she’d been stunning in her youth. That delicate nose, scarlet lips, lashes like feathers. And her eyes—alive, sparkling. Even now, her figure turned heads. *You took care of yourself, never had children. Now you’re alone, forgotten,* her inner voice sneered.
“Piss off,” she muttered, then glanced around. Lately, she’d caught herself talking aloud more often.
No one noticed. The carriage was nearly empty—dozing commuters, blank stares. Only the man opposite still watched her. Alice looked away, lost in memories.
She’d been born too late. With her looks, she could’ve rivaled Julie Andrews in *Mary Poppins*. Her voice was shrill, but so what? They could’ve dubbed her. And she could dance.
On her first film set—a dance number—she’d met her first husband, a dashing actor. A whirlwind romance, a hasty marriage. It lasted barely a year.
He was a gambler. Money vanished, then her jewelry. Tears and screaming changed nothing. The day he hit her, she walked out.
Almost immediately, she married Vincent. Ten years older, wealthy, stable. She didn’t love him, but after her first husband, passion seemed overrated. Vincent left his family for her—his son, his wife. The ex called often, begging him to visit. He’d return quiet, brooding.
Then a heart attack took him. At the funeral, his first wife wailed, clutching the coffin: *”Who’ll look after us now? Bury me beside him! That actress drove you to your grave—”* Alice slipped away before the service ended.
There were flings after, but no more marriages—until Edward, a retired colonel, swept her off her feet. Flowers, furs, diamonds. How could she say no?
Twelve years together. He’d wanted children. She hadn’t. A stroke took him. This time, her tears were real. She’d loved him—like a father, a protector. His relatives eyed her with disdain. *Actress.*
For a week, she didn’t leave the house. Her oldest friend, Cathy, finally dragged her out of it—poured her a stiff drink, tucked her into bed. Woke to homemade soup and a hairstylist waiting to fix her up. Alice looked in the mirror and decided to keep living.
She returned to the theatre, but something had dimmed. The roles dried up. Younger actresses took the spotlight. Film offers stopped. Bitter, she quit.
A job at a community centre followed—directing amateur plays. The pay was pitiful, but Edward’s money kept her afloat. She sold furs, jewelry. Eventually, she retired. Couldn’t stand teaching talentless hacks.
Lost in thought, she barely noticed the young man sliding into the seat beside her.
“I knew it was you. Alice Fairfax. My mum adored you. Rewatched your films, saw all your plays.”
Alice arched a brow.
“You haven’t aged a day,” he said.
“Flatterer,” she replied, but her posture straightened.
“Shame you left the stage. You’ve got one of those faces—unforgettable.”
She studied him. Mid-thirties, well-dressed, handsome. The way he looked at her—like she was still a star. No one had done that in years.
She nearly missed her stop. He followed her out.
“Let me walk you home?”
“If you insist,” she said airily. “But don’t expect coffee.”
The outskirts were icy. She took his arm—easier walking. At her door, he kissed her hand and left. Inside, the hallway mirror betrayed every wrinkle she’d tried to hide. She sighed. No escaping time. A facelift? With what money?
Next morning, she peered outside—and there he was, waiting. Shivering, hands jammed in his coat pockets. She threw on her fur and hurried out.
“What are you doing here?”
“Wanted to see you.”
His teeth chattered.
“Come inside. You’ll catch your death.”
He sipped tea, eyes fluttering. “Divine.”
She watched him. *Too young. Too handsome.*
“You warmed up?”
“Yes. Sorry to be bold, but—could I see your photos? Not the staged ones. 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 sharp.
“They were part of my life. My youth.”
“Sorry. Can I have this one? How old were you here? Never mind—you’re still stunning.”
“No. Pick another.” She reached for it.
“Why?” He leaned back, holding it away.
She stretched closer—and he kissed her.
“How *dare* you?” She sprang up.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled.
She was relieved when he left.
Next day, he returned—flowers, pastries. Soon, he visited nightly. She’d tidy up, switch on the lamp. Soft light hid flaws.
One evening, Cathy dropped by.
“You’re glowing. Found a new toy boy?”
“That obvious?”
“Alice, he’s using you. What if he’s married? Or a thief?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! He recognized me on the Tube! I’ve still got it!”
“You’re deluded. That coat, that gold—he clocked you’ve got money. Stay with me. Change the locks.”
“Jealous, are you?”
“Of *what*? You’re being robbed blind!”
They argued. Cathy stormed out.
Alice dismissed it. If he’d wanted to rob her, he’d have done it.
Days later, her old theatre invited her to a premiere.
“Can I come?” Mathew asked.
“Of course. Didn’t peg you for amateur theatre.”
“I’m interested in *you*.”
She promised him a new dress—and a shirt for him. Their first proper outing.
Next morning, she dressed carefully. Heels, full makeup. She’d shop for *the* dress—something worthy of standing beside him.
After hours of searching, she found it. Exhausted but triumphant, she headed home as dusk fell.
The flat was ransacked. Fur coat, jewelry, silverware, TV—gone. The money too.
She collapsed, sobbing. Cathy found her hours later, barely conscious.
At the hospital, Alice lay vacant-eyed, unable to speak.
Cathy begged the doctor for a private room. “She’s an actress!”
“Who’ll pay? She won’t recover.”
By the bed, Cathy wept. “I warned you. He waited till you left. Professionals leave no witnesses.”
Alice died that night. No one cared enough to hunt her thief.
*Who was she? An actress? Never heard of her.*
The theatre sent flowers—no funeral. At the graveside, Cathy stood alone.
The groundskeeper patted the fresh earth. “Fancy a donation? For her soul?”
She handed him twenty quid and left.
Everyone wants love. Lonely women, accustomed to admirers, most of all. And men? TheyBut in the end, even the greatest performances must come to a quiet close, the curtain falling on a stage left empty by time.
