After dinner, Eleanor curled up on the sofa with a book. She had barely lost herself in the heroine’s adventures when her mother walked in, holding her vibrating phone. Beaming across the screen was Lottie Barrington.
With a reluctant sigh, Eleanor set the book aside and answered, shooting her mother a meaningful look. Finally catching the hint, her mother left—though Eleanor had no doubt she’d linger by the door, ears pricked.
For five minutes, they chatted about nothing in particular. Then Lottie invited her to a birthday celebration at her countryside cottage that Saturday.
“Your birthday was last month. Wasn’t it?” Eleanor frowned.
“What does it matter? I’ll celebrate it every day if I like. It’s just an excuse to meet up.”
“Why not meet without one?”
“No, there has to be intrigue, anticipation! A friend of my Simon’s is flying in from Germany. He doesn’t know it’s my birthday. Probably thinks we’d all swarm him if he agreed to meet casually. But a birthday? That’s serious. Remember Daisy, my friend? She squealed when she heard he was coming. He’s some big shot in film, a director or something. Daisy’s desperate to act—clinging to him like glue, completely shameless.”
“All right, that explains it. But why me?”
“It’s my birthday!” Lottie’s patience frayed.
“Cannon fodder?” Eleanor guessed. “And why the cottage? There’s still snow on the ground.”
“Don’t be daft. So he can’t run off,” Lottie cackled, pleased with herself. “So? Coming? Barbecue, bit of fun. There’s still a Christmas tree up—couldn’t be bothered taking it down. Snow piled up too high to drive back anyway. Please, for me?” Her voice took on that familiar pout.
Eleanor sighed. “Fine.”
She agreed because Saturday was still four days away. Anything could happen by then. She might fall ill. Or Lottie might. The whole thing could collapse.
The moment she hung up, her mother reappeared.
“Where’s she dragging you off to now?”
“You heard, Mum,” Eleanor smirked.
Unfazed, her mother pressed, “Go. You’re always cooped up here. Nearly forty and still unmarried. I’ll never see grandchildren at this rate.”
“Husbands aren’t daffodils, Mum. They don’t sprout in cottage gardens,” Eleanor joked. “I’m thirty-two. Eight whole years until forty. And children should come from love, not your longing for grandbabies…”
Her mother pursed her lips, waved a dismissive hand, and left—only to return seconds later.
“You read all day. Living through other people’s lives while yours slips by. Books won’t marry you off. Time’s running…”
“Heard you the first time. I’ll go. Fetch you grandchildren while I’m at it,” Eleanor quipped again.
Her mother shook her head, wounded.
“Sorry, Mum.” Eleanor leapt up and hugged her.
On Friday, Lottie called again, reminding her to dress smart—mustn’t embarrass themselves in front of foreign company. She and Simon would pick her up sharp at seven.
“Why so early?” Eleanor groaned.
“Long drive, cottage needs heating… Barely have time before evening.”
At six the next morning, her alarm blared. For a moment, she couldn’t fathom why she’d set it so early on a weekend. Then her mother bustled in, announcing breakfast was ready.
Eleanor remembered the cottage, the birthday, and groaned. Farewell, peaceful weekend. She trudged to the bathroom. An hour later, Simon’s car idled outside. Sliding into the backseat, she muttered a greeting.
“Cheer up. Sleep if you want,” Lottie offered magnanimously.
The entire drive, Lottie chattered. “How does Simon stand her?” Eleanor wondered before dozing off.
The cottage village was picturesque and empty. Untouched snow blanketed the gardens, tyre tracks the only blemish on the pristine roads. Others were here, then.
Inside, a towering artificial Christmas tree stood. For a heartbeat, Eleanor felt flung back two months, as if they’d come for New Year’s. Simon busied himself with the wood burner, filling the air with resin and nostalgia.
Before the fire could properly catch, two more cars arrived. Pressed to the window, Eleanor and Lottie watched familiar faces spill out—along with Daisy and a tall stranger in glasses.
“That’s the director? Doesn’t look it,” Eleanor murmured.
“Seen many directors, have you?” Lottie shot back.
The group trudged through snow, Daisy bounding ahead like an excitable lamb, laughter ringing loud enough to alert the whole village.
“Stop gawking.” Lottie peeled away first, heading to greet them while Eleanor retreated to unpack groceries.
“Your friend’s really a director?” she asked Simon.
Before he could answer, a clamour erupted—Daisy’s shrieks leading the charge. She made a beeline for the tree. The director hauled bags to the kitchen, shook Simon’s hand, and nodded at Eleanor, his gaze lingering.
“Need help?”
Suddenly, the kitchen was crammed, noisy. The fire crackled merrily. Maybe coming hadn’t been a mistake.
After sandwiches and tea, the men went to set up the barbecue while the women chopped salads, boiled potatoes…
Toasts and gifts followed. Lottie basked in attention. Then came dancing. Daisy clung to the director—Paul—who drank little, remaining the soberest. When she stepped out, he asked Eleanor to dance.
“Did you really come from Germany? Lived there long?”
Paul tried answering, but the music drowned him out. Finally, Eleanor gave up. Daisy returned, swapped the music for something faster, and nearly toppled the tree. A few baubles shattered. Chaos ensued.
Seizing the moment, Eleanor grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into boots, and slipped outside. Night had fallen. Tipping her face up, she inhaled the crisp air, stars glittering starkly—nothing like the city.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
She knew the voice instantly.
“Haven’t seen this many stars in years.”
“None in Germany?”
“Plenty. Just never looked up much. These feel closer. Like home.”
“You miss England?”
“Wanted to come back at first. Got used to it. Pros and cons, like anywhere.”
“What are you working on now? Filming something?”
“There you are.” Simon appeared in the doorway. “Hurry, you’ll miss the fun.”
“We’ll be right in,” Paul answered for them.
“Not enjoying yourself either, I see,” he said once Simon left.
“Noise wears me out,” Eleanor admitted, shivering. “Shame we can’t escape.”
“Why not? I’ve a car. Want to leave?”
“Where?”
“Wherever. The city. I’ll drive you home.”
“My things? Lottie’ll be livid.”
“Call later. Say I kidnapped you.” He grinned. “Well?”
“Serious?” She searched his face for jest. “Let’s go.” Decision made, she marched to the gate.
Inside, the revving engine went unnoticed—or ignored. No one chased them, too deep in revelry.
Leaning back, Eleanor shut her eyes. Soon, she dozed.
She woke in the city.
“Sorry. Did I snore?” Flustered, she smoothed her hair.
“Where to?”
She gave her address, directing shortcuts.
“I remember the city,” he cut in.
“The car—yours?”
“Rented. Feel naked without wheels.”
At her building, Paul asked for her number.
“I’ll call tomorrow.” His voice softened. “You’re different from your friends.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he drove off.
“What happened? You said tomorrow!” Her mother fretted as Eleanor walked in.
“Fine. Cottage was cramped. You know I hate sleeping away.”
Next morning, Lottie screeched down the phone.
“Playing the wallflower, then stealing him?!”
Eleanor tried explaining he’d driven her, but Lottie ranted nonstop before hanging up.
Paul didn’t call. Not next day. Not in three. “Why take my number if you won’t use it? Back to your Gretchens, then. Makes sense. How could I compete with Daisy? Young girls everywhere, and me past thirty. Sounds better than ‘nearly forty,’ at least.” She resolved to forget him.
Wednesday brought sleet, morphing into rain. March weather was fickle. Head bowed against the wet, Eleanor turned toward her building when a car honked. She ignored it—couldn’t be for her.
“Eleanor.”
She spun. Paul.
“You? Here?”
“Waiting for you. Let’s talk in the car.”
After a beat, she slid into the passenger seat.
“I owe you an explanation—”
“Nothing owed,” she said coolly.
“I’m no director.As the rain pattered against the windshield and Paul’s earnest gaze met hers, Eleanor exhaled slowly, realizing that sometimes the most unexpected detours led exactly where you were meant to be.
