The Chemistry of Love
“Goodness me, the years fly by—I’ll be old soon, and still, I’ve never understood what true love or infatuation even feels like. The wrong men always seem to cross my path,” mused Eleanor, a comely woman of two-and-forty, speaking to herself.
After being made redundant two years prior from the company where she had worked for nearly a decade, she found employment in a department store, selling women’s fashion. The garments in her section were far from cheap, and the clientele were those who could afford luxury labels.
Men rarely entered the department, and when they did, they seldom came alone. More often, they trailed behind women with pained expressions, barely mustering enthusiasm for questions like, *”Darling, do you think this suits me? What about this dress?”*
The women would glance at the price tags, sometimes rolling their eyes—nothing here was inexpensive. The men, in turn, would obediently pay at the till.
Eleanor often envied the customers, wishing she could afford such finery herself. But where would she wear it? Work, home, the occasional café or cinema with a friend. Her daughter had finished college, married in haste, and moved all the way to the Scottish Highlands with her husband—both hopeless romantics.
Eleanor dressed well, though never ostentatiously, favouring understated elegance. Slender, with a neat bob of honey-blonde hair, she carried herself with quiet grace. Her first marriage had been unfortunate—four years with a man who never settled into domestic life, forever chasing friends and carousing. Once her daughter was grown and off to school, she found little time—or inclination—for romance.
At thirty-two, she had courted a colleague, Thomas, for a year and a half before realising he would never make a proper husband. He loathed work, convinced everyone undervalued him, and grumbled endlessly.
*”Thomas, you’re always dissatisfied. What have they ever done to you? You speak as if the whole world is against you.”*
*”Eleanor, can’t you see how spiteful people are? They take pleasure in others’ misfortunes!”*
*”No, I don’t see it. Our team is friendly—helpful, even. And the manager is decent, fair. You’re just determined to see the worst.”*
In the end, she broke it off. His bitterness wore her down. There had been fleeting encounters since—a holiday romance by the seaside—but nothing lasting.
The department had its regulars: wealthy wives, even the mayor’s spouse, though most shopped unaccompanied.
One quiet weekday, Eleanor was startled when a handsome man wandered in, glancing occasionally in her direction. He was in his forties, dark hair swept back, brows arched, hands in pockets. He moved as if strolling through an art gallery, his gaze lingering less on the clothes than on her.
*”What could he possibly want here alone? Shopping for a fiancée, perhaps… Still, what a striking man.”* The thought of him leaving made her inexplicably sad. But then he approached the counter, smiling.
*”Excuse me—where might I find the dresses?”* He leaned slightly, reading her name tag. *”Eleanor?”* The scent of expensive cologne enveloped her.
Flustered, she guided him to the dresses, cheeks burning like poppies. She was glad he walked behind, oblivious to her blush.
*”What’s come over me? Losing my head over a stranger—ridiculous.”*
He chose a dress—a lavish piece from the new collection, Italian silk with hand-stitched lace. *”He must adore his sweetheart, spending so freely,”* she thought, a pang of envy twisting her heart.
*”Would you try it on? My lady is of your build.”*
In the changing room, she scarcely recognised herself—the dress clung perfectly, accentuating every curve. Stepping out, she caught his admiring gaze.
*”You look divine,”* he breathed, eyes tracing her figure.
*”I hope it suits her,”* Eleanor managed before retreating, bewildered by her own reaction. This—this was what they called the chemistry of love.
When he left, she sighed. *”The finest things aren’t meant for me. Not this dress, not this man.”*
Two days passed before he returned.
*”The dress was perfect. Now, I need shoes to match.”*
She led him to footwear, where her colleague, Margaret, blushed just as she had.
*”Eleanor,”* he said later, *”your feet are a size five, yes?”*
*”Yes, why?”*
*”So are hers. Would you mind?”*
She modelled shoes, then busied herself with customers, forcing him from her thoughts.
Three days later, he appeared again.
*”Eleanor, might I have your number?”* His smile sent shivers down her spine.
*”Whatever for?”*
*”To call you. To invite you to dinner.”*
From behind his back, he produced roses. *”These are for you. My name’s James, by the way.”*
Stunned, she accepted them. Then she spotted the bag from her department—inside, the dress and shoes.
*”Wear it tonight,”* he said softly, taking her hand. *”I’ve admired you for weeks. I only lacked the courage to speak sooner.”*
*”Yes,”* she whispered, heart racing.
Now, Eleanor lives with James in his country estate, no longer a shop assistant but his partner in business—and in life. Both are blissfully happy.
