*”How handsome he’s become. If only he were a little wealthier, worked at a prestigious firm—I might just fall for him,”* thought Eleanor.
*”Right, George, you’re in charge while I’m away. If anything comes up, call me. I’m not flying to Mars—I’ll be reachable,”* said Edward, extending his hand to his deputy and friend.
*”Got it, don’t worry. By the way, you still haven’t said where you’re going for holiday. The Maldives or Spain?”* George shook his hand.
*”Didn’t I mention it? Off to my mum’s. Need to fix the roof, mend the fence. Dad used to look after the house, but since he passed, everything’s been falling apart. Can’t remember the last time I sat by the river with a fishing rod.”*
*”I’ve never even been fishing. Pure city boy. Almost envy you,”* George sighed. *”Tell me all about it when you’re back.”*
As Edward drove home, he smiled, relieved he’d soon be far from the noisy, grimy city. Tomorrow, he’d hug his mum, breathe the crisp air of his childhood.
He’d grown up in a small village. His mother was a teacher, his father a builder. Young Eddie often helped his dad on-site, learning how to fix anything. His father hoped he’d follow in his footsteps, but Eddie was drawn to cars, computers, the buzz of new tech. School came easily. When he graduated, he declared there was no future in the village—he’d go to London, make something of himself.
*”No future? The village is growing. Builders will always be needed. You’ll never go hungry. Want us to build you a modern house? You’ll marry, have space for kids to run,”* his father reasoned.
*”Too soon to think of marriage. Need to stand on my own feet first,”* Eddie brushed him off.
His father argued, but his mother gently soothed him. *”Don’t clip his wings. Let him try. He’s clever—we’ll be proud of him yet.”*
They gave him some money for the first stretch and let him conquer the capital. Edward studied at university while working construction. Eventually, he achieved everything he wanted.
In school, he’d loved Eleanor—a bubbly, snub-nosed girl. She wasn’t academically brilliant, dreamed of being a hairdresser, opening her own salon. They each had their own path, drifting to different cities, hoping to meet again someday.
Whenever Edward visited home, Eleanor was always gone.
He could’ve asked her mum for her number, address—but he didn’t. Love would distract from his dreams. Marriage, kids—they’d mean scrapping for bread, not chasing ambitions. No, first he’d build his business, buy a car, a house—then…
*”Watch it, you’ll miss your chance. Eleanor might not wait forever,”* his father warned.
*”No matter. There are other girls,”* Edward replied.
But he didn’t want others.
Now Edward had it all—or nearly. A fine house in a posh neighbourhood, a luxury car, a thriving business. Now he could think of a wife. There’d been women—but they wanted the house, the car, the money. He wished someone would love him for himself.
Visiting his parents, he secretly hoped to bump into Eleanor. He kept his stories vague. His parents lived modestly, frugally, earning their keep honestly. They expected the same from him. When he mentioned his success, his father scowled, his mother blinked nervously. How could he afford a London flat, a house, without cutting corners?
*”Breaking the law? Is that what we taught you? Better you’d stayed a builder than have us ashamed,”* his father grumbled.
So Edward visited in a borrowed, modest car—never his Mercedes—or took the train. Said he worked as an engineer. His father nodded, proud of his Londoner son.
This holiday was no different, though his father had passed three years prior. He left the Mercedes in the garage, took a train ticket, dressed plainly.
A kind gesture won him the top bunk from an elderly woman, who thanked him tirelessly. Lying there, watching forests and fields rush by, he remembered his first journey to London. The rhythmic clatter eased his thoughts.
The village seemed tiny, impossibly pretty. The air was fresh, trees lush—unlike the scrawny city shrubs. Flowerbeds bloomed vibrant.
Walking into his childhood home, his mother gasped, tears springing.
*”Oh, my boy! I wasn’t expecting you. How long are you staying?”*
*”Till you kick me out,”* he laughed, hugging her.
She baked pies daily, fussing over her only son. He ate, then climbed the roof, mended the fence, repainted the shutters.
*”You’re on holiday! Rest!”* she fretted.
*”Done now. Where are you off to?”* He noticed her dressed up, a woven bag in hand.
*”Just the shops.”*
*”I’ll take the bike. What do you need?”*
She handed him a list. *”You’re going like *that*?”*
*”What’s wrong?”* He thought his rolled-sleeve shirt, faded jeans, and sturdy trainers were village-appropriate. (Though the trainers were pricey—a weakness. No one here would know.)
Pedalling to the shop, women eyed him curiously. *”Whose boy are you? Who’re you visiting?”* Surprised when he named himself, they probed about his life. He gave short answers.
Outside, his bike looked pitiful beside a sleek red Audi. He whistled, noting its flat tyre.
*”Help’s better than whistling,”* a voice chimed behind him.
Goosebumps prickled. A voice never changes.
Turning, he barely recognised the glamorous woman as Eleanor. Knee-length dress, chic bob, expertly applied makeup. Golden sandals.
He flushed, speechless.
*”Eddie?!”*
*”You’ve changed. Stunning. Yours?”* He nodded at the Audi.
Pleasure flickered across her face. *”Yes, but the roads here are awful. Ruining tyres.”*
*”Spare? Tools?”*
She watched his skilled hands, his lean frame as he changed the tyre. He felt her gaze, resisted looking back.
*”Sorted. The flat one’s in the boot—can be patched. Want a lift?”*
*”No, I’ve got the bike. Wouldn’t want to dirty your seats.”* He dusted off his jeans.
She drove off. Rounding the bend, he spotted her car waiting.
*”We barely spoke. Let me thank you properly—join me at the café?”*
*”I don’t know the village anymore. Address? I’ll drop the shopping and come.”*
*”Where are you off to?”* his mother asked.
*”Met a friend. Café chat.”* He hurried out.
She watched him go. *”That ‘friend’—Eleanor, I’ll bet.”*
In the café, Eleanor sat at the bar. They moved to a table, ordered.
*”Holiday? How’s your mum? Mine’s poorly,”* she said.
*”Mine’s holding up. Your salon? You look incredible. Not married?”* He noted her bare ring finger.
She tucked her hand away. *”Didn’t work out. You?”*
*”Same.”*
By the end, they’d shared much. Her salon catered to celebrities, wealthy wives.
*”Always learning new treatments. No days off. Hardly visit Mum,”* she said.
*”I’m a site foreman. Like Dad,”* he lied.
Studying her, he decided he preferred her old snub-nosed smile. *”Nose job? Beautiful, but… not for me.”*
*”How handsome. If he were richer, worked in the City, I’d fall for him,”* Eleanor thought, sipping scalding coffee.
The conversation stalled.
*”I should go. Hope we meet again?”*
*”Need a lift?”*
*”I’ll walk.”*
Outside, she drove off with a wave.
Three days later, on the train, Edward mused over the encounter—first love, fleeting dream.
Meanwhile, Eleanor dyed a client’s hair.
*”How was the trip?”* her colleague asked.
*”Fine. Car keys are in your jacket. Thanks.”*
*”Make an impression?”*
*”Oh yes,”* she sighed. *”Saw my first love. He didn’t even ask for my number. I spun tales about the salon—probably thought I’m out of his league. Just a foreman, after all. Hairdresser and builder—what a pair.”*
*”You did right. Let him climb higher if he wants you,”* her friend said.
At home, Edward’sThey never saw each other again, both too proud to admit the truth, and years later, each would wonder what might have been if they’d just been honest.
