The thought of inviting Simon to move in had never crossed Eleanors mind. Dating was one thingliving together quite another. That Saturday, she waited for him by the door, expecting their usual stroll. When she opened it, her breath caught. There he stood, clutching two enormous suitcases.
Eleanor sank into her armchair, flicking through photos on her phone. Here they were in Hyde Park, feeding ducks. There, wandering through the Tate. And therethat trip to the Cotswolds for mushrooms. Six months had slipped by unnoticed.
Theyd met on a dating site. She was sixty-one, he sixty-three. Both divorced, grown children living elsewhere.
Simon charmed her instantlycultured, well-read, with a dry wit. He wasnt hunting for a mother for his kids or a housekeeper. Just companionship with someone interesting.
They saw each other two or three times a week. The theatre, gallery openings, cafés, long walks through London. Weekends at her friends cottage in Sussex. Eleanor liked itno strings, just warmth.
“Tell me about your life,” Simon had asked early on.
“Quiet. Peaceful. Ive lived alone five yearsIm used to it.”
“Dont you get lonely?”
“Sometimes. But I have friends. My daughters visit. And now, you.”
“Nice to hear.”
Since his divorce, Simon rented a cramped flat in an ageing building. The landlord was difficultno repairs, yet the rent crept up.
“What can you do?” hed sighed. “No place of my own. Ex-wife kept everythingher parents bought it. Good luck proving I paid for the renovations.”
“Ever thought of buying?”
“Where would I get that sort of money?”
Eleanor understood. Her three-bedroom in Kensington had taken a lifetime. With her daughters gone, space wasnt an issue.
But inviting Simon in? Unthinkable. Dating was manageable. Cohabitation? A different beast entirely.
That Saturday, when she opened the door to suitcases, her stomach dropped.
“Simon, whats happened?”
“Can I come in? Ill explain.”
He left the luggage in the hall and sat on the sofa.
“Landlords selling. Gave me a week to clear out.”
“And now?”
“Nowhere to go. Cant find a place this fast, and Im strapped.”
The implication settled over her.
“Eleanor, Ive been thinkingwere serious. Six months in. Maybe we try living together?”
“Together?” she echoed.
“Your place is huge. Im not after a free rideIll chip in.”
“Simon, weve never discussed this.”
“Why discuss it in advance? Lifes handed us the answer.”
She floundered. This wasnt part of the plan.
“I need time.”
“Time for what? We love each other.”
“Love and living together arent the same.”
“How?”
“Because living together is every day. Habits. Compromises.”
“So? Wed adjust.”
“Thats just itI dont want to adjust. I like my life as it is.”
His face fell.
“What if I proposed properly? Marriage?”
“Why?”
“Why? To do things right.”
“Simon, marriage changes nothing. I still dont want to share a home.”
“Then whats the point of us?”
“The same as before. We meet. We talk. We enjoy each other.”
“And then?”
“We keep meeting.”
“Thats not serious!”
“It is to me.”
“I need stability.”
“What stability?” she asked, sitting opposite him.
“The ordinary kind. Waking up together. Building a future.”
“I dont want daily breakfasts. Or bending to someone elses plans.”
“Youre alone!”
“Im not. I have my daughters, my friends, you. Solitude and loneliness arent the same.”
“I dont see the difference.”
“The difference is choice. Right now, I choose when and with whom I share my time. Living together takes that away.”
“Eleanor, at our age, we should be thinking about wholl be there in our old age.”
“I am. It doesnt have to be a husband.”
“Who, then?”
“My daughters. A carer. Social services. Options exist.”
“Thats not the same!”
“Not to you. To me, its enough.”
He stood, pacing.
“So youre saying I should keep renting and see you on weekends?”
“Im saying live as you please. Meet when we both want to.”
“And if I cant afford rent?”
“Thats your concern, not mine.”
“Harsh.”
“Honest. Your housing crisis isnt my responsibility.”
“Were together!”
“Are we? That doesnt mean I owe you a home.”
He sat again, silent.
“If I find a flat, will we carry on?”
“If we both want to.”
“Can I stay here while I look?”
“No.”
“At all?”
“At all.”
The finality struck him. He picked up his suitcases.
“So Ill need a new home and a new relationship.”
“Perhaps.”
“Wont you regret this?”
“No.”
He left. The calls stopped. Eleanor returned to her quiet life. At sixty-one, she valued peace over romance, freedom over company.
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