On the bus ride home from work, Eleanor rested her forehead against the rain-streaked window, watching the world blur into something indistinct and surreal. *Just like my life*, she thought. *A smudged future I can’t make out. Terrifying, really.* She closed her eyes, feeling tears prickle beneath her lashes.
“Look at the youth today,” snapped a voice above her, sharp with disapproval. “Sitting there like no one else exists. While decent folk have to stand.”
Eleanor opened her eyes to a heavyset woman looming over her seat, glowering as if the whole world had personally wronged her.
“Please, take my seat,” Eleanor offered, standing.
“About time. Wouldn’t budge unless told, would you?” the woman muttered, wedging herself in.
Eleanor squeezed past her, clutching the handrail near the doors. The woman’s grumbling continued, now joined by murmurs of agreement from nearby passengers. Allies found in shared bitterness.
*Maybe her life’s worse than mine. That’s why she’s so angry.*
“Getting off?” A voice cut through the noise—light, familiar.
Eleanor turned and blinked. *Charlotte?*
“Ellie! Bloody hell, it’s been ages!”
No time to reply. The doors hissed open, and the crowd shoved them both onto the pavement.
“God, I’m glad I ran into you,” Charlotte beamed, looping an arm through Eleanor’s. Fresh-faced, polished—the picture of contentment. “You’re not slipping away until I’ve wrung every detail out of you.”
“I’m glad too,” Eleanor said flatly. “But I can’t invite you over.”
“Don’t need to. Come to Mum’s. I’m married now—different place. Just visiting her today.”
“Char, I really can’t.” Eleanor stopped walking.
“Not listening. Next time’ll take another century. Half an hour, that’s all.”
“…Fine. Half an hour.”
“What, you’ve got seven kids waiting at home?”
“A daughter. And a husband.”
“Well, they’ll survive.” Charlotte tugged her onward, past Eleanor’s own street, down a narrow lane.
“Mum, look who I found!” Charlotte announced theatrically.
Her mother gasped, clapping her hands. They’d been inseparable at school—Charlotte always pushing to meet up after, but Eleanor had been preoccupied.
She’d fallen hopelessly in love. Her mother had pleaded, *”A boxer? That’s not a career—just thumping other men. Broken nose today, wheelchair tomorrow. Think, Eleanor!”*
Charlotte’s mother bustled with teacups.
“Mum, give us a minute,” Charlotte said.
“Of course, of course.” She retreated.
“Right. Out with it,” Charlotte demanded. “Knew something was off the second I saw you.”
Eleanor hadn’t planned to confess anything. But Charlotte’s gaze was soft, earnest. The words spilled out.
“So you did marry your Jake? Remember how smitten you were.”
“Yeah. Mum never let up. Always held you up as the sensible one. Called me a ‘dreamy Brontë heroine.’”
“Classic Margaret,” Charlotte smirked. “Still teaching?”
“Mm.” Eleanor managed a faint smile.
Charlotte was all sharp angles—blonde, willowy, effortlessly polished. Eleanor, round-faced and windswept, with curls and wide blue eyes. The romantic, the one who’d believed in grand love stories. Now, though, she looked hollow.
“At first, it was good. Then, during the national qualifiers, Jake took a hit to the head. Stroke on top of it.” Eleanor waved a hand. “No prognosis. Career over. I was already pregnant—don’t know how I didn’t lose her.”
She’d nursed Jake with the baby in her arms. Sold their car. Went back to work at six months. Her mother watched little Emily—now six, Jake’s mirror image.
Years of recovery. She’d stopped hoping he’d even walk again. But he fought back. Boxing was dead to him. No other skills, just rage. Jobs didn’t stick—wrong qualifications, wrong attitude, the shadow of his injury. He’d grown sullen, snapping only at Emily.
Eleanor turned away, tears threatening.
“I’ll talk to Philip. He’s not exactly rolling in it, but he’s got connections. Security work? Jake could do that.” Charlotte squeezed her hand.
“Thanks, Char. Glad we met. But I’ve got to go. Jake’s… tense if I’m late.”
“Swap numbers. I’ll ring tomorrow. Philip adores me—he won’t refuse.”
“Mum was right. You always land on your feet.” Eleanor hugged her.
“Oi. You’ll be fine. It’s not how you start—it’s how you finish.”
At home, Eleanor said nothing. No false hope.
Charlotte rang three days later, just as Eleanor’s patience frayed.
“It’s on. Philip’ll take him. But he wants to meet him first. Just—after injuries, sometimes there’s… you know.”
“I know.”
“Three o’clock tomorrow. Suit, clean-shaven. And—sorry—no booze today. Philip hates that.”
“Jake doesn’t drink.”
“Just covering bases.”
Eleanor relayed it all, omitting the drink warning. No need to nettle him.
Next day, Jake left in a suit. Eleanor clutched her phone. When he called—*hired*—she nearly cried.
For two months, life stabilized. Then Philip fired his driver and offered Jake the job. Easy enough.
Then Jake started coming home late, eyes distant.
One night, his right hand was bruised and split.
“You fought?”
“Part of the job. Don’t fuss.”
Two hours later, Charlotte called, no pleasantries.
“I helped you, and your Jake repaid it by beating my husband.”
“Explain. *Now.*”
“Ask *him*. He’s unhinged.” The line went dead.
Before Eleanor could confront Jake, the doorbell rang—insistent, entitled.
Jake answered. Raised voices. A thud.
Eleanor peeked into the hall.
A man in a black overcoat cowered by the coat rack. Another doubled over in a leather jacket. Jake had a third pinned—a hulk of a man—against the wall.
“*Go*,” Jake growled.
He hurled them out one by one. Threats echoed from the pavement before the door slammed.
“*What happened?*”
“Your Charlotte’s husband came to kill me. Brought attack dogs. Pity they’re useless. I quit.”
“Why? It was fine!”
“*No.* Thought he was decent. Turns out he’s been cheating. Every night, I drove him to some girl’s flat. Waited. Took him home.”
Jake rubbed his knuckles.
“Tonight, he got drunk at a business dinner. Started groping a girl. She fought. I stepped in. Had to hit him to shut him up.”
Eleanor led him to the sink, cleaning his hand.
“Your Charlotte doesn’t know. Don’t tell her. She’ll think it’s revenge.”
Next day, Charlotte arrived, cheek swollen.
“Did he hit you?”
“First time. Lived with him years and never *knew* him.” She sobbed. “Called Jake a drunk liar. Tell me the truth.”
Jake walked in.
“What did Philip say?”
“That *you* were drunk. That *you* hit *him*.”
Jake laughed harshly.
“I don’t drink. *He* did. Harassed a girl. I stopped him. He sacked me. Then sent goons to threaten me.”
He paused.
“Charlotte… he’s cheating. Has a flat for her. You really didn’t know?”
Charlotte stared. Eleanor remembered her saying *Philip adores me*.
“I thought *I* was the lucky one,” Charlotte whispered. “Thought your mum was right—that you’d made a mistake. But Jake’s… *decent*. I envy you.”
“What will you do? Forgive him?”
“No. Can’t go to Mum—she worships him.”
“Stay here.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“He’ll retaliate. Against you.”
“He will anyway,” Jake said. “Stay tonight. We’ll figure it out.”
Morning came. Eleanor left for work. Jake took Charlotte home for her things.
Good thing he did.
A black car with tinted windows nearly mowed her down. Jake shoved her clear.
He checked her into a cheap hotel on the outskirts, under a false name.
“Leave town. He’ll find you eventually.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Eleanor’s lucky,” Charlotte said faintly.
Then—Philip’s office was audited. Irregularities. Missing funds. Investigation launched.
And Jake’s old coach tracked him down.
“Retiring. Been scouting replacements. Lads suggested you. Thought you’”Life’s funny—sometimes the one you pitied ends up saving you in the end.”
