Eleanor woke without an alarm. The sunlight sliced across the pale walls of her flat in a way that felt intrusive rather than warm. She lay still for a moment, her eyes open, already irritated by the quiet. Silence had never suited her. It left too much room for thought.
She reached for her phone, scrolling without much interest. Messages sat unanswered. A man she had met two weeks ago had sent a message asking to see her on the weekend. Another had asked if she was free on Thursday. She smiled faintly — not from pleasure, but from calculation. Things were progressing exactly as she wanted.
The money from the divorce was enough. For now. Enough for the flat, the clothes, the dinners that reminded her she still belonged in certain rooms. But Eleanor had never lived on enough. Enough was temporary. Enough ended.
She pushed herself out of bed and padded into the bathroom, surveying her reflection with practiced scrutiny. She still looked good. Better than good, if she dressed carefully. The years had been kind to her in the ways that mattered most. She knew how to soften her mouth into something vulnerable. She knew how to let her eyes and skin shine.
After showering, she dressed with intention — cashmere, tailored trousers, a coat that suggested taste rather than excess. The look mattered. Even when she was alone, she dressed as if someone might be watching. Someone important.
By midmorning she was walking through one of her favourite high-end stores, fingers grazing items she did not yet intend to buy. The sales assistant hovered, attentive but restrained. Eleanor liked that — the recognition without questioning.
"Eleanor?"
She turned, already smiling, the expression slipping easily into place.
"Maggie. How lovely to see you."
Maggie looked much the same as she always had — well-kept, faintly amused by the world, her shopping bags a quiet declaration of success. They air-kissed cheeks and stepped aside from the flow of customers.
"I heard about the divorce," Maggie said gently. "I am so sorry."
Eleanor exhaled, just enough to suggest exhaustion.
"It's been devastating," she said, lowering her voice. "I never imagined it would end like that."
Maggie shook her head sympathetically.
"You gave him your best years. Honestly, you're better off single. English men are such hard work."
Eleanor smiled weakly. "Sometimes it feels like starting over from nothing."
"Nonsense," Maggie said briskly. "If I were you, I'd be strategic. Wealthy Americans, for instance. They love European women, and they don't ask too many questions. Or," she added with a conspiratorial glint, "someone from the UAE. A sheikh, perhaps. They have plenty of money and far fewer expectations about emotional labour."
Eleanor laughed softly, as if the idea amused her, though she filed it away immediately.
"I'm not sure I'd know where to begin."
"You'd manage," Maggie said lightly. "You always do."
They chatted a little longer — about mutual acquaintances, about travel, about the newest restaurant in Mayfair — before parting with promises to meet for lunch soon.
Eleanor watched Maggie go, her expression thoughtful rather than wistful.
Advice, she thought to herself, often came from people who recognised the game even if they pretended not to play it.
Back at the flat, she changed and answered a few messages, spacing them carefully. Interest needed to feel organic, never overeager. By early evening she had prepared the space for James' arrival. The flat smelled faintly of lemon and something warming in the oven. She never cooked. She ordered from her favourite restaurants and decanted the meal into an oven dish, removing all evidence of its origin.
When James arrived, she opened the door with a smile that suggested relief.
"You came," she said softly, as if she had not been entirely certain he would.
"Of course," he replied, eager, pressing a bottle of red wine into her hand.
She touched his arm as she guided him inside. The gesture was brief, intimate enough to linger. She had learned long ago that less was more.
They sat close on the sofa. She listened, really listened — or gave the impression of it — nodding at the right moments, laughing quietly when he made a joke. When he paused, she sighed.
"I never thought I would be starting over at this age," she said. "I gave everything to my marriage."
He turned to her immediately. "You told me, he cheated on you."
"Yes," she replied, eyes lowering. "With his secretary. Younger. It went on for four years." She shook her head, a controlled tremor passing through her. "I tried to forgive him. I really did. But he made me feel invisible."
The story came easily. It always did. She had refined it, polished it, removed any rough edges that might invite scrutiny. She omitted the boredom, the contempt, the slow withdrawal that had been hers long before Richard had found her with Toby.
James' hand covered hers.
"You didn't deserve that."
Her eyes glistened on cue.
"I just want to feel safe again."
Safe. That word never failed.
When he left later, she kissed his cheek and thanked him. She watched him descend the stairs, then closed the door and exhaled as she allowed her expression to settle back into neutrality.
On Thursday it was Mark.
Mark arrived with confidence and charm, flowers and conversation. He liked to feel chosen. He reminded her of Richard when they were younger. She laughed more with him, appeared lighter, freer — a woman rediscovering joy after heartbreak.
She wore a silk blouse she knew flattered her. She let him cook while she perched on the counter, legs crossed, asking questions that encouraged him to talk about his life, his property, his plans.
"Do you ever feel lonely there?" she asked gently when he mentioned his house outside the city.
"Sometimes," he admitted.
"I can understand that," she said softly.
Later, over dessert, she told him the story — adjusted, reframed.
"I stayed longer than I should have," she said. "I kept hoping he'd see me again."
Mark frowned. "I despise cheats."
She touched his wrist.
"Some men don't know what they have."
She never mentioned the children. They complicated things. They required accountability she had no interest in offering.
By the time Mark left, she could see the consideration in his eyes, the calculation mirroring her own.
When the flat fell quiet again, Eleanor poured herself a glass of wine and stood by the window. The city lights reflected back at her, blurring her image into something distant and composed.
She felt no guilt. Why should she? People did what they needed to survive. She had always been honest about one thing, at least with herself.
Love was unreliable. Security was not. Love fades. Money does not.
James was kind. Mark was ambitious. And perhaps there would be others — Americans, men with effortless wealth, men who saw her as an investment worth making.
It didn't matter which one proposed.
She only needed to keep the balance a little longer. Keep the stories straight. The timings precise.
Eleanor finished her wine, already planning her next move.