The liaison was meant for pleasure
That flight might have sparked a modest romance: one aeroplane, two adjacent seats, a single destination. He was Arthur, a masterful wildlife photographer whose life unfolded in farflung expeditions and gallery openings. She was Eleanor, an architect who erected not only buildings but also her career with meticulous precision.
Both were independent, selfassured, each bearing the scar of a divorce that taught them to cherish personal space.
The notion sprang up like a flash in a dark room: why not keep the affair light, free of obligations and domestic entanglements?
No one thought it would endure, least of all Arthurs studio mates. In the workshop they kept an unspoken tally: how long would the newest elusive muse last?
Usually the count ran into months.
Women were often taken with Arthur: handsome, creative, never dull, never miserly. Yet his colleagues also knew the other side of the genius artist. He lived at the whim of inspiration, was unbearable in the home, unpredictable in his moods, and enjoyed a good drink. Still, whenever he announced that he had found love, the room exhaled in relief. A loverinfused Arthur worked like a man possessed, his photographs brimming with passion and life.
At last he met Eleanor, his true muse. A woman who asked for nothing beyond the joy of meeting. Shall we try without the cursed domesticities, without the where have you been? and why didnt you call? Arthur suggested. Life is already a hard thing enough.
Eleanor smiled and agreed. Firstly, she was sure it would be a brief fling; secondly, after a bitter divorce she had no desire to settle permanently. In short, their needs matched.
Arthur could spend a week living in her cosy flat, arranged according to every rule of harmony, then disappear for months into his cluttered studio, stacked with equipment and rolls of film. They flew together to Bath, and weeks later would not see each other. They spent three days in a country cottage and then went their separate ways for three weeks.
A year on, Eleanor became the centre of his creative gatherings.
Dreams do come true, she would say to friends, sipping a martini. As a child I devoured books about Arctic explorersstrong, independent, forever on the move. My Arthur is like a polar explorer. He vanishes on an expedition beyond the frame, then returns with flowers and shining eyes.
Arthur was content.
Eleanor is a breath of fresh air, he confided to a mate over a glass of whisky. My life is chaos. Sometimes I crawl home unable to utter a word. Other times I need someone to listen, to pity me like a child. Most of all I need a week alone. She gets that. If we lived together wed drive each other round the bend in a year. As it stands I always arrive with flowers and a smile, as if on a date.
He allowed himself fleeting dalliances, yet always came back to Eleanor. It was their karmic tie, something sturdier than a dull marriage. To onlookers Eleanor always seemed perfectly satisfied.
Five years passed that way. Then the gallery with which Arthur had a tight partnership abruptly shut its doors, the magazine he contributed to entered a slump, and the old creative collective gradually fell apart. Each person set off to find a new path.
A couple of years later Eleanor chanced upon Lena, a mutual acquaintance, in a café on Kings Road. They chatted, recalled the old days, and of course the conversation turned to Arthur.
Eleanor gave a bitter smile as she stared into her cappuccino.
Yes, were still on the same merrygoround. He comes running, then vanishes, then returns. Honestly, Im weary of it. Yet the moment anyone hints that its time to settle, that the years are ticking, he looks at me like a trapped beast and asks, Are we not miserable? He even gets jealous of his own shadow, afraid to lose me.
And you?
Id settled down now, wanted a child. But Im not alone, so Im not starting anything serious with anyone else.
So you love him? Lena asked gently.
Probably. Or perhaps its just habit, Eleanor sighed. Or a stubborn hope that soon, just a little more, hell awaken, become the man I imaginedmy man.
Eleanor, forgive me, but such people never change.
My mother says the same. Everyone asks why I cling to a man who doesnt know what he wants. I cant abandon him. Is this love?
Only you can decide, Lena shrugged. I never bought into the idea of free relationships. But a free soul must be free, as they say. Life is short, and you cant get those years back.
Months slipped by.
At last Eleanor found the courage to see a therapist. She spoke of her fear of loneliness, of burntout relationships, of unfulfilled hopes. After one session she returned home, brewed a pot of tea, and sat at the kitchen table, looking out the window. Her gaze fell on an old photo framea gift from Arthur.
It held a joint picture: they laughed, arms entwined against a sunset. Eleanor lifted the frame to dust it and accidentally dropped it. The glass shattered, and from the back fell a tiny envelope.
With trembling fingers she tore it open.
Inside lay a photograph. Not the staged, glossy one, but a candid shotEleanor asleep, wrapped in a blanket, a lamp casting a soft glow over her drafts. Arthur had captured her unnoticed. On the back he had scribbled in his own hand: The only place where the chaos inside me quiets. Forgive me for never saying this aloud. I have always been yours; I was merely afraid to admit it.
A week later, as Arthur habitually rang the doorbell with a bouquet of pink peonies, Eleanor opened it. Instead of a smile she handed him the old photograph in silence.
He glanced at the picture, then at Eleanor, and in his eyes, where usual mirth once lived, there was a quiet fatigue accumulated over years of flight.
Seems, he whispered, our expeditions are ending. Its time to come home.
And this time he crossed the threshold not as a fleeting guest, but as a man who had finally chosen to stay.
