The meeting could have been the opening line of a simple romance: one flight, two seats side by side, one destinationLondon. He was Arthur Crane, a virtuoso nature photographer whose life was a string of expeditions and gallery openings. She was Eleanor Finch, an architect building not only structures but also a career with meticulous precision.
Both were independent, selfassured, each bearing the scars of a divorce that had taught them to cherish personal space.
The idea sparked on its own, like a flash in a dark room: why not keep the relationship light, free of obligations and domestic chores?
Nobody believed it would last, especially Arthurs studio mates. In the backroom they kept an unofficial wagerhow long would the new fling of the elusive Arthur endure?
Usually the count ran into months.
Women were often enchanted by Arthur: handsome, creative, never dull, never selfish. But his colleagues also knew the other side of the genius artist. He lived at the whim of inspiration, was intolerable in daily life, unpredictable in reaction, and liked his drinks. Yet whenever he announced he had found love, the room sighed with relief. A lovestruck Arthur worked like a man possessed; his photographs pulsed with passion and life.
And then he finally met Eleanor, his true muse. A woman who asked for nothing more than joy from their encounters. Lets try it without that cursed domesticity, without the where have you been? and why didnt you call? Arthur suggested. Life is hard enough as it is.
Eleanor smiled and agreed. First, she was sure it would be a brief affair; second, after a painful divorce she had no desire to settle down forever. In short, their needs matched.
Arthur could spend a week living in her cosy, perfectly arranged flat, then disappear for months into his cluttered studio, walls lined with gear and reels of negative. They flew together to Bath, then went weeks without seeing each other. They spent three days in a country house and then three weeks apart.
A year later Eleanor became the centre of his creative gatherings.
Dreams do come true, she told her friends over martinis, her eyes bright. As a child I devoured books about Arctic explorersstrong, independent, forever on the move. My Arthur is like a polar explorer. He disappears on an expedition behind the lens, then returns with flowers and burning eyes.
Arthur was happy.
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 and cant form a sentence. Other times I just need someone to listen and treat me like a child. Most of the time I need a week alone. She gets that. If we lived together wed drive each other round the bend in a year. But as it is I always come to her with flowers and a smile, as if on a date.
He allowed himself fleeting side flirtations, but always returned to Eleanor. It was their karmic link, something sturdier than a dull marriage. From the outside Eleanor always seemed perfectly content.
Five years passed. Then the gallery Arthur worked closely with shut its doors, his magazine faced a crisis, and the old creative collective gradually fell apart. Each went off to find a new path.
A couple of years later Eleanor bumped into Margaret Clarke, a mutual acquaintance from those days, in a coffee shop. They talked, recalled the past, and inevitably the conversation turned to Arthur.
Eleanor gave a bitter smile, staring into her cappuccino.
Yes, were still on the same merrygoround. He comes running, then vanishes, then returns. Honestly Im weary of it. The moment we hint its time to settle, years slip by, and he looks at me like a cornered animal and asks, Are we not happy? Hes jealous of his own shadow and fears losing me.
Do you?
Yes, Id like to live together, maybe have a child. But it feels like Im doing it alone, so Im not starting anything serious with anyone else.
Then you love him? Margaret asked gently.
Probably. Or its just habit, Eleanor sighed. Or a stubborn hope that one day hell wake up, become the man I imagined, my man.
Eleanor, sorry, but people like that dont change.
My mother says the same. Everyone asks why I cling to a man who doesnt know what he wants. I cant throw him away. Is this love?
Youre the judge, Margaret shrugged. I never believed in socalled free relationships. But a free soul is a free soul, as they say. Life is short, and you cant get those years back.
***
A few more months slipped by.
Eleanor finally gathered the courage to see a therapist. She spoke of the fear of loneliness, of burntout relationships, of unfulfilled hopes. After a session she returned home, brewed tea, and sat at the kitchen table looking out the window. Her gaze fell on an old picture framea gift from Arthur.
It held a shared photograph: the two of them laughing, embraced against a sunset. Eleanor lifted the frame to dust it, and it slipped from her hands. Glass shattered, and a tiny envelope fell from the back.
Trembling, she tore it open.
Inside lay a photographnot the staged, perfect shot, but a candid one: she asleep, swaddled in a blanket, a lamp glowing over a spread of blueprints. Arthur had taken it while she slept. On the back he had scrawled, in his own hand, The only place where the chaos inside me quiets. Sorry I never had the courage to say it aloud. I have always been yours; I was just afraid to admit it.
A week later, as Arthur knocked on her door with a bouquet of peonies, Eleanor opened it. Instead of a smile she silently handed him the old photograph.
He looked at the picture, then at Eleanor, and in his eyes, where the usual sparkle had lived, there was a quiet weariness earned by years of running away.
It seems, Arthur whispered, our expeditions are ending. Its time to come home.
And this time he crossed the threshold not as a guest, but as a man who had finally decided to stay.
