Love is a lie. This much I know. From my years of cowering and wandering these parts of London, I can say that true men do not exist. They are but a figment of imagination, a fairytale we wish were real. But real life, I regret, does not have princes. No perfect stranger to sweep you off your feet, no mystery man to ride into the sunset with.
Though we want to believe that it’s real, it’s not.
I wish my mother had told me this before cholera had taken her life at the young age of 24. This left me as a 7 year old girl with a single father and no insight of my future. Not like she’d tell me such brutal truths anyway. Even if she were alive. I saw the way mother had looked at my father, she believed that she loved him and that he returned such feelings. She probably believed it until her last dying, choking breath. She had no idea that father had a mistress, and she’d certainly never know that they married only weeks after her death.
It was never love. It was betrayal. At least that’s how I see it now.
I hadn’t always been such the pessimistic type, I used to thrive on happiness and light. Love was not always a sinking ship, it was once a beautiful eagle that constantly soared through my mind. I once believed that I had truly felt it. I once believed that I was in love.
In the year of 1863, I moved out of my father’s house and moved states to pursue my own career. I longed to be an author, write great things, and become the new Emily Jane Bronte. My father did not encourage me on my dream; he believed women were to wed and make children. But even despite his own standings, he allowed his wife to prod him into giving me money for support. She may have been a whore, but she was always a lovely woman. If she hadn’t been his mistress beforehand, if she hadn’t betrayed my mother, then maybe I’d have given her more slack.
I moved into my Dover loft in the late afternoon, being wary of the eyes of my newfound neighbors. I’d imagine it to be startling to see a young woman moving in alone next door. After all, no respectable 21-year-old woman was fit to live alone. They either had to live with their family or their husband. I suppose that made me unordinary. Perhaps unique to the right person. To others, a waste of space.
I ignored the stares as I hauled the last box up the steps, trying to not trip over the front of my evening dress. I had always been the clumsy one, however. Tripping over the fabric on the last step, I watched in horror as the box that handled my type writer tumbled to the ground. I merely stared in horror as the box lay on it’s side next o my front door. My mother had given it to me as a gift on the day of my 5th birthday. She claimed that it was so I’d stop writing stories with a feather and using up our ink.
“Excuse me, Ma’am?”
I remember in this moment, I found the new voice enchanting. I was not expecting anyone to speak to me, especially not a man.
I turned into a sitting position to view the onlooker. My grey eyes grazed over his form on the bottom step, his hand resting on the wooden banister that led to my new home. The man had short ginger hair that was hidden under a black top hat, matching the seemingly worn black suit that he had on. His light green eyes stared at me in a worried manner. Scarlet was no doubt covering my cheeks.
“I’m sorry to startle, I just couldn’t help but see you in distress.” The man took another step towards me.
I stared at him before quickly standing up, dusting off my dress. Dirt seemed to stick to the black fabric. “I’m quite alright. It’s nothing I can’t handle by myself.”
He chuckled at my remark. “Now I do not doubt that.” His eyes wandered to the box lying on its side. “Oh my. That seems rather important.”
Without so much as asking another question, he made his way up the steps and picked up the box. The light from the sunset outlined his fare features as he sifted through the box. He looked angelic- but that didn’t give him permission to go through my belongings.
“Hey! Quit that!” I quickly nabbed the box from him before giving him a hard stare. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m simply checking the damages, which don’t seem to be a lot,” he stated. “But I would recommend getting it checked out, some of the keys are bent and the cartridge has fallen off.”
I took a peak into the box before looking back at him. “I’ll look into it.”
A small smirk graced his face before he strut his hand forward to shake. “I’m Wilber.”
I ignored his hand (holding a box, how was I to shake it anyway?). “Penelope.”
Noticing my stance, he let his hand drop. “Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mrs. Penelope.”
I chuckled at the use of ‘misses’. Wilber gave me a perplexed look which pushed me to laugh more. “I’m sorry. It’s just; I’m no misses, Sir Wilber. I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“How fortunate for me, then.”
I blushed once again at his forwardness. I looked down at my type writer before redirecting the conversation. “Would you mind finding me a place where I can repair my writer?”
Wilber only nodded and walked toward me, pointing over my shoulder. I turned to see he had pointed to a shop on a street corner only a block away. “That shop right there should be able to help. Mention my name and they should be able to fix you right up.”
Seeing the sun finally begin to completely disappear, people came around to light the street lamps. I hadn’t realized I was standing there so long.
I turned to thank Wilber only to have him much closer than he was a moment before. I jumped back a step, clutching the box closer to me. His lips went up at my reaction.
“Thank you, Sir Wilber.”
“Anything for a beautiful woman as yourself.”
He made no stop to see my reaction. He seemed to hop down the stairs before turning to smile at me. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, Ms. Penelope.”
I didn’t have time to respond before he made his way down the candle lit street. Catching myself staring, I turned and disappeared into my new home.
~~~~~~~~
I had willed myself to wait days before going to repair my writer. Though I had moved to Dover to become a writer, I couldn’t bring myself to leave my home and chance seeing Wilber. I wouldn’t know what to say and I refused to look like a fool in front of the man.
Though I tried many times to rid them, I couldn’t quite shake thoughts of the ginger from my mind. He had welcomed me to the new neighborhood, even shown an interest in me. How exactly do you forget someone so memorable?
Finally, when my fast paced mind couldn’t take it anymore, I began to get ready to leave. I pulled on my long coat over my beige day dress and grabbed my writer before heading to the corner shop. People stared at me as I walked. I couldn’t blame them as I didn’t even leave for food the past few days. I had been living off of soup made from whatever I could find.
I entered the small shop and was instantly hit by a smoky stench. Nearly everyone in the small store had a cigar in their mouth, even the workers. Though the stench repulsed me, I continued through the clouds and sat my writer on the counter. The man behind the register watched me with a lazy stare before moving to the box.
“What‘s that?” he asked, eyeing it cautiously.
I turned it so the front faced him. “It’s a typewriter. A man named Wilber told me to come here to fix it. It took quite a nasty fall.” I pushed the overly bent keys to showcase my point.
He slyly smirked before turning to a stair case that must’ve led to the upstairs loft. “Wilber! You got yourself a customer!”
Footsteps pounded and before I could register what the man said, Wilber himself came from the stairwell. His face lit up at the sight of me standing flushed at the counter. “Ms. Penelope! I was wondering when you’d show yourself!”
“Well, I’m here now.” I eyed him as he hopped behind the counter, making the other man leave. “I wasn’t aware that you were a worker, Sir Wilber.”
He sighed and waved away my words. “Enough with this ‘Sir’ business. You’ve seen my place of work, Ms. Penelope, and it certainly don’t give me the class of ‘Sir’.”
“Okay,” I said. “Wilber, then.”
Grinning, he examined my writer before taking it and began to make his way up the stairwell. “Give me thirty minutes, Ms. Penelope. This won’t take but a bit.”
I went to ask him what he suppose I’d do in such a shop for that time, but he was already gone. I sighed and smiled as the man originally behind the counter brought me a stool. He also offered a cigar, but I was quite quick to decline. I’d simply sit and wait for my writer.
Wilber had lied to me. He didn’t return to the main shop until hours later, a quarter until closing. I still sat on the same stool with the same man behind the counter, making hungry eyes at me. With my hat and coat removed while also still sitting in my day dress, I might as well have been exposed. Not to mention the smoke smell had to have been engrained into my clothes and skin by now. To say the least, I was irritable.
As soon as Wilber’s feet touched the first floor, I shot from my stool. “Who the hell do you think you are, making me wait hours on end? That’s of inconvenience to me, not to mention rude!”
Wilber only smiled at me before setting the typewriter on the counter. And I was speechless. It was beautiful, nicer than before I even dropped it. He had repaired the cartridge and the keys, but also done extra work, repainted the red exterior and shined the metal until it was spotless. He had made it like new.
“Oh lord,” I mumbled. “Sir Wil- I mean, Wilber, how did you do this? It’s absolutely gorgeous; you did much more than asked.”
“I wanted to make it as beautiful as the woman that owned it. But alas, even in its pristine state, it doesn’t compare.”
I turned scarlet at the comment and giggled despite myself. “Oh boy.”
“’Oh boy’ indeed,” the man behind the counter agreed.
Wilber ignored his coworker and leaned on the counter. “I get out in ten minutes. What do you say to me taking you to dinner?”
“Oh boy,” the man repeated, going around the shop to blow out candles.
Hair fell in my face as I chuckled at the coworker’s reaction. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time Wilber had tried such lines. But it was the first time for me regardless and I enjoyed the attention. “I say that sounds lovely.”
He reached forward and pushed my blonde hair behind my ear. “Lovely.”
~~~~~~~~
Wilber and I had been seeing each other for months after that night. We had dinner dates, went to shows, and he had even read some of my writing. I always felt the same feeling of warmth whenever I was around him and weeks after it had occurred to me, I realized the feeling was love. I had fallen in love with Wilber.
Then it happened.
A late winter afternoon, I stood in the kitchen preparing a meal for later that night. Wilber would soon arrive and I had just started on the potato and carrot stew. Steam began to rise from the pot as I stared out the front window of my loft. Realizing I saw a man outside though, I nearly had a heart attack.
I shut off the stove top before rushing to open the front door. It was snowing heavily outside and I felt frozen, but I had to see who it was. Suddenly I was rushed with relief when I saw that it was Wilber. He was in the same suit and top hat that he was the day we met.
“Wilber, why are you just standing there? You’ll catch a cold! Come in, I’ll feed you stew.”
Wilber didn’t budge an inch, only continued to stare at my window. Hugging myself, I hurried down the steps towards him. “Wilber, what’s the matter? Come inside-“
“I’m moving soon, Penny.”
I stared in shock. Never before had he mentioned even the idea of moving. “What do you mean?”
“In only a few days’ time, I’m moving to New York in America. It’s supposed to be nice there, people go for a better life.” His eyes hadn’t moved from the window.
My bottom lip began to tremble at the idea and I continued to stare at him. “What’s wrong with your life here? Am I not good enough reason to stay?”
Finally looking away from the window, he stared down at the snowy ground. “It’s not my choice, Penny.”
“That’s not true, of course you have a choice! You can stay, just stay here with me!”
“Be quiet, Penny!” His voice boomed. “I have no control. My wife has already made plans.”
The statement threw us into a tense silence. His wife had made plans.
“You have a wife.” It made sense. He had always cut our dates short and had been very brief on more personal subjects. It only made sense that he had a secret. I just hadn’t expected one so serious. “And what of children, do you have any of those?”
More silence.
“A little girl, she just recently turned 3.”
Rage began to fill me. A wife was one thing, but now children? A girl no less. This girl had quite possibly been having the life that I had endured at that age. She might’ve even known about her father’s affair with me. I hoped to God not. Wilber had made me the other woman and I had let him.
“So all those times you proclaimed you loved me, was it lies?”
“Penny, you must understand, I needed a break from my life- “
“And I was just the perfect distraction? I’m no toy, Wilber. And I will not be a side girl!” I began to stomp up the front steps stopping, I quickly turned. “And get the hell away from my house.”
I remember crying for hours that night, wallowing in the loss of something that was never truly mine. He had never loved me whereas I had grown too attached.
Love is a lie. This much I know. From my years of cowering and wandering these parts of London, I can say that true men do not exist.
There is no man to come out of the blue and repair broken things such as your heart. That certainly hadn’t happened for me. There is no perfect man. There is no Wilber.