Paul lifted the receiver at once, as if he had been waiting for her call.
Ellie? his voice held warmth and confidence. Have you decided?
Yes, Paul she whispered. Im in.
The silence that followed was like a deep breath after holding ones breath too long.
Excellent! he said, a smile evident in his tone. Ill send you the contract, the ticket and the address of the place youll stay. Dont worry, Ill sort everything.
Ellen set the phone down on the kitchen table. Her eyes drifted over the familiar surroundings the faded curtains, the cracked tiles, the kettle humming on the stove. In that instant she thought, perhaps this was the end of the life that had long stopped feeling like hers.
That evening they sat down to dinner.
Im leaving for London, she announced calmly.
A hush fell.
What? George stammered. Are you mad? Who will take you on there?
Paul. Its all official, with a contract.
Paul the one from the meeting? Are you sure you havent been misled? Hell fill your head with nonsense, use you and then throw you away. How old are you? Nearly fifty?
Martin interjected.
Mum, you cant seriously think like that. You have a family.
I have myself, she replied quietly. Or does that no longer count?
Her motherinlaw pursed her lips.
If you want to expose yourself, thats your choice. But dont expect anyone to be waiting for you.
That night Ellen didnt blink. She opened her suitcase and packed not so much clothing as memories photographs, a yellowed notebook of recipes, an old wooden spoon. When she finally fell asleep the suitcase was sealed.
George never appeared. Her children pretended to be asleep. Only the neighbour Mrs. Mary, the elderly lady next door called out from the garden fence.
Ellie, go on. Theres nothing worse than living a life that isnt yours.
London greeted her with a sunrise and the scent of fresh coffee. Paul stood at the airport, smiling, calm, as if hed always known she would arrive.
Welcome to your new life, Ellie, he said.
He led her to a modest eatery in the city centre. On the sign it read:
The River House English heart, spirited soul.
This is where well start, he said. Small, but cosy. Well cook not just food, but memories.
The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread. Ellen ran her fingers over the countertop. This is my place, she thought.
When she lit the stove and began the first trial soup, her hands trembled. When Paul tasted it, a spark of delight lit his eyes.
This is art. Brilliant! he exclaimed.
A month later the restaurant was packed. London families, diplomats, tourists all wanted to sample the dishes of the Englishwoman.
Ellen worked fourteen hours a day, yet when the lights dimmed each evening she felt a happiness she hadnt known in years.
Three months on she was running the kitchen, training staff, designing menus, inventing new recipes. Paul often stayed by her side until late.
Since you came, this place has a soul, he said one night.
Im just cooking, she smiled.
No, Ellie. You make people feel. Thats a rare gift.
And then she realised she had never truly been just a hostess.
One spring evening Paul arrived with a bouquet of lavender and an envelope.
This is for you, he said.
Inside was an airline ticket.
Paris. Gastronomic Forum. I want you to represent our restaurant.
Me? she gasped.
Of course. You are the face of The River House. Without you it wouldnt exist.
She departed. At the forum their restaurant won the award for Best Traditional Cuisine in Eastern Europe. When Ellen stepped onto the stage holding the plaque, tears filled her eyes. How easy it would have been to stay in that kitchen, ladle in hand, bruised and unnoticed, never knowing what it meant to truly live.
Months passed. The phone rang.
Ellie, hello it was George. Daniel is applying to university. We need money, can you help?
She answered calmly.
George, Im no longer anyones free servant.
Youve changed a lot, he said softly.
No, George. Ive simply become myself.
A week later Martin sent a message:
Mum, forgive us. I saw the interview about your restaurant. Im proud of you.
Ellen stared at the screen long, then typed back:
Thank you, son.
A year went by.
The restaurant moved into a larger building. Above the entrance a new sign read:
The House of Ellen George the flavour of the soul.
Paul stood beside her as they cut the red ribbon.
Congrats, boss lady, he laughed. Youre officially the owner now.
Owner she repeated, tasting the word. It sounds lovely.
This isnt the end, Ellie. Its only the beginning.
Late that night, after the lights were out, Ellen walked onto the quiet street. London lay hushed, stars reflected in the Thames. She inhaled deeply.
Once I was a shadow in my own home, she thought. Now I have a home where I shine.
She pulled out her phone. On the screen was an old photograph: her in the kitchen, apron tied, tired yet smiling.
She brushed the image gently and whispered:
Thank you for not giving up.
And she smiled, truly, for the first time in many, many years.
