A/N: I kept thinking about Elenore and how I actually felt sorry for her because she was too blonde to see where she'd gone wrong, and I thought someone should write a fic about it. Then I left it for a few months and this morning I thought, well, if you don't, no-one else will. It is, therefore, not brilliant. Feel free to write a better one if you think you can, I'd applaud you. Anyway enjoy...

-for you

Elenore Swafford sat forlornly in the park, watching the shadows of the trees blowing in the wind. Her little toddler wandered about, chasing pigeons and pulling up grass. She watched him, outwardly attentive but really not paying him any attention at all. A shock of blond hair peeked out from under his bright green beanie, belying the father who neither knew of nor cared about him.

It had been two and a half years since she'd left Radio Rock in disgrace and disappointment. It had never occurred to her that her 'bright idea' would not have appeared so bright to everyone else. That was the biggest problem, she supposed; the idea that had seemed so brilliant at the time had not gone nearly as planned. Gavin had said that it was a 'mad idea'. In hindsight she thought that might have been meant to discourage her.

They'd met in a pub, and she'd been so drunk already that she didn't realize until she woke up beside him how gorgeous he really was. Before that second day was out she would have done anything for him; he'd made her feel so special, unique. He'd wanted her, and she'd wanted him more than anyone else she'd ever met. She already felt they were soulmates, and he'd said he thought so too. It had seemed so perfect, a fairytale she'd seen on the picture screen at the movies.

She knew he was a DJ, a pirate, a hooligan; but she'd thought that in time, her own womanly influence could tame the parts of him that she didn't find more sexy than she'd ever found any man before. So when he said they couldn't be together, she'd disbelieved that, too. Of course they could be together if they both wanted it enough. And she'd wanted it more than anything in the whole world.

And there was a way. She knew it could be done the minute she saw Simon Swafford sitting by himself in that same pub a week later, where she'd gone every night since Gavin had left to drown her sorrows. Simon was sweet and funny, but he didn't look like much and under normal circumstances she knew she'd never have given him a second glance. She felt bad about that now, bad about everything about Simon.

She wondered sometimes, when she was alone at night while her baby woke up and cried, whether she hadn't made the wrong decision. She'd known it hadn't been the right one as the tears slipped from her eyes on the boat-ride back. How could it have gone so wrong? She'd had her whole future planned out in front of her, a life with Gavin, married to some guy she'd never need to remember the name of, surrounded in bliss and wild pop music.

She tried to blame Gavin, but never believed it. He hadn't asked her to marry Simon; that had been her idea. She tried to blame Simon, but only for a heartbeat. He had no idea; he'd loved her, properly, and been prepared to marry her to prove it. Really, when she thought about it in the most blatant form of honesty and self-appraisal, she had no-one to blame but herself. She didn't even try to tell herself she hadn't always been like that; she knew that even before she'd met Gavin she'd been vapid as a summer butterfly.

And still, she saw her life now as Gavin's fault. His fault for not caring; the 'obvious reasons' for which he would not marry her were insignificant, really. Simon had showed her that. Which was why, when her baby was born a boy nine months later with a tuft of dirty-blonde hair on his tiny head, she decided to call it Simon.

In memory of a man who loved her, and whose heart she had broken; and in doing so, had broken her own.