been scuba-diving weekends. Connie wondered whether she’d made a mistake, learning to dive in rugged Donegal where the icy grip of the Atlantic meant that, once you got out of the water, you put on your heaviest jumper, something thermal and very possibly a woollen hat to get the heat back into your body. Nobody had ever fallen in love with a woman across a crowded pub when that woman had cheeks puce from exposure and dressed like she’d just come in from a polar expedition.
Connie was too sturdy to look good in polar outfits. She was at her best in nicely slimming dark denim jeans with a silky top in indigo or sea blue to bring out the pale blue of her eyes, and with her cloudy dark hair loose around her face.
The art class she’d tried hadn’t been successful either. There were far more women at it than men, and at least three-quarters of the men were there because their heart attack rehab therapists had suggested watercolour painting as an ideal way to enjoy a less stressful existence.
Against her better judgement, she’d gone on a yoga weekend. The men there were amazing: so flexible they could tuck their feet behind their ears, should the occasion demand it. But it seemed as if worshipping at the altar of Hatha-toned bodies turned them off anyone with a slight overspill on the waistband of their jeans.
‘I don’t think I’m too fat,’ Connie had grumbled to her oldest friend, Gaynor, on the phone once she got back from Hatha Heaven. ‘But I felt it there. At least when I’m doing the stand-like-a-tree pose, my upper thighs are nice and chunky, so my other foot has something to wedge itself into. Skinny people can’t do that, can they?’
Gaynor was her sensible married friend. Gaynor never talked on the phone after seven at night, which was when Connie liked to phone people, as Gaynor was doing the endless things related to getting the children to bed. Sometimes, Connie felt tired just talking to Gaynor about the whole nighttime routine.
‘When I’ve got Niamh in bed, she keeps getting out and wanting a drink or a wee, and even though Charlie’s allowed to go later, it takes so long for him to brush his teeth, and by then, Josie wants to talk to me. She likes talking just before she goes to sleep, and now she’s in secondary, she needs to talk. Well, they do, don’t they?’
Connie sometimes found it hard to sort herself out in the evening. How on earth did Gaynor manage? It was like running a huge corporation and making sure everyone in it had clean teeth, clean pyjamas, the correct teddies and all their emotional needs sorted.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said.
‘Nonsense,’ said Gaynor briskly. ‘You’d be able to, if you had to.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
It was easier to say that. Easier than picturing herself with a child of her own. Her own child to hold and love forever. No, it was too painful to imagine that, because she wasn’t going to get it. So she cut off all thoughts of children.
She worked with kids every day, but they were teenagers and if anything was destined to put a person off the concept of motherhood, it was facing thirty bored teenage girls five times a day in St Matilda’s.
Gaynor had never tried to set Connie up with men.
‘She’s got too much sense,’ said Nicky, Connie’s younger sister. ‘Blind dates are so insulting. It’s like saying you can’t find a man on your own and a third party has to step in to fix you up.’
Connie was nine years older than Nicky, and occasionally it seemed that those nine years were an enormous chasm.
She had never felt insulted by people trying to find a Mr Right for her. When the man in question was a bit odd, she did wonder if her friends knew her at all, but she appreciated that they were doing their best.
What she’d found mildly insulting was when they stopped trying to set her up. When the blind dates dried up; when she was asked only to girls’ nights out because the husbands and boyfriends were
Connie was too sturdy to look good in polar outfits. She was at her best in nicely slimming dark denim jeans with a silky top in indigo or sea blue to bring out the pale blue of her eyes, and with her cloudy dark hair loose around her face.
The art class she’d tried hadn’t been successful either. There were far more women at it than men, and at least three-quarters of the men were there because their heart attack rehab therapists had suggested watercolour painting as an ideal way to enjoy a less stressful existence.
Against her better judgement, she’d gone on a yoga weekend. The men there were amazing: so flexible they could tuck their feet behind their ears, should the occasion demand it. But it seemed as if worshipping at the altar of Hatha-toned bodies turned them off anyone with a slight overspill on the waistband of their jeans.
‘I don’t think I’m too fat,’ Connie had grumbled to her oldest friend, Gaynor, on the phone once she got back from Hatha Heaven. ‘But I felt it there. At least when I’m doing the stand-like-a-tree pose, my upper thighs are nice and chunky, so my other foot has something to wedge itself into. Skinny people can’t do that, can they?’
Gaynor was her sensible married friend. Gaynor never talked on the phone after seven at night, which was when Connie liked to phone people, as Gaynor was doing the endless things related to getting the children to bed. Sometimes, Connie felt tired just talking to Gaynor about the whole nighttime routine.
‘When I’ve got Niamh in bed, she keeps getting out and wanting a drink or a wee, and even though Charlie’s allowed to go later, it takes so long for him to brush his teeth, and by then, Josie wants to talk to me. She likes talking just before she goes to sleep, and now she’s in secondary, she needs to talk. Well, they do, don’t they?’
Connie sometimes found it hard to sort herself out in the evening. How on earth did Gaynor manage? It was like running a huge corporation and making sure everyone in it had clean teeth, clean pyjamas, the correct teddies and all their emotional needs sorted.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she said.
‘Nonsense,’ said Gaynor briskly. ‘You’d be able to, if you had to.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
It was easier to say that. Easier than picturing herself with a child of her own. Her own child to hold and love forever. No, it was too painful to imagine that, because she wasn’t going to get it. So she cut off all thoughts of children.
She worked with kids every day, but they were teenagers and if anything was destined to put a person off the concept of motherhood, it was facing thirty bored teenage girls five times a day in St Matilda’s.
Gaynor had never tried to set Connie up with men.
‘She’s got too much sense,’ said Nicky, Connie’s younger sister. ‘Blind dates are so insulting. It’s like saying you can’t find a man on your own and a third party has to step in to fix you up.’
Connie was nine years older than Nicky, and occasionally it seemed that those nine years were an enormous chasm.
She had never felt insulted by people trying to find a Mr Right for her. When the man in question was a bit odd, she did wonder if her friends knew her at all, but she appreciated that they were doing their best.
What she’d found mildly insulting was when they stopped trying to set her up. When the blind dates dried up; when she was asked only to girls’ nights out because the husbands and boyfriends were
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