at football matches: that was upsetting.
Am I now officially too old to date? she wondered. But she couldn’t share this with Nicky.
Even though the sisters had the same parents, shared an apartment in Golden Square, and spent a lot of time together, Connie had come to realise that they were from different generations. Nicky glowed with confidence, enthusiasm and a firm belief that, if she wanted something badly enough, she’d get it. Connie, teetering at the sharp end of her thirties, knew from painful experience that wanting something wasn’t enough. Life didn’t give you what you wanted all the time.
When she’d been Nicky’s age, she’d been engaged to Keith, sure that life would bring her marriage, children and happiness. And then Keith had told that he loved her ‘but not like that. Not in love love, if you know what I mean…’
Connie hadn’t, but Keith wasn’t asking her opinion. He was telling her.
‘We’re like brother and sister now,’ he’d gone on. ‘You’re so funny, Connie, and we have great fun, but that’s not enough.’
He’d gone off, dated many women, and was now, apparently – Connie still had a few spies in the Keith camp – seeing a twenty-four-year-old Texan philosophy student and telling people he wanted to marry her.
It was simple. There weren’t enough men to go around, and the ones that were around could afford to be choosy and wait till they were forty-five, then marry child brides.
Connie had somehow missed her chance.
She wasn’t thinking of missed chances this icy Thursday morning in January as she stood under the shower in Apartment 2B in 14 Golden Square, fiddling with the shower controls. She was cross that the shower had broken again and wondering where she had put the attachment for the bath taps, because she couldn’t go to work without a shower, and she wouldn’t have time for a bath. Baths were a nighttime activity, when there was time to luxuriate and when Nicky was out with Freddie, her boyfriend. Freddie was in the apartment so often, he almost lived there and Connie had too often wandered out of the bathroom with a towel half round her, only to find Freddie had miraculously appeared and was sprawled all over the couch watching Sky Sports.
Not that Freddie was the lascivious sort. On the contrary, he treated Connie like a sweet elderly lady and would have had to be given CPR if anyone had suggested otherwise, towel or no towel.
‘Nicky!’ she yelled now, giving up and stepping out of the bath. She wrenched open the cupboard under the hand basin and an avalanche of shampoo, fake tan and body lotion bottles fell across her feet. ‘Have you seen the hose attachment for the taps? The shower’s broken again.’
‘What? No,’ yelled Nicky from her bedroom.
Nicky had been out at a book launch the night before and was going into work late. There were times when Connie envied her sister her fabulous job and this was one of them. In St Matilda’s, even if you’d been in the school till midnight every night for a whole week during the end-of-term run of a play – Lady Windermere’s Fan last year – there was no option for arriving later in the morning to make up for it. Classes started at ten to nine and both pupils and teaching staff were in trouble if they were late. Whereas at Peony Publishing, where Nicky was an assistant editor, when there was a book launch the night before, some laxity was given with regards to office hours the following morning.
Connie pulled her fleecy pyjamas back on and marched into the kitchen to begin rummaging through the big cupboard where the vacuum cleaner, the ironing board and the mop lived. It was crammed with junk and many weekends started with Connie deciding that this was the one where she’d tidy it out. Sadly, this never happened. The lure of buying the Saturday papers and enjoying them in Titania’s Palace with a latte and a couple of cupcakes always won out.
‘Damn, blast and double blast!’ Connie
Am I now officially too old to date? she wondered. But she couldn’t share this with Nicky.
Even though the sisters had the same parents, shared an apartment in Golden Square, and spent a lot of time together, Connie had come to realise that they were from different generations. Nicky glowed with confidence, enthusiasm and a firm belief that, if she wanted something badly enough, she’d get it. Connie, teetering at the sharp end of her thirties, knew from painful experience that wanting something wasn’t enough. Life didn’t give you what you wanted all the time.
When she’d been Nicky’s age, she’d been engaged to Keith, sure that life would bring her marriage, children and happiness. And then Keith had told that he loved her ‘but not like that. Not in love love, if you know what I mean…’
Connie hadn’t, but Keith wasn’t asking her opinion. He was telling her.
‘We’re like brother and sister now,’ he’d gone on. ‘You’re so funny, Connie, and we have great fun, but that’s not enough.’
He’d gone off, dated many women, and was now, apparently – Connie still had a few spies in the Keith camp – seeing a twenty-four-year-old Texan philosophy student and telling people he wanted to marry her.
It was simple. There weren’t enough men to go around, and the ones that were around could afford to be choosy and wait till they were forty-five, then marry child brides.
Connie had somehow missed her chance.
She wasn’t thinking of missed chances this icy Thursday morning in January as she stood under the shower in Apartment 2B in 14 Golden Square, fiddling with the shower controls. She was cross that the shower had broken again and wondering where she had put the attachment for the bath taps, because she couldn’t go to work without a shower, and she wouldn’t have time for a bath. Baths were a nighttime activity, when there was time to luxuriate and when Nicky was out with Freddie, her boyfriend. Freddie was in the apartment so often, he almost lived there and Connie had too often wandered out of the bathroom with a towel half round her, only to find Freddie had miraculously appeared and was sprawled all over the couch watching Sky Sports.
Not that Freddie was the lascivious sort. On the contrary, he treated Connie like a sweet elderly lady and would have had to be given CPR if anyone had suggested otherwise, towel or no towel.
‘Nicky!’ she yelled now, giving up and stepping out of the bath. She wrenched open the cupboard under the hand basin and an avalanche of shampoo, fake tan and body lotion bottles fell across her feet. ‘Have you seen the hose attachment for the taps? The shower’s broken again.’
‘What? No,’ yelled Nicky from her bedroom.
Nicky had been out at a book launch the night before and was going into work late. There were times when Connie envied her sister her fabulous job and this was one of them. In St Matilda’s, even if you’d been in the school till midnight every night for a whole week during the end-of-term run of a play – Lady Windermere’s Fan last year – there was no option for arriving later in the morning to make up for it. Classes started at ten to nine and both pupils and teaching staff were in trouble if they were late. Whereas at Peony Publishing, where Nicky was an assistant editor, when there was a book launch the night before, some laxity was given with regards to office hours the following morning.
Connie pulled her fleecy pyjamas back on and marched into the kitchen to begin rummaging through the big cupboard where the vacuum cleaner, the ironing board and the mop lived. It was crammed with junk and many weekends started with Connie deciding that this was the one where she’d tidy it out. Sadly, this never happened. The lure of buying the Saturday papers and enjoying them in Titania’s Palace with a latte and a couple of cupcakes always won out.
‘Damn, blast and double blast!’ Connie
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