Still, I wish the thought of a phone call from Greg could instil such excitement in me. But then he and I have been married for over twenty years. Isn’t it normal for some of the excitement to go? We’d be in a permanent state of exhaustion if love was still a frenzy after all that time. Am I right?
It’s just that now I feel like we’ve passed from excitement, to contentment, to rut. Quite deep rut. Borderline trench, if I’m truthful.
We got out of the habit of going out when the children were young because we didn’t have the money. Now we don’t have either the money or the inclination. Or one of us doesn’t. And I don’t think that it’s me. Is this grey monotony what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life? I have to do something or I might just go stark raving mad.
‘We’ve got a year,’ I say decisively. ‘Not quite a year before we’re forty. It’s not too late for us to turn things around.’
‘How are we going to do that?’ Lauren wants to know.
‘We have to decide exactly what we want first.’
‘That’s easy for me,’ Lauren says. ‘I want my man and,’ she turns to look at me, eyes misty, ‘maybe I want a baby too, Annie.’
‘A baby?’ This is the first time she’s admitted that to me. It could be the drink talking.
‘Christ,’ she says. ‘Let’s face it, I’m not getting any younger. It could be now or never. What if I leave it too late?’
I slip out of my bed and get in next to Lauren as we used to do as youngsters. We snuggle up together. It reminds me of when we were teenagers and I get a stab of regret that we don’t get the opportunity for all-night heart-to-hearts any more.
Sometimes I wish that we didn’t lead such separate lives, that we were still as close as we used to be. But the fact that Lauren is always hanging on, waiting for precious moments should Jude suddenly become available, means that she’s impossible to pin down. She only comes to our house at the weekend if Jude is going off somewhere else with his family as she always lives in hope that he might pop by on the off-chance. Not only is he messing up Lauren’s life, but I feel he’s coming between us and I resent that too.
‘I had no idea you felt like that,’ I say gently.
‘This isn’t an ideal situation,’ Lauren sniffs tearfully, ‘but I’m making the best of it. I love him, Annie. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. And that means that I want the things that other people have. It’s the simple things that I miss the most. I want him home every night so that I can make him dinner. I want to be able to wake up with him every day. And what if I do want his child before it’s too late for me? Is that so wrong of me?’
‘Oh, sweetie.’ I put my arms round my sister while she cries. At the moment, her wish-list seems like a tall order.
‘What about you?’ she asks, when her tears are spent. ‘What do you want?’
I lean back on Lauren’s pile of feather-soft pillows and sip at my champagne. ‘I want excitement,’ I say. ‘The kids are about to fly the nest and what will I be left with?’ I can’t even vocalise the fact that I find my husband of twenty years as dull as dishwater. He’s completely happy simply to be at home, watch television, go fishing. He seems to want nothing more than that. But I do.
‘These should be the best years of our lives, but we both seem to be making such a bollocks of it.’
‘Tell me about it,’ my sister agrees.
‘I want to grab life by the throat and shake it. I’ve never been anywhere, done anything. I want to do something different and worthwhile.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit with a defeated huff. ‘But this year, I promise myself, I’m damn well going to work on it.’
Chapter 4
Lauren and I are having bacon, eggs, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns and toast when Chelsea breezes in. It seems that our late-night turn-our-lives-round decision has given us both a great appetite – for life, of course, and a mega cooked breakfast. Or maybe we’re just going down the cholesterol route as a hangover cure. Whichever way, it feels good. Lauren’s normally in such a state of high anxiety that she hardly eats, whereas I always prefer the calorie route to comfort.
‘Today is the start of the rest of our lives, Lauren,’ I expound brightly. ‘And we’re going to go all out to get what we want from it.’
‘Don’t speak so loudly,’ Lauren complains, head in hands. She’s been glued to her mobile since she opened her eyes, but still no call from Lover Boy, so she’s irritable as well as hung over.
‘Sorry.’
‘We need more vitamin C,’ she concludes, and pours herself another glass of fresh orange juice. At five quid a throw. But, thankfully, Chelsea is picking up the breakfast bill too.
When our older sister sees us, she makes her way to our table and kisses each of us in turn on both cheeks. Chelsea doesn’t look like she’s had a night on the tiles – she looks like she’s had a full eight hours’ sleep and possibly an oxygen facial since we last saw her, so radiant is she. I’m glad that I put on some slap, a luxury that isn’t normally seen at breakfast – even though I did it because I thought Jamie Oliver might still be here.
Our sister puts a hand on each of our shoulders and squeezes affectionately. ‘I hope that you both had a great time last night.’
‘It was wonderful,’ I gush. ‘I live my life vicariously through you.’
I always look at my elder sister and envy her. She is cool, calm, collected in every circumstance. Her husband is obviously a sex god as she permanently carries the look of the orgasmically sated. Not for her the once-a-fortnight fumble that I’ve sadly grown accustomed to, I’ll bet.
My niece and nephew are model children and are already seasoned travellers. Sophia is six and is an accomplished pianist and a promising ballerina. Henry, at the age of four, is fluent in French, a star at his stage school (he is the cherubic smiling face of Wheety Bites in the television advert), plays the violin and is probably now a Black Belt in karate as well, as I haven’t had an update on their progress for the last couple of weeks. Some days, I even daydream that they’re my own children. But then Chelsea would never have anything that didn’t come up to scratch – particularly not her kids. Even the dog’s a naffing top-ranked pedigree.
Yes, our sister’s life is perfect in every way imaginable. I don’t know why, but Chelsea’s never had to try hard like Lauren and I have. And we try very hard not to resent her for it – but we do.
‘It was cool,’ Lauren mumbles, pushing in more toast.
‘Look what Rich bought me.’ Chelsea flashes a sparkling eternity ring encrusted with diamonds. The brightness of it makes us both wince.
‘Gorgeous,’ I say.
‘Humph,’ Lauren manages.
Chelsea looks across the room to where her adoring husband is reading The Times at their table, a contented smile on his face.
Lauren and I were both pretty rubbish at school, whereas Chelsea was always top of the class. She was the straight A student while we, The Terrible Twins, had a permanent appointment with detention. We were both high spirited and, as twins can, egged each other on. It wasn’t that we were naughty, it was that we were particularly bad at not getting caught.
Chelsea went on to university and did part-time modelling to pay her own way as she knew that Mum and Dad were strapped for cash – well, no one really ever plans for twins, do they? After Uni, Chelsea abandoned an academic career – which she would, no doubt, have been brilliant at – and took up modelling full-time. From then on we saw her only on high days and holidays as she flew in from one exotic location or another. She married Richard King at thirty, then after a year or so of the London scene, bought a sprawling country farm in Woburn, Bedfordshire, overlooking the ancestral seat of the Duke of Bedford and its famous deer park, where she and Richard raised pigs and chickens and did sporty things with horses that I don’t begin to understand. A few years later and her perfect two children were born to order and, of course, she regained her figure a
bout ten minutes later.
Now my sister spends a large portion of her year out in Dubai rubbing shoulders with the fabulously rich and famous. Not that you’d guess, to look at her. The desert sun hasn’t troubled her peaches and cream complexion. Chelsea’s time is filled both at home and away by organising charity lunches and doing good in various ways while looking effortlessly stunning. As well as their penthouse in Dubai and a country seat in middle England, my sister and her husband also have a six-bedroomed villa in Tuscany and a river-view apartment in Shad Thames for when they’re over-nighting in Town on Richard’s whistle-stop business trips. Unless, of course, they choose to take a suite in the Dorchester instead, as they did last night.
‘I can’t stay this morning,’ Chelsea says apologetically. ‘We’re lunching with some friends at the Oxo Tower.’
‘Nice,’ I comment. ‘I have to get back, anyway.’ I don’t, but I’m not sure what else to say.
‘Me too,’ Lauren chips in grumpily. I know for certain that the only appointment my twin has is with her treadmill at the gym.
‘But we must catch up soon,’ Chelsea is saying. Does a shadow cross her face? ‘We’re not going straight back to Dubai. We’ll be here for a little while.’
‘Wonderful,’ I say. ‘Are you staying in London?’
‘No. At the manor. We’ll be back sometime next week.’
‘Even better. We can spend some time together. Catch up.’
‘Yes, yes. We must,’ Cheslea says, but she’s clearly distracted. And I’m well aware that she has a dozen other guests to catch up with. ‘I love you both.’
I want to tell her about our revelation last night. That all the champagne we glugged was put to good and productive use and that it’s given us the momentum to pursue perfection and fulfilment in our lives, just as she has.
But I don’t say this as it seems somehow churlish after she’s been so generous to us and, if there’s one thing that Chelsea is aware of, it’s being slightly outside of our tight little unit of two. I wonder if she ever thinks about our lives? Does she know – would she care – that we find them wanting?
Standing up, I hug my older sister warmly. ‘I love you too.’
I want to tell her that we – The Terrible Twins – the ones who caused our parents to have a permanent roll to their eyes, plan to do something wonderful before we reach the impending milestone of forty. But, already, Chelsea is backing away, her hands slipping through mine.
She air-kisses Lauren and then turns back to her own table where Rich is beaming happily at her.
‘I want her life,’ Lauren mutters as she watches our sister go. ‘I so want her life.’
And, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, I can’t help but agree with her.
Chapter 5
Greg sat on the bank of the Grand Union Canal. They’d set up by the busy car park at the Three Locks pub because his friend, Ray, liked to be able to keep an eye on his Mercedes while he fished.
‘I’ve got two and a half grand’s worth of tackle in the boot,’ Ray boasted as he flicked a thumb towards the vehicle. ‘I don’t want any of those thieving bastards getting their hands on it. Only last week, Davey Coleman had his back window smashed and his stuff lifted.’
Greg liked it best when he could park up, walk for half an hour into the middle of nowhere and pick a patch where there was no one else around – no dog walkers, no hikers, no courting couples, no people at all, just him, the fish, the birds, the quiet slap of line on water. But he’d been fishing with Ray since they were both boys and his friend was more forceful, more particular in his fishing requirements. And it was true enough that you were more likely to get your gear robbed if you went down the solitary route.
Ray already had three rods set up and in the water, always in such a rush to get the first bite. Whenever they fished together, which was more often than not, his friend would arrive at the bank in an explosion of activity, eager to be filling his keepnet, and his gear would be set up in a flash amid a flurry of expletives.
For Greg, taking his time over setting up was half the pleasure, part of the relaxation, the meditation. Yesterday, he’d been along and had ground-baited this pitch, encouraging the fish to come and feed in preparation for their arrival today.
Preparation. That was what it was all about.
As he always did, this morning he’d headed off to the tackle shop, Fishy Business, with the Tupperware for maggots that he kept in the fridge – much to Annie’s disgust. Then he’d spent a pleasant half an hour selecting his bait for the day, listening to Owen Earl who ran the shop enthusiastically prattling on about the very latest rods and gadgets that Greg could never in his wildest dreams afford.
‘You want to get one of these, matey,’ Ray said as Greg set up his old camping stool. His friend patted his new reclining fishing chair with fully adjustable legs and an extra-padded seat. Ray had all the gadgets. He was probably Fishy Business’s best customer. If Ray ever stopped fishing, the tackle shop would go bust. Not only was there the two and a half grand’s worth in the boot of Ray’s car, but an equivalent sum still stored in his garage in specifically designed cupboards. Greg sighed to himself.
He’d always had to make do as money was invariably tight at home. Not that he resented his friend’s equipment – as it were – but that didn’t stop him from envying him from time to time.
Greg unpacked his box next, laying out his maggots, sweetcorn, bread that he’d filched from the bread bin and some luncheon meat in pleasing symmetry.
‘Come on, come on,’ Ray urged, peering into the murky water of the canal. ‘Bite, you bastards! We might have to move if we’re going to get lucky today, matey.’
They hadn’t been there twenty minutes yet.
This was a good stretch of water; there was a bridge over the nearby road and weeds on the far side of the bank. Good places for canal fish – carp, perch, tench and bream – to linger.
Greg slipped his keepnet into the water and then assembled his rod section by section – the same one that he’d had for the last twenty years. Annie had bought it for him as a wedding present and there might be bigger and better rods with fancier names and certainly fancier prices, but this one would do for him. It was like an old friend. His hands fitted it perfectly. He knew all its nuances and it had served him well all these years. Besides, he firmly believed that it wasn’t having state-of-the-art equipment that mattered, it was the skill of the fisherman, the patience, knowing the water, learning which bait suited which fish, years of accumulated knowledge and experience. That surely was worth more than having an ultra-light carbon-fibre rod and no patience?
‘Where’s the missus today?’ Ray wanted to know as he slapped at the water with his line again.
‘Party,’ Greg said, as he clipped on his reel and carefully threaded his line through the rings along the length of the rod. He was fishing a four-pound line today and probably a size 18 hook. Greg wondered what Ray was fishing. ‘Sister’s birthday.’
‘Not your thing?’
‘Nah.’ Greg shook his head. Annie liked that kind of thing, socialising, making inane talk to people you didn’t know and were never likely to meet again. What was the point in that? ‘You know me.’
She was better going on her own. All Chelsea’s friends were posh types, bankers, minor celebrities. Annie loved all that. He couldn’t stand it – they were all so false. Annie moaned at him, but then he only annoyed his wife when he went along and then didn’t know what to say to anyone.
Similarly, Annie never came fishing with him. She used to, once upon a time. He’d fallen in love with her while he was fishing. Annie used to come along regularly then. She couldn’t stand to be away from him for five minutes and she’d spend all day happily lying on the bank beside him just to be near him. He liked that, the quiet moments they’d shared.
As the years passed, his wife had come along less. There was always something to do at home, she said. But occasionally, he’d persuade her. Then he??
?d fish and she’d sit with a book and a bottle of wine. He thought it was a wonderful way to pass time. Annie was, invariably, bored out of her skull after a couple of hours. And, in recent years, she hadn’t come along with him at all. Now she preferred spending time with her twin sister when he was out. But it was good for a couple to have separate interests, wasn’t it?
Greg hoped that his wife had enjoyed herself at the party and he was looking forward to her coming home today. He might not want to go with her, but he had to admit that he didn’t like it when she wasn’t there either.
‘She’s a good woman, that one,’ Ray said sagely. ‘Fine, fine woman.’
He might have the upper hand when it came to fishing skill, Greg thought, but Ray knew an awful lot more about women than Greg ever would.
‘Yeah,’ Greg said with a contented smile. He couldn’t agree more.
Chapter 6
Lauren comes to Euston station with me. She clings on to me before I head off for my train. ‘You’ll be okay,’ I reassure her, patting her back. ‘We both will.’
‘Love you,’ she says. ‘I’ll come up next week – if Jude’s not around.’ He still hasn’t called and one of her fingernails has been chewed ragged because of it.
‘Don’t you dare forget that this year we’re going all out for it.’ I clench my fist in determination.
‘You too.’
Something is niggling at me. ‘I wonder why Chelsea’s back so unexpectedly? She never said she was staying on after the party in her emails, did she?’
Lauren shrugs.
‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong?’
My sister harrumphs. ‘In Chelsea’s life? No.’
She’s probably right. Though I make a mental note to phone my big sister early next week.
Lauren and I hug again and I rush off for my train before I miss it. The carriage is quiet at this time on a Sunday and I flop down into a window seat, ready to be jogged back to my home in Milton Keynes.