Parallel Life by Ruth Hamilton

returned to her task.
    â€˜She misses nothing,’ smiled Hermione. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling out towards the copse as soon as possible.’
    â€˜Ben will have to be more self-reliant with me out of the house.’
    Woebee’s head made another brief appearance. ‘You’ll still be on top of him, but. You’d be better off taking one of those departments in Eagley Mills or such.’
    â€˜Apartments,’ snapped Hermione with feigned annoyance. ‘She’ll do as she chooses, Eileen. Get the cupboards finished. It’s time you did something to justify your existence.’
    It was settled. Harrie was to have a posh shed in the grounds, and all of them would wait and watch. It reminded Harrie of a set of books she had read in childhood. What Katie Did Next would become What Ben Did Next . And the grandfather clock was waiting, too.

Three
    Must get a new car soon. A new car is such a source of pleasure, especially for the first few weeks: clean and fresh, new number plate, sense of achievement. An automatic, I think. The roads are so busy now that gear-changing, especially during rush hour, is becoming a full-time occupation. Much better to crawl along without fiddling with a gear shift, and without worries on hill starts.
    My supposed husband is an inverted snob – I think that’s the term. He has used, over the years, a series of battered and bruised Minis into which he folds himself clumsily, knees almost under his chin. He’s a fool. A clever fool, but he thinks he’s so bloody special, too elevated for a decent car. What’s a car after all? Why should he need any kind of status symbol? What’s a car to a man who is going to be knighted one of these years?
    Right. What’s down for today? The shop, of course. Meeting with the accountant, lunch with Sadie Fisher, home, change of clothes, an evening with Alec. The thought of him makes me shiver with anticipation. If only les girls knew that I bed a man ten years my junior two or three times a week. They’d be crying in their soup; the resulting dilution might alleviate Sadie’s weight problem, if nothing else . . .
    A bottleneck here again at the top of Bank Street. I don’t know what the hell the planners think they’re doing, but this town is dying inch by inch. Soon, small shops like mine will disappear altogether. My Milne’s jewellers operates these days like a Lone Ranger at the centre of an almost empty block, businesses murdered, hope gone, lives ruined. Everyone shops at Middlebrook now.
    I think I’ll have a blue car. Blue is my colour, always has been. It accentuates my best feature, the large, long-lashed eyes that have been the envy of so many girlfriends over the years. Not bad for forty-four. My skin continues firm despite warnings on cigarette packets, the nose is perfect now – after a couple of small adjustments, of course, and my breasts can hold their own shape no matter what the situation, because they cost me an arm and a leg. Yes, I have excellent limbs, too, and men still turn in the street when I pass by. Any male would be happy to be seen out and about with me. With the exception of the Prof. Well, he got his money’s worth: trained jeweller to carry on the family firm, pelvis wide enough to deliver naturally his two children. It wasn’t easy, but I proved my worth.
    There are ongoings at home. If I could call it home, that is. Better to say that the strangers among whom I live are at odds with one another and with life in general. The only person I talk to is my daughter, and that doesn’t happen very often. Such a fuss last night when Ben had to be driven off to hospital. I pretended to follow my daughter’s car while visitors watched, but I didn’t bother, turned back when I thought everyone would have gone away. Harriet can cope. She always could.
    Bridge ended prematurely, taxis ordered to take home my tired and