– and sadly accurate – maternal remarks.
‘You really need to reconsider your career options, darling. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you have no prospects, aren’t exactly earning a fortune, and it’s not even as if you enjoy what you do.’
None of which Connie could argue with. Her parent had, once again, hit the nail on its increasingly jaded head. But the tirade hadn’t stopped there.
‘And it’s so solitary. Your job does nothing for your social life, which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly buzzing.’
Yet again, Connie could not demur. Working from home as a self-employed proofreader was incredibly solitary – zero banter with colleagues, no office politics to chunter about, and, on the rare occasion she found something to titter about in her reading matter – like an extra “t” added to the word “far”, there was nobody to titter with.
‘You need to get out more, dear. How else are you going to meet another man? After all, you’re not getting any younger.’
Her mother’s mutterings, combined with her thirty-fourth birthday lurking just around the corner – had not only made Connie feel like the world’s biggest failure, but had made her realise she really did need to make some changes to her life. Exactly what changes, she was still pondering, when she’d received an interesting phone call from her best friend, Anna.
‘Hugh’s been posted to Sydney for six months,’ she informed Connie, referring to her banker husband. ‘And I’ve wangled a temporary transfer to the agency’s office there.’
‘Trust you,’ huffed Connie. Anna had what Connie – and indeed most mere mortals – would deem The Perfect Life: a gorgeous husband who worshipped the ground she walked on, a great job as a booker for an international modelling agency, and the most to-die-for house in an idyllic Cotswolds village. As much as Connie loved her, Anna was not the woman to have around when your life resembled a plus-sized, reinforced-gusseted pair of pants. As did hers at the moment. Nevertheless, despite turning pea-green, she’d done her best to whip up some enthusiasm for her friend’s exciting news.
‘It sounds amazing. A fantastic experience for you both.’
‘I know. I can’t wait.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Next week, can you believe? I have a million things to do.’
‘I wouldn’t mind two million things to do if it meant six months Down Under,’ muttered Connie, gazing out at the drizzly May morning. ‘Make yourself a long list and crack on with it.’
‘Already have. And you’re at the top. We were wondering if you’d like to come down and housesit for us while we’re away.’
Phone pressed to her ear, Connie’s eyeballs had almost sprung from their sockets. ‘What? Move down to Little Biddington and stay in your fabulous house for six months?’
‘Yes. But only if you want to. The one stipulation being that you look after Eric – the most decrepit, indifferent, pathetic greyhound on the planet. As much as we’d love to take him with us, I’m not sure his dodgy ticker is up to the journey.’
Relief and excitement had whooshed through Connie’s veins. ‘I’d love to.’
‘You don’t have to make up your mind right now. You can think about it. Call me back later.’
Connie had shaken her head. ‘Anna, I’m in my mid thirties and sleeping in a single bed in a room next to my parents. Believe me, there is nothing to think about. I’m coming.’
And she had. A few days later she’d shoehorned a mountain of bags into her little Punto and trundled down the M40, eventually swapping the fume-filled madness of the motorway for sleepy country lanes filled with fresh air and fringed with May blossom.
By the time she’d reached Little Biddington, where Anna’s gorgeous Grade II-listed house, built in golden Cotswold stone, nestled among wisteria, hydrangea and foxgloves, Connie felt like she’d entered a different world. And even now, a couple of weeks on, she still occasionally had to pinch herself to ensure she wasn’t dreaming: that this little piece of heaven was indeed hers – for the next few months at least.
‘So, are you doing anything special for your birthday?’ asked her mother, hauling her back to the present.
Perched on a stool at the island in Anna’s exquisite kitchen – where modern dove-grey units were stylishly juxtaposed with traditional beams and exposed stone – Connie cast an eye over the pile of fresh vegetables on the granite worktop – chunky carrots, glistening aubergines, bulbous onions and sun-ripened tomatoes. Next to them sat four ramekins ready to be filled with the creamy chocolate panna cotta she was about to whip up – which would then chill in the fridge for several hours before being topped off with juicy oranges later that evening. At the thought, excitement began bubbling in her stomach. ‘Er, no. Nothing special,’ she lied.
Well, it had only been a teeny tiny lie, Connie assured herself, putting down the phone after winding up the call. Indeed, some would argue it hadn’t even been a lie at all. After all, spending the evening in a kitchen, slaving over a hot stove – or, in Connie’s case, a magnificent, shocking-pink Aga – wasn’t what most people would categorise as a “special” way to spend one’s birthday. The general populace would doubtless prefer to don their Sunday best and be taxied to a culinary establishment with subdued lighting, expertly chosen wine, and a menu designed to rouse the taste buds into such a climactic state that one didn’t bat an eyelid at the number of noughts on the bill. Connie, though, had endured quite enough of those birthdays. For the last two years at least, Charles had made a great show of pretending he hadn’t forgotten the occasion. And, for reasons she really didn’t want to dwell on, she’d played along, pretending not to have heard him in the bathroom on her birthday morning, making hasty calls to expensive restaurants to reserve a last-minute table. And feigning belief when he’d slapped his palm to his forehead and called himself all kinds of names for having left her present in the office. Names Connie was now calling herself for having put up with the two-timing, egotistical, self-centred knob.
But that had been then, and this was now.
This birthday, there was no one to let her down, no one to snip away another fragment of her fragile self-esteem, no one to make her feel she deserved less than the best. This birthday, Connie occupied the driving seat, tentatively hoping she might – at last – be steering her life to a place called Positive; a place where she didn’t merely settle for the easy, non-fuss-making option, but where she assumed control, did what she wanted, rather than trying to please everyone else all the time.
And this evening would be her first foray into that brave new world.
It had been something Anna had said the day of her arrival that had sparked the idea…
‘I haven’t had time to tell the neighbours you’re housesitting so if a hunky policeman knocks on the door demanding to see your credentials, it’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Connie had giggled. ‘I’ll tell him I’m a Russian spy on a secret mission.’
‘You can tell him whatever you like. Make up a mysterious, intriguing past. Inject a bit of spice into the village. The place might look idyllic, but honestly, the most exciting thing that ever happens is the book club announcing its next title.’
Connie had snorted with laughter, but, at the same time, Anna’s words had struck a chord. She didn’t know a soul in the Cotswolds. And for all she wouldn’t have minded a complete reinvention of self – preferably something along the lines of Beyonce – she knew she couldn’t carry it off. What she could do, though, was maximise this opportunity: shrug off some of her inhibitions; use the change of scene to rebuild her flagging confidence; start taking steps to clamber out of the rut she’d unwittingly slithered into. After all, as her mother insisted on pointing out, she really wasn’t getting any younger. In another year she’d be nearer forty than thirty – practically middle-aged.