A brand new short story begins today-

It’s three in the afternoon and I’m staring into the empty shop window at our reflections; two, late middle-aged women, as different as any two women can be, except that we’re not only sisters, but twins.

‘Sher…Sher…Sherry!’ she bellows. ‘Are you listening?’

My parents named us Therese and Sheridan, unaware that we’d be labelled ‘Terry and Sherry’ for the rest of our lives, as if we were a comedy act from the seventies.

But I’m not listening, no. I haven’t been. I switched off, like I always do. I’ve been here too many times- not at this shop window, but summoned to hear one of her latest, hair-brained schemes, or where she’s about to holiday, or who is the latest man friend.

My sister: Therese Louisa Rawlings: vivacious, curvaceous, immaculate, coiffed, pampered and wealthy. She flits like a butterfly on speed from one project to another, calling all these ideas ‘work’.

‘I’m working on something,’ she will say. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Sometimes she’ll text me to tell me she’s away for the weekend, or she’ll say she’s going on a cruise. Sometimes she applies for jobs. She’s been an estate agent, a hotel receptionist, a dog walker, a photographer’s assistant and a theatre box office manager, though none of these pursuits lasted long due to their requiring some commitment. She’d realised she had to get up and be there at a certain time of day. She’d discovered that the jobs were less glamourous than she’d imagined. The remuneration had been less than she’d expected.

‘Sorry,’ I tell her. ‘It’s the traffic.’

The shop is by a busy roundabout on the outskirts of town. I’ve walked past it for the last four years and never seen it occupied. Its windows display a few dog-eared and faded posters, some of upcoming events, others of long past- circus, wrestling, dirt-car racing. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust cover the surface of all of it, the window-sill dotted with insect carcasses.

Terry steps back and sweeps her arm along in a presentational gesture.

‘This,’ she begins, ‘this is my new venture, a business. What do you think?’ I feel weary. I’ve weathered more of her excitements and disappointments than she’s gulped consolatory gin and tonics but I hate being the constant voice of disparagement. Mostly, I know I’ll need to be the one picking up the fragments of her devastated vision once it’s all over.

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to ask me what it will be?’

‘Ok. What will it be?’

She has that manic expression, eyes wide and arms folded. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet. But I’m leaning towards a little boutique. I thought it could be directed towards people going on luxury cruises and so on. What do you think?’

I suppress a sigh in favour of a non-committal grunt. She grins at me. ‘Sherry, I thought we could do this together. You could leave that godawful job at the care agency and come and sell beautiful clothes to rich retirees. I think you’d be good at it!’

There are so many responses I can conjure to this that I need to turn away and cough into my hand to buy time. Terry has never understood that I love my job as much as any other part of my life. I love the elderly and disabled folks I try to help and I adore my cheerful, generous, fun and caring colleagues, with whom I socialise as well as work. There is no career or salary in the world that would tempt me away from my job.

As if she’s read my thoughts, she breaks the silence. ‘I should think you could earn a bit more working with me, you know. Shall we get a coffee? I can fill you in on a few of the details.’

During the stroll to the coffee shop, she shocks me, not only with the news that she’s already taken on the lease of the shop but that she has a business partner, a man called Julian. We seat ourselves in the window of the coffee house. I lean towards her.

‘Terry, you know nothing about running abusiness. Shoudn’t you take a book-keeping course or something? There’s more to it than dressing a shop window, isn’t there? What about tax, insurance, business law, VAT, employment law-all that stuff?’

She laughs. ‘Oh, I’m not worried about all that! Julian is the business head. He’ll deal with it. He’s run several businesses and is an experienced bookkeeper. I’m going to be the creative partner, designing the decor, buying the stock, doing the advertising- that kind of thing. I’d love you to meet him. He’s such a wonderful, inspiring person, full of ideas enthusiasm.’ She stirs a sweetener into her cappachino, her cheeks flushed, a speck of lipstick on her teeth.

I gaze at her; at her salon-streaked hair, matching gold earrings and necklace, extravagantly painted nails and designer top. Soo, even the illusion of a desirable, glamorous woman will be beyond her reach. She’s begun to mention surgery, just to ‘tighten a few things up’

‘So how did you meet this Julian?’ I ask. She bristles, frowning. I should not have called him ‘this’ Julian.

‘I met him at the yacht club. I was just standing at the bar, wondering which cocktail to choose when I saw him. He looked good, you know, distinguished. He wears nice clothes and has that sort of swept back hair- silver of course, but he’s an attractive man. I asked him what he would choose and we got talking- and he bought the mojito.’ She smiles a coy grin into her coffee and I shudder. She’s met three husbands and a couple of partners at the yacht club, which is one of her hunting grounds. She has no interest whatsoever in sailing but is very adept at pretending interest if it will get her a man; golf ,horse-racing, motor racing and sailing are all fertile areas for her pursuit of men.

I sip my Americano then pull myself together and smile at her. ‘It sounds promising. And I wish you all the luck with it! But I’ll have to pass on the job offer. I wouldn’t leave the agency for anything because it’s the occupation I’ve loved more than anything else I’ve ever done.’

She sniffs. She’s told me ,any times she doesn’t know how I can do a caring job; how I can deal with bodily fluids, smells, and upsetting situations. But she doesn’t understand the satisfaction and pleasure of looking after others, nor does she see how my fellow workers’ companionship enhances my life, the laughs, the hugs and the friendship akin to love.

Part 2 of Two Sisters can be read in next week’s post…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com