[Part 1 of ‘Two Sisters’ can be read in last week’s post]

I lead a frugal life, in my sister’s estimation, a one-bedroom flat in a modest block, an old Peugeot 205, kept alive by the ministrations of a kindly mechanic, a wardrobe furnished with charity shop finds, a practical haircut maintained by an old friend. I’ve one, grown-up daughter who lives in Scotland, where she went to university, meaning that my holidays are taken there. No cruises or Florida stays for me. But I reckon that my life is fulfilled and happier than Terry’s in so many ways. It’s just that she doesn’t see it.

‘It’s up to you.’ she pouts. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ I nod.

A few days later she rings to tell me she has the keys to the shop and do I want to see the inside? I feel an obligation to keep an eye on her, so I agree to meet there on my next day off, which is in two days’ time. It’s a blustery, early autumn day. Fallen leaves have gathered in the corner of the shop’s doorway and a cool wind makes me pull my my collar up as she fumbles with the keys. After a few minutes the door creaks open and she steps in to wait, breathless for my reaction. There’s not a lot to say. It’s a small space with a stained carpet and some dusty shelving, a door in the back corner.

‘Where does that go?’ I nod at the door. She leads me through to a tiny, dingy kitchen area with a window on to a back yard housing dustbins. She’s behind me. ‘Isn’t it great?’ she breathes.

‘Mmm,’ I murmur, not turning. ‘How will you raise the cash to do it up?’

‘We already have a bank loan. Julian’s been brilliant at that side of it.’ I turn to look at her.

‘How did you get a loan? Didn’t you need to put up some collateral?’

‘Oh yes, we did. But we only needed property for that.. I stare at her.

‘Property? What property? Julian’s?’ She looks shifty, averting her eyes from mine.

‘No dear, mine. My property.;

Thinking of nothing to say, I stride back into the shop, unable to look at her. Terry owms a detached, double-fronted, four-bedroom, two-bathroom, Victorian house, overlooking the park, with a conservatory and a landscaped garden. Not all of her encounters with men have been wasted.

I resolve to have nothing more to do with her enterprise. She’s made her bed, burned her books and inspired a lot of other cliches. I don’t contact her and hear nothing more for two weeks. Then she rings me.

‘How;s it going?’ she asks, as if I’m the one undertaking a new project. I’m cautious.

‘OK,’ I reply, ‘Nothing special happening here. Same old.’ I’m determined not to ask about the shop or Julian or anything else to do with her scheme.

‘I’m ringing,’ she says, ‘because Julian would like to meet you and he’s booked a table at Renoir’s for us all tomorrow night. Are you free then?’ I hesitate. Although I am free tomorrow night, I have no desire to meet Julian or to talk about Terry’s business.

‘I’m not free tomorrow night,’ I tell her.

‘Oh Sher! Surely you can put it off, whatever it is? Is it your girls’ night out? Can’t you change it? I’m so looking forward to you two meeting up.And we’ve got so much to tell you. It’s all going really well. I wondered if you’d like to help me choose some stock now that the interior’s almost done.’

I go out with the girls about once a week. We go to musical venues, have a drink, a dance and a laugh. We don’t have a regular night but it’s always the highlight of my week. My colleagues are like family to me. We share everything- problems, stories, tears and laughter. But we’re going out the day after tomorrow. I’d been planning a cosy night in tomorrow, slobbing on the sofa in my pyjamas with a drama serial I’ve started watching. Besides, Renoir’s is expensive, not somewhere I’d frequent on a regular basis. Terry puts on her wheedling voice.

‘We’d love you to come. Julian’s paying for everything so you wouldn’t need to worry. He’ll even send a taxi for you and to get home. I can lend you something to wear, too, if you like.’

‘I’ll let you know,’ I say.

‘Don’t take too long, dear. You know how busy Renoir’s can get. We’ve only got a table because Julian knows the manager.’

I slump. There doesn’t appear to be a way out. And somewhere inside of me a small frisson of curiosity is needling. I leave it an hour then call her back to agree, but I won’t need an outfit, thanks. I’ve plenty of nice clothes to choose from…

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