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Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Dedication
  4. Dedication2
  5. 1994
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 2006
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 2018
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. Acknowledgements

‘I’m really tired,’ Greta said. ‘We’re okay if one of us goes to sleep.’

‘I’ll be alone,’ Peggy said.

‘We spent almost our whole life awake by ourselves in the dark,’ Greta said. She was almost asleep now.

They could have had separate rooms, but they didn’t have the money – it was their room. That was how it was.

‘Maybe when we do the parachute course we’ll come out as different,’ Greta said, sleepily. ‘Maybe you’ll come out as good at plastic surgery and you’ll make lots of money and you can buy two houses close to each other and we can have different lives.’ She rubbed her nose but didn’t open her eyes.

They both laughed. It was ridiculous. Now that they were together, thinking about being apart was like thinking about living without a spleen or a kidney or a colon – you could do it, but it would mean changing everything.

2006

2006

18

18

Neither of them was reading. They read more than they used to but neither of them was reading right now. Greta and Peggy sat on their bed, staring out the large bay window with books on their laps. It was getting darker. Not as dark as their room from twelve years ago but darker now it was October. There was something about Sundays, no matter what city you lived in. Especially Sundays in spring. Spring was the worst season in the city they lived in now. Everyone said so. Possibly because they got hopeful that the weather was getting better when it wasn’t. Possibly because the wind got worse. They’d been staring out the window for a while. Then it was time, so they both closed their books and swung their legs over opposite sides of the bed. They both had sweatshirts beside them, and they put these on. Pulling them over their heads but not in one fluid movement – a bit of pulling, a bit of crawling into and out of. Both of them smoothed the part of the bed they’d been sitting on, and left the room. They were older now and they knew each other very well. Some of the sameness had worn off. But not as much as it could have in twelve years. They still felt like the same things to eat and they sometimes did the same thing at the same time – reached for something and bumped hands, bent down and bumped heads. There was a rhythm inside each of them that was still in sync.