ALL OF US HERE
They weren’t like me. No, not even in the dark days when we were all of us here. They’re not like me now.
I watch through a gap in the lace curtains as they alight from the taxi. One of them – is it Grace? – heaves open the iron gate that has hung askew as long as I can remember, and they pick their way fastidiously along the moss-covered path.
They are chatting, the three of them. I can see they want to enjoy the meeting, the opportunity to catch up on gossip without the burden of their husbands, but they are aware that this is a sober occasion and they arrange their faces accordingly.
I open the front door.
‘Chrissie!’
One of them flings her arms around me and I inhale her exotic musky scent. Joanne? They all look alike now, their hair expertly cut and blonded, their bodies uniformly slim and toned beneath their designer suits. Black, of
