Cynthia was always the more serious daughter in the Simmons household, a typical firstborn really. Elisabeth was the pretty, fun one, seven years younger, with long wavy hair and laughter streaking through her soul. The sisters had adored each other, despite their different temperaments, the difficult age gap – Penelope had done well on that count, ensuring she handed out her love evenly between her daughters, minimising resentments. They’d even shared a room until Cynthia left home to get married to a nice young engineer called Giles. Elisabeth had been bridesmaid of course, and she had been pretty as a picture, everyone kept saying, but Elisabeth had shushed them, not wanting to upstage the bride.
Elisabeth had missed her sister after Cynthia left home, but she was happy enough – she did well at school, went on to nursing college, had loads of friends, plenty of boyfriends, and then when she was twenty she’d met a lovely boy at a dance, and she’d known he was the one, from the minute he’d asked her to Rock Around The Clock, and she’d been relieved that she’d saved herself, for him.
Marrying Alan turned out to be the happiest day of her life, although the wedding night had been something of a let-down – she’d been scared stiff and it had been awkward and painful and altogether embarrassing. They’d sat up afterwards, smoking in bed, unable to sleep, both wondering what the fuss was about. But the next day they’d driven to Dorset and had stayed in a beautiful little cottage just a short walk up the cliffs from the beach and they’d practised like crazy until they’d really got the hang of it; several times a day for a whole week seemed to sort it. The weather was balmy and the sea was clear and lovely and warm for swimming. Life couldn’t get better for Elisabeth. It could only get worse, and it did.