British Author of Romance Novels and Women's Fiction
Rosamunde Pilcher, also pen name Jane Fraser
British Author of Romance Novels and Women's Fiction
She thought of the last couple of years: the boredom, the narrowness of existence, the dearth of anything to look forward to. Yet now, in a single instant, the curtains had been whipped aside, and the windows been thrown open onto a brilliant view that had been there, waiting for her, all the time. A view, moreover, laden with the most marvelous possibilities and opportunities.
The flat crouched around him, watching like a depressed relation, waiting for him to take some action.
Weddings take months to organize, and there are fittings and invitation lists and old aunts being coy about the honeymoon, and having to have somebody's perfectly hideous cousin for a bridesmaid. And then hundreds of appalling wedding presents. Toast-racks and Japanese vases and pictures that never, in a million years, would you want to hang on the wall. And you spend all your time writing insincere thank-you letters with your fingers crossed, and everybody gets tense and miserable and there's lots of bursting into tears. The miracle is that anybody ever gets married at all, but I bet most girls have nervous breakdowns on their honeymoons.
Oscar and I are very close, and yet I know that part of him is still withdrawn, even from me. As though part of him was still in another place. Another country. Journeying, perhaps. Or in exile. Across the sea. And I can't be with him, because I haven't got the right sort of passport.
Other people's houses were always fascinating. As soon as you went through the door for the first time, you got the feel of the atmosphere, and so discovered something about the personalities of the people who lived there.
She appeared to be ageless the type that would continue, unchanging, until she was an old woman when she would suddenly become senile and die
She had never lived alone before, and at first found it strange, but gradually had learned to accept it as a blessing and to indulge herself in all sorts of reprehensible ways, like getting up when she felt like it, scratching herself if she itched, sitting up until two in the morning to listen to a concert.
She looked up and saw, high in the sky beyond the racing black clouds, a ragged scrap of blue sky. Enough to make a cat a pair of trousers.
She put out her hand and touched his forearm, as she would have touched some piece of porcelain or sculpture, just for the sheer animal pleasure of feeling its shape and curve beneath her fingertips.
Not his real name, darling, but my own name for him. I never thought it could be like this. I never thought one could be so close, and yet so different to a single human being. He is everything I've never been, and yet I love him more than any person or anything I've ever known.
Life is so extraordinary. Wonderful surprises are just around the most unexpected corners.
I'm getting too elderly to travel the length of the country for a free hangover.
It was better not to get too close to another person. The closer you got, the more likely you were to get hurt.
It was good and nothing good is ever lost.
Grief was like a terrible burden, but at least you could lay it down by the side of the road and walk away from it. Antonia had come only a few paces, but already she could turn and look back and not weep. It wasn't anything to do with forgetting. It was just accepting. Nothing was ever so bad once you had accepted it.
I wasn't good enough. I had a little talent but not enough. There is nothing more discouraging than having just a little talent.
For he was drinking too much. Not uncontrollably nor offensively, but still he seldom seemed to have a glass out of his hand.
Alone. She realized how much she had missed the luxury of solitude, and knew that its occasional comfort would always be essential to her. The pleasure of being on one's own was not so much spiritual as sensuous, like wearing silk, or swimming without a bathing suit, or walking along a totally empty beach with the sun on your back. One was restored by solitude. Refreshed.
Elfrida, are you about to cry? - I might be. - Why? - Relief. ?
A ring was the accepted sign of infinity, eternity. If her own life was that carefully described pencil line, she knew it all at once that the two ends were drawing close together. I have come full circle, she told herself, and wondered what had happened to all the years. It was a question, which from time to time, caused her some anxiety and left her fretting with a dreadful sense of waste. But now, it seemed, the question had become irrelevant, and so the answer, whatever it was, was no longer of any importance.
All of it was good, in every sense of the word. And in this life, nothing good is truly lost. It stays a part of a person, becomes part of their character. So part of you goes everywhere with me. And part of me is yours, forever.
You don't stop doing things because you get old. You get old because you stop doing things.
Things happen the way they're meant to. There's a pattern and a shape to everything...Nothing happens without a reason... Nothing is impossible.
She yawned and stretched, and settled back again on her pillows and thought how perfect it would be if sleep could not only restore one but iron out all anxieties in the same process, so that one could wake with a totally clear and untroubled mind, as smooth and empty as a beach, washed and ironed by the outgoing tide.
She remembered him smiling, and realized that time, that great old healer, had finally accomplished its work, and now, across the years, the face of love no longer stirred up agonies of grief and bitterness. Rather, one was left feeling simply grateful. For how unimaginably empty the past would be without him to remember.