'Why do you have to do that?' Ellie was uncharacteristically abrupt.

'What?'

'Make my life sound.... somehow lesser because I don't indulge in Histrionics.'

Marianne widened her eyes.

'What do you mean? I was I was saying-'

'I know what you were saying, Marianne. You were saying that my life is boring and aren't I lucky to have escaped the trauma of pa.s.sion and all the things that you and Dad and actors and artistic people feel? Well, just because I'm a scientist it doesn't mean I can't appreciate poetry. And it doesn't mean I don't have feelings and it doesn't mean my relationship is... boring or perfect. We have arguments, we have. I-'

She stopped, her face hot, her throat closing up. She sensed tears coming and felt stupid. Hysteria was her sister's domain. 'Marianne needs a lot of looking after,' their mother had said one Christmas day. They had been waiting for half an hour for Marianne to appear for Christmas dinner but the roars of anguish coming from her bedroom told of new dramas with the boyfriend of the time. Their father had gone up to try to talk her down but had got caught up in it and not reappeared. Everyone indulged Marianne.

'Wellie, don't be cross with me,' Marianne was sobbing, 'I only meant I wish I had what you had. I wish I did-'

Ellie berated herself. In her sister's present state it was appropriate that everyone else appeared to be living a life she no longer had access to. Now was clearly not the time for Ellie to disclose that her own relationship was in trouble.

'Oh G.o.d,' Marianne let out a wail, 'What if there's someone else? I can't bear it, Ellie. I can't. What am I going to do?'

Silently Ellie re-cradled her sister and gave over her decolletage to soaking up the tears.

At half past three Marianne was on the phone to their mother, repeating every thought and feeling as if the past twenty-four hours of Ellie's counsel had never happened. Ellie wrote her a note.

'Going Waitrose for supplies. HAVE A SHOWER!!! Leaving at six. See you in 20 mins.'

She had lied to Marianne that she was meeting Richard later. Devotion to a lover was the only excuse Marianne would accept unquestioningly in order for her to leave. Richard was territory with whom she could not compete. In reality Richard would work late and when he eventually made it home, Ellie would have to feign sleep. The argument they had had the week before had opened up a chasm small enough to gloss over but too big to revisit and this was what was called 'getting on with life'.

Stepping into the crisp sunshine of Marylebone High Street, Shakespeare's words returned to unbalance her.

A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind; Ellie stood staring into the road. That a lover should be so enthralled by the subject of its affection that it could gaze for eternity into their eyes. It had hit her as some sort of blinding confirmation of her fears. Had she and Richard ever gazed like that? It was there, still there, it had to be. She called him.

'Hi, Ellie.'

'Rich,' she began, 'I just wanted to say that I love you. And I'm sorry and I just want everything to be okay-'

He said nothing.

'I love you. I just... wanted you to know.'

'Ell, I can't talk about this now.'

'I know, I know you can't.' She felt defensive. Silly.

'But I have been thinking about stuff and we'll talk,' he continued, sounding far away and contained. 'The problem is, Ellie, your default reaction is always that it's not good enough. And I can't live like that. I want to be enough.'

'You are enough,' Ellie heard her voice squeak, but even as she spoke the words, she doubted herself.

Back at the bedsit Ellie poured red wine. She had not divulged why she was staying another night and Marianne had not pushed her.

'It's funny,' she remarked, seemingly apropos of her sister's situation, 'you meet and fall in love with all these things about a person and then you tussle for two, three years, trying to turn them into something else... to get them to understand what you need or want. And you sort of use each other up. And then, finally, when you both understand each other, it's like you're spent. And it's too late.'

Marianne eyed her sister solemnly.

'Yes,' she agreed, 'it's like training a dog. And the worst bit is that then someone else the next person comes along and benefits from all your hard work.'

There was a pause as they contemplated this unsatisfactory injustice.

'The only good thing I can think is that it's cyclical,' Marianne continued, 'The next girl Lawrence meets will think he's wonderful until she becomes his girlfriend and he begins flirting with everything that moves. Then she'll develop paranoia and turn into me.'

'What if the next girl can cope with the way he is?'

'Then she's right for him and I'm not,' Marianne replied, in a rare moment of self-awareness. 'It's horrific,' she added, 'I'm not doing it anymore.'

Ellie laughed. 'If you're not doing it anymore then why have you put Dad's book of love poetry in the bathroom? You're doing what Dad always told us to invite love in, to attract it-'

'No. It's the opposite. It's to remind me that love is a construct.'

'You don't think love's a construct.'

'I do. I'm turning into you.'

'I don't think love's a construct!'

'Okay, keep your hair on.'

'No, don't do that. Don't put that on me. You don't know what I think. I do believe in love, I do want to to gaze-' she stopped. It sounded weak on her tongue. Marianne pounced.

'I saw you'd been looking at that, Dad's favourite poem-'

'So?'

'I saw you'd been reading it.'

'Well then you'll agree. It's about an ideal, something we aspire to. Gazing an eagle blind. Don't tell me you don't believe in that because you do, we all do. It messes us up because we want it so badly.'

Marianne smiled, triumphant, 'You're wrong, Dad got it wrong. I read the notes at the back. It's not about that. Eagles were meant to be the only birds that could stare directly at the sun without going blind. It means a lover's eyes are brighter than the sun and a lover's ears can hear things that even a thief will miss.'

'Yes-'

'Meaning a lover's senses are more honed more paranoid than anyone else's.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning that as lovers we are doomed to be paranoid freaks. It's not a happy affirmation of love, it's a condemnation.'

Ellie looked at Marianne. Why try to melt the barriers she had put in place for her own protection? They would not hold for long. And knowing Lawrence the chapter would not be closed until sufficient melodrama and his desire for what he had now made un.o.btainable had played out. What Ellie currently needed to believe in, Marianne needed to deny. And Marianne needed more looking after.

'Either way,' Ellie began carefully, 'it seems to be saying that love is something we should immerse ourselves in...that consumes us. In a good way or a bad way.'

'I was consumed,' Marianne said, her voice splintering into a bleat as her eyes filled up once more.

'I know, darling,' Ellie said quietly and poured more wine.

My inspiration: In Sense and Sensibility there is a moment where Elinor nurses Marianne's broken heart whilst concealing that she suffers one too. I wanted to explore a modern-day version of Sense and Sensibility where two sisters of opposing temperaments discuss the nature of love. As with Austen's characters they are eloquent and well read but these present day heroines have professions, are older and live independently. I have aimed to maintain a middle cla.s.s sensibility and lifestyle. I realise the authorial voice I use can be quite telling but was hoping to emulate Austen in this style.

THE JANE AUSTEN HEN WEEKEND.

Clair Humphries.

It began with a blocked loo.

'How?' I asked, staring as the sinister-looking stream of water oozed out from under the bathroom door.

'How do you think?' Anna glared at Lucy. 'Someone's toilet-bothering brat stuffed too much paper down there, didn't they?'

'That's not fair!' Lucy clutched a gloved hand dramatically to her ample chest. Her Empireline frock was doing its best to withstand her womanly curves, but I could see why Keira Knightley proved such a popular choice for costume drama casting directors. Anything above a C cup was perilous and clearly put the st.i.tching under intolerable strain.

'It b.l.o.o.d.y is fair. You and Oscar have been locked in there for an hour.'

'He's not well, I told you. He can't help that-'

'Why bring him then? Couldn't your mum look after him or something?'

'Oh, I can tell you don't have kids! What am I supposed to do he's been up all night with the runs, crying his eyes out. I can't just abandon him for the weekend!'

'Um, could you try not to swear please, Anna?' Rachel interrupted, looking up from her well-thumbed guide book. 'Genteel ladies of the Regency period wouldn't use that kind of language. And 'toilet-bothering' doesn't really make sense. One's 'toilet' usually referred to getting dressed, or powdering your nose, that sort of thing-'

We all looked at Rachel; now wasn't the best time for a lecture on early nineteenth century linguistics. Water was spreading rapidly across the flag stoned floor, accompanied by a distinctly whiffy odour. Wisely, Anna chose to ignore her and pressed on.

'Dragging your child down here with the squits is hardly fair on us either, is it? Now the loo's out of action and we've probably all been infected with whatever vile bug he's carrying.'

'What was I supposed to do? Stay at home while you all have a lovely time as usual? Well, I'm sick of it!' Lucy's lip began to wobble. 'I haven't been anywhere for ages mums never get the chance to dress up and play. I just wanted some fun for a change.'

'Fun?' Anna waved her fan accusingly in my direction. 'Remind me, will you how exactly is this meant to be fun? I'm freezing in this stupid dress, there's no pub for miles around and my favourite shoes are about to be written off by raw sewage!'

She had a point. The toilet overflow was gathering momentum and, squealing like the girls that we were, we hurried back down the corridor, escaping the pool of evil-smelling goo. Not the ideal beginning to a Jane Austen-themed hen weekend, I had to admit. And, yes, maybe I should take some of the blame it was my idea. I'd booked the venue, hired the costumes and (with the help of my year three cla.s.s) cobbled together the props, determined everything would be perfect for my best friend Rachel: romantic novelist and bride-to-be, who was marrying her own real life Mr Darcy next Sat.u.r.day. The premise was simple enough. Four friends, two days and one country house. So far, so civilised. What, dear reader, could go wrong?

We retired to the drawing room. With his bowel temporarily at rest, three-year-old Oscar was sleeping soundly in the nursery while we gathered around the card table to discuss our options.

'We could have a go with a plunger,' I suggested in my best primary-school-teacher-rallying-a-cla.s.s-of-eight-year-olds voice.

'Have you got a plunger handy?' Anna asked.

'Well, no-'

'Even if you did, we're hardly dressed for a spot of plumbing, are we?' Lucy said, blinking back tears, her arms folded beneath her heaving bosom. I scowled at her; frankly, I was getting fed up with her emotional outpourings and quivering flesh.

'Alright you decide what to do,' I told her. 'Seeing as it's your child who got us into this mess.'

'I don't know what to do!' Lucy wailed into an embroidered white lace handkerchief that I'd sourced (rather cleverly, I thought) from eBay. I couldn't deny she was right though; none of us were suitably attired for manual labour, plunger or no plunger. It had taken hours to transform ourselves into Regency belles, doing our best to look the part with our hair curled and pinned up on top of our heads and our cheeks pinched pink. I'd planned a weekend of wafting round in muslin gowns, not shovelling sewage.

'What would Jane Austen do?' Rachel wondered aloud.

'I know exactly what Jane would do,' Anna said, standing up. 'She'd get a man in.'

Unfortunately, men weren't cheap not in this part of rural England anyway.

'Sixty-quid call out charge,' Anna announced ten minutes later, snapping her mobile shut. 'That's before he does anything. And he might not get here for an hour.'

'Great. What do we do in the meantime?' Lucy asked.

'It says here that whist was a popular choice for ladies of good breeding,' Rachel read excitedly from her book. 'Elizabeth Bennet attends a whist party in Pride and Prejudice, and it's mentioned in Emma and in Mansfield Park-'

'Excellent! Let's play whist.' I felt my spirits lift; I'd packed cards, along with some gothic-looking pewter candlesticks. We gathered around the rosewood table and I arranged the candles while Anna opened the cards. This was more like it, I thought with satisfaction. Female bonding, just as Jane would have wanted. Outside, the evening was drawing in; dusk had settled, casting long, low shadows across the oak-panelled room. A perfect time for cards by candlelight. We would eat soon, I decided. Crumpets and dainty little cakes, with tea served in white china cups.

'Who's got matches?' Anna said as she shuffled the cards.

'Matches?' I frowned. 'I thought you'd bring a lighter. You're the only one who smokes-'

'I've given up.'

'What?' Lucy shrieked with laughter. 'Don't be ridiculous. You smoke more than anyone I know. You can't give up.'

'Well I have, so shut it.' Anna regarded her coolly. 'The flip side is I'm permanently starving and liable to punch someone at any moment.'

This was enough to silence all of us, even Lucy. In the City bank where she worked, Anna's temper was legendary. She spent her working day doing complicated things with stocks and derivatives, an area I knew nothing about, except it seemed to involve her screaming down the phone at a succession of ex-public schoolboys who were foolish enough to think they could screw her over. None of them could.

'So, no matches then.' Reluctantly, I went to turn the light on. Of course the house had electricity along with central heating, Wi-Fi access and all the other accoutrements people expected from a historic country house in the twenty-first century. It did rather spoil the mood though, I felt, as the intriguing shadows of the drawing room were exposed in the harsh glare of artificial light.

'How many cards am I dealing?' Anna asked as I joined them again.

'No idea. Rachel? What are the rules?'

'I don't know I've never played whist before.'

'But you're the one with the guide book,' I reminded her. 'You're always in the library; you said you'd do the research.'

'I've done my best!' Rachel slammed her book shut. 'I have had a wedding to organise, you know. I've been really busy, sorting out the cars, the flowers, the dress...'

It was true. For months Rachel had been planning her big day, ch.o.r.eographing every moment as precisely as the plot in one of her slushy novels. That was her dream: to be the great romantic heroine, to live out the happy endings she created on paper for real. It wasn't much to ask who doesn't want their wedding day to be special? And here I was, the chief bridesmaid, stressing her out on what should have been a lovely, indulgent weekend. I started to feel bad.

'Sorry, Rachel.' I put my gloved hand over hers. 'You just sit back and relax, we'll find something fun to do. How else did young Regency ladies amuse themselves?'