A Close Connection by Patricia Fawcett

to acting school? She’s no right to be putting daft ideas in your head,’ was the best she could manage when Paula dared to mention the acting. Of course it was just a dream and remained a dream. Once, though, she read an article about a famous actress who revealed that she was pitifully shy in real life but threw off her shyness as soon as she stepped onto the stage into whatever role she might be playing.
    If only she could do that too, because sometimes she was frustrated by the shyness that still overtook her – usually at the wrong moment. For instance, she wanted desperately to say to Eleanor, ‘Shut up, you old bat, and stop patronizing me,’ but of course she never would, not in a million years. As for knowing about Romeo and Juliet , she thought she might still be able to recite the entire part of Juliet’s nurse given the appropriate cue. So, how dare Eleanor make the assumption that she had never heard of the play?
    ‘Sorry.’ Eleanor smiled, blissfully unaware of how much she was offended. ‘I thought you might not know much about Shakespeare.’
    ‘Well, I do.’ Paula sighed, waving her information sheet withthe little map of Verona in front of her face like a fan. Having lost the men, the two of them had been wandering around the labyrinth of old streets for ever and it was so hot and she felt a bit sick as the strong scent of the sun cream drifted up to her nose. It was good of course that it was sunny, and she knew she ought not to complain, heaven forbid, but it was too hot in the middle of the day to be traipsing around the streets and what she needed now was a cooling drink. She had discarded her hat because it was making her hair feel too sticky against her neck, but there was no shade just here and she could feel the powerful heat of the sun. She should watch it or her brain might get frazzled and she needed to keep it sharp when she was dealing with Eleanor.
    ‘I love it here,’ Eleanor said. ‘I love the people. Have you noticed how they parade about in the evening wearing their best clothes and strutting their stuff?’
    ‘They look very smart,’ Paula admitted, thinking that the poor youngsters at home could not compete with the easy style of the young people here.
    ‘It’s called la passeggiata , a sort of showing-off to each other. At least it’s better than throwing up in the gutter, which our youngsters seem to do at home. It’s got worse or are we getting old, Paula? I never got drunk when I was young, not deliberately. Did you?’
    ‘No I didn’t. I don’t much like drinking although we’ve had some lovely wine here.’
    ‘All Italian, you notice. They don’t do French or Australian wines. I love that.’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Do you fancy a drink? Non-alcoholic of course.’
    ‘I’d love one and a sit-down for a while. My feet are killing me. Where have the men got to?’
    ‘I have no idea.’ Eleanor glanced around and then shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. They know where to pick up the coach. Let’s get ourselves a lemonade. Come on.’
    She set off, a vision in a flowing ankle-length white cotton dress, a silky pink scarf casually draped around her neck, various items of silver jewellery hanging from her ears and around her wrist. Unlike Paula, she was wearing flats, a much more sensible choice for a walking tour. Her hair was in a pigtail today, a statement style, a heavy solitary twist secured with a pink ribbon. Only somebody with as much confidence as Eleanor could get away, at her age, with a style like that. Catching a glimpse of the two of them in a shop window, Paula thought her own ensemble had pretty much hit the mark too, although she wished now that she had opted for more comfortable shoes. Trying to up her height so that she was closer to eye level with Eleanor was proving a challenge.
    They found a café with outside seating and Eleanor ordered them soft drinks from the waiter – in Italian – and they settled themselves under the shade of the