Twenty-Seven Years Old - Jane Graham

Toby Coleman 28

He looked relieved, kissed me, and picked up the bottle. ‘Look, I got a nice Beaujolais,’ he said, showing it to me.

‘How much?’ I asked.

His normally open, boyish face closed for a moment, and then he said warily, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because we’re going halves, of course.’

‘We’re not,’ he said in a rigid voice that should have warned me.

‘But Toby, we are, of course we are! That’s only fair!’

‘What’s fairness got to do with it? Please shut up about it. I’m paying for the lousy thing, and that’s the end of that.’

‘But you can’t afford – ’

‘I know I can’t!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘I can’t afford any of the bloody decencies of life! I can’t afford to take you out properly or buy you a proper Christmas present, or be able to tell you not to worry – I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m still living from hand to mouth like a bloody tramp. Since I was eighteen I’ve been writing, ten years already, and so what? I’ve written two novels and five plays and God knows how many short stories, and what keeps me alive, even? A couple of lousy articles a month, stuff I mug up and toss off and get no feeling from doing, just a feeling of disgust because it seems to be all I’m fit for!’ He turned away, his shoulders slumping suddenly. ‘Why don’t I shut up,’ he said, the anger gone from his voice and only bitterness left.