Admiration
noun
1.
a feeling of wonder, pleasure, or approval
2. an object of wonder,
pleasure, or approval
Diane Lloyd admired Connie Beauchamp. She admired how skilfully she tied off arterial bleeds, she admired how she managed to strike fear into all that she passed with a single glance, but more often than not she admired how good she looked in whatever clothes she'd thrown on that morning. She admired how she managed to cope with her husbands affairs without falling apart, how she'd managed to get revenge on him for an affair with a ward sister her husband too had slept with. Connie Beauchamp had shopped her husband to the police, Diane Lloyd cried herself to sleep every night for a fortnight. Diane admired the fact that Connie didn't seem to need a man, that she managed perfectly fine on her own, she didn't seem to mind going home to an empty house and a ready meal for one, although she was all too aware that Connie's ready meals were probably from Marks and sparks, or Waitrose, whereas she preferred Asda's own brand, Tesco's if she was feeling flush. She was also far too aware that years of practice had probably made Connie an expert at hiding how she really felt, and maybe all Diane admired were Connie's acting skills.
Connie Beauchamp pitied Diane Lloyd. At one point she'd admired her, but at one point Diane had had everything Connie had ever wanted, she was happily married and she had a baby on the way. Until one day everything changed and husband and wife both seemed to find different ways to cope. Diane's husband was no longer at home waiting to fuss over his wife after a hard day at work, instead he was at the bar, a single malt whiskey in his right hand, a smouldering Marlboro between the middle and the index fingers of his left. Whilst he sat in the bar, his wife curled herself into a ball on the sofa, he spilt his drink, she spilt tears for the child that was too good for this world, the child she'd loved and lost, the baby she'd never get to hold. Tears fell in mourning for the child she never met, for the simple things that would never happen, the nappies she'd never change, the feet she'd never tickle, the bedtime stories she'd never read, the grazed knees she'd never kiss better. It was then she realised Connie Beauchamp had made the right decision to fend for herself, at least if you were on your own no one else could let you down.
It was the eyes rimmed red from spending all night crying, the silences as husband and wife passed each other in the corridors, the lipstick marks on his collar, far too much of a sluttish red to pass for the demure peach tones she favoured, that told Connie Beauchamp Diane Lloyd was no longer a woman to be admired.
