I check my phone again. There's a part of me that wishes I wasn't so hell-bent on being early for appointments, coffee dates and work. I know I am missing out on that frisson of excitement that comes from just beating the clock with seconds to spare. I study the menu again. I already know what I want; I come here often and order the same thing every time. I know what you're thinking: that there's a certain neatness and predictability to my life. Of course you're right. But you'll forgive me for being prepared, for wanting to anticipate what every day brings as a way to try and manage the fact that my life is something of a tornado and I am hanging onto passing debris to survive.
"Sorry I'm late."
Her makeup is flawless. I suppose she needed the extra ten minutes to comb out her eyelashes. I get up to offer the perfunctory air kisses.
"Not at all. You're looking great today." The lies roll off my tongue so well. "How's James?"
"Oh, an angel! Did I tell you that he's sleeping through the night these days? I'm not trying for another baby -- you know it's too soon for that -- but I have to say, just between us girls, that all this..." She flaps her arms at me. "All this is making me and Stuart closer than ever."
"I'm so glad to hear it."
I'm not sure how long it is socially acceptable to wait before suggesting that we order. I'm famished. Fortunately the waitress arrives.
"What can I get you ladies?"
She has a booger. A giant green booger bristling in her nose. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. I can't order from a woman with a booger.
"I'll have a glass of water and your egg and cress salad. Lyddie?"
I swallow. "The same." I hate egg salad. Hate. Give me coffee and comfort food. But she has a booger. I start counting and reach fifteen before the waitress has finished repeating the order and disappeared.
"I love her hair."
What? "Whose?"
"The waitress. Jessie or something. She has the most exquisite waves. I wonder if they're natural."
Like the booger. I shake my head. Must think about something else. I feel a clammy hand on mine. It's coupled with a concerned expression.
"So, how are you, Lyddie? I'm your oldest friend. You know you can tell me anything."
She's not, but I let it slide. "Better. I'm better."
"The therapy. It's helping?"
I don't want to talk about this. "Yes. It is."
She looks relieved. She's done her civic duty and can now steer the conversation back to her.
"I have to say that you are looking so much better. The colour in your cheeks has returned a bit. You know, we should have a pamper day. I could give you a makeover. You could look so beautiful."
Janet looks pleased with herself, like she's the Mother Theresa of socialites and can tick the box next to 'help the unfortunate and ugly'.
"Thank you, Janet."
My mother insisted that I always demonstrate good manners. As much as I'd like to verbally flip the bird at her, I've been hardwired to do the right thing.
"Did I tell you about Christine's baby shower? It was the perfect, and I mean perfect, day."
I'm sure. Because when I was reporting on war crimes in Nigeria, the first thing I thought about when I woke up was what to buy Christine's baby. When my team and I crashed into a tree on Boko Haram territory, I definitely considered whether my shoes matched my backpack. For the ninety-two days that they held me in their dirty headquarters and laughed as I feared for my life, I was absolutely concerned about the fact that my roots needed touching up.
Janet can never know. She doesn't want to know. Perhaps that makes me judgemental and sanctimonious, but I cannot be bothered about her designer magazine life. Yes, she doles out soup to the homeless in winter and pushes to save the planet with her energy-efficient lightbulbs. It's good, it's all good. But until her face has been muddied by the experience of having to rely on do-gooders like her for survival, she will never understand.
"I love a good egg salad. Don't you, Lyddie?"
I smile. It's the path of least resistance. I raise my glass of water. "To us."
"Cheers, Lyddie. I'm so glad you're back and safe." She sips her water. "For a while there, we thought you were lost forever."
That's the truest thing she's ever said to me. "You know, Janet, part of me is lost forever."
She looks like she might cry. I feel like I wish I could cry, but I'm so blunted with medication.
I pick up my fork, smile at her and eat my egg salad.
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