Hampstead, March 25th

Gwen has chosen a tapas bar this time, an easy tube ride down the Northern Line from her house in Hendon. Lyla’s journey has taken a little longer – she checks her watch as she walks up the massive escalator, her body feeling slightly spectral at the speed she glides past adverts for west end shows and travel insurance. She’s five minutes late and Gwen will silently notice this fact.

It takes a moment for Lyla to get her bearings as she emerges from the station. The evening light is dwindling, slowly encompassing figures in black and grey coats, making their way home. She eyes the Starbucks, Gwen’s marker, and walks towards it.

Gwen is seated at a table near the front, back rigid, book in hand. It is a ritual she picked up at university with Lyla, who was constantly 15 minutes late for everything. Gwen was always 10 minutes early and therefore needed some form of entertainment while she waited. She looks up as Lyla throws her coat over the back of the chair, her eyes hard and calculating for a split second before melting into warm recognition.

“Lyla! How are you?” She half-stands to receive Lyla’s kiss, “Trouble on the tube?”

“Can never rely on London transport,” responds Lyla, sucking in her breath as she sits down.

“How’s Sam?” she asks, eyebrows raised, eyes wide.

“He’s well. Working hard, as always.”

“Do you remember that horrible Charles I went out with just before I met Lucas?” Gwen’s eyes drop to her wedding and engagement rings on her left hand and she swirls them around her finger. “He was always working. At least that was his excuse. It was such a relief to find Lucas who actually made time for me!”

She leans forward in her seat and looks back up at Lyla, a half smile on her face. Lyla holds her gaze for a moment too long, so that the silence is uncomfortable.

“Oh, not that I’m saying that about Sam, darling!” Gwen breaks the hush, her face becoming animated.

“Oh, I – I didn’t take it that way,” replies Lyla, just as the waiter arrives at their table.

“Ladies, something to drink?”

Their necks elongate as they turn their collective attention to the waiter. Gwen is the first one to turn her gaze back across the table.

“They have a fabulous Spanish tempranillo here,” she says, bright-eyed and chirpy.

“Sounds great,” says Lyla as she meets Gwen gaze. Lyla smiles and reaches for the menu.