Chapter Four

Lucinda viewed my relationship with Janette with something close to awe. ‘How does she get her hair so perfect?’ she asked me, when I showed her some photos I had of Janette on my mobile.

I had no answer.

‘Seriously, though. She’s beautiful.’ The tone was accusatory. And, looking at myself in the mirror most mornings, grey-faced, sullen-mouthed, I couldn’t help but sympathise with her sense of aesthetic injustice.

That said, it was my look of general unwellness that catalysed our friendship. She worked in a Pret a Manger on the Strand, around the corner from the Cold Turkey office, where I saw her on the days Janette didn’t pack my lunch.

Inevitably, I would end up just getting coffee. It was the cheapest option, and one that guaranteed at least a temporary adrenalin rush. I would spend the rest of lunch hour frenetically skimming the pages of whatever book I was reading that week and return to the office ready to tackle whatever complex filing task awaited me with renewed and inspired zest before the next moment of sudden despair attacked.

Walking into the Pret, however, I imagine I appeared less than inspired.

‘You look like hell,’ was, in fact, the first thing she ever said to me. I took it as a compliment: finally, someone noticed.

‘Seriously – you okay?’ she asked. I nodded. I imagined I was grinning, but the look of concern on her face indicated otherwise.

‘Don’t get much sleep?’ she prodded. Coming from anyone else, such insistence would have seemed rude. But from her, it was flattering. When was the last time someone had commented on the bags under my eyes? Stupid question – my friends knew to be surprised when I didn’t look ashen.

‘Yeah – I mean no. I mean I don’t get much sleep,’ I fumbled. ‘I definitely need more.’

‘Mmm.’ She nodded, wisely. ‘You should go easy on the coffee, you know. It’s dehydrating.’ She pointed at my – very large – take-away cup.

‘You should go herbal,’ she clarified, indicating the cup of tea she was handing to another customer. ‘It’s better for you. Good for the soul.’ She said it as if she meant it.

I found myself wishing fervently that I were the sort of person who talks about the health of their soul without laughing. It must have shown – she broke into a smile.

‘My god, I’m joking. I’m sure a double whiskey first thing in the morning is much better for you.’ She grinned, then nodded towards the deli counter. ‘You ordering anything else?’

‘No, just coffee. I want to dehydrate myself as much as possible’ I answered back. I am quipping with a beautiful girl who drinks peppermint tea and is self-deprecating, I thought to myself.

She’s probably self-deprecating in bed, as well, I found myself adding. It was difficult to restrain myself from asking outright if she was.