I got to my feet to hug her as she came round the table. But it was a different sort of hug to the one when we'd met, which had been one of unadulterated joy. This one had a bit of tension in it; from both of us. Her exasperation with me and my defensiveness had snuck in, despite our best efforts. But it was better than the last time, when she'd been in Manchester and we'd met halfway. At that Italian. When, actually, we'd had words. Or she had. This was better. Had been better. The trouble was, we knew each other too well to pretend. Not knew, loved. We loved each other much too, much to be disingenuous: to dissemble and agree, for form's sake, when we didn't. Which might explain my lackadaisical approach to emailing. And why I hadn't always picked up the phone when I'd seen her name on my mobile. Sent a text afterwards.

“Sorry - I'm painting, will call later!"

And hadn't. Shona was rigorous. Ruthless with me. Far worse than Celia. Yes, it was why we'd become not estranged — but distant.

"Come for supper," she said urgently. She held my shoulders, her eyes searching my face. "And bring Peter. Come next week — you'll still be here?"

"Yes, I'll still be here."

"And you can say hello to my lot. Honestly, is there no peace?"

A hugely overweight woman with a young man in tow was making for the door from another table, jerking her head urgently at Shona. Shona nodded back. “My editor and my sub. He's heaven, she's an oversexed nympho. She looked me in the eye the other day and said, ‘The thing is, Shona, I think about it all the time.’ I said thinking I was being caring — ‘Maybe you should see someone? There are sex-addiction therapists, you know?’ Turned out she was talking about food. Wasn't a great moment. Oh look, he's waiting for me, the love, I told you he was heaven. I'm going to have to fly." The young man was hovering anxiously by the revolving door. "I'll text you about supper."

She left, sweeping elegantly through the tables. As she went, heads turned, certainly at her beauty, but many in recognition. The man on the table beside me turned to his fellow diner and smiled, whispering her name.

“Really? Shona Okafor? Where?" Her head spun round to look.

I watched as the young man grinned and grabbed her hand when she reached him, and then they squeezed, laughing, into the revolving door together. Through the huge plate-glass window I saw them race down the street, still laughing. Shona's face was alive and joyous. Vital. That was the word I was groping for. I sat down slowly and reached for my glass. Sipped from it. The wine was warmer than one might have wished for.

Chapter 15