On and on she goes as I pick at the salad in front of me. I make the right kind of noises, or at least I think I do, the odd “ooh sounds fun,” and “lovely idea,” and “yes of course.” It’s enough to keep her dominating the conversation and I start to feel some of the tension ebb away, my appetite returning as I nibble on a delicious and still-warm bread roll.

I realize she has stopped talking and is looking at me, her head cocked to one side. I reach for another bread roll from the basket in the middle of the table, wanting to fiddle with something and avoid the hardening of her stare.

“Look, Leah…” She trails off, but then the equine smile snaps back into place. “How about we take things easy the next few weeks? Get Zach to use some of the content we’ve been saving for a rainy day?” I nod at her. That could be a lifesaver. “Great! I’ll need a few soundbites about this Wuhan virus thing, you know a ‘thoughts and prayers’ job. But otherwise, take some time. No one will even realize.” Then suddenly she looks at her watch; it’s one p.m. She has given me exactly an hour of her time. She begins to pack up her things. “Important things to be doing, dah-ling!” she trills as she motions to the waiter for the bill. “Perhaps next time you’ll be feeling a little more yourself, hmm?” Then she turns and walks out of the restaurant, leaving me somehow both relieved and uncomfortable. I assume Leah is normally more talkative, more forceful. They probably usually “bounce ideas off each other.”

I play the scene over and over, wondering what it is that Emma Baptiste-Harbington thinks is wrong with Leah, as I walk back to the house, my hands buried into the folds of Leah’s heavy navy blue coat. It’s gorgeous and lined with gray silk. It looks incredible, but the silk is so cold it feels damp against my skin, and I am freezing.

Later that afternoon, after I have warmed myself up with tea and a custard slice, procured from a bakery I passed coming back, I send a little note to Emma to apologize for being quiet. Even if I was normally like that, it couldn’t hurt to be polite. Plus, I really need a heads-up on what she thinks is wrong.

Emma messages me back: I’m not surprised you feel under the weather with how much wheat you ate.

No pleasantries. No top and tail of nicety. Ten seconds later another message: You should be more careful, Leah. Be better.

Be better! Who the hell does that little jumped-up bitch think she is? Be better! And who gives a shit about my wheat consumption anyway?

But even as I think it, my eyes are drawn to the fancy magnetic board by Leah’s desk, covered in rectangles of creamy card inviting her to all sorts of events. One of them has a gold border and beveled edges. It cordially requests the pleasure of Leah’s company at the 25^th Annual Fundraising Dinner in Aid of the Coeliac Foundation. Handwritten at the bottom in beautiful cursive: Perhaps you could say a few words about your own experiences? Fuck! How did I miss that? Here’s the thing: Leah was not coeliac. She was, however, an attention-seeker and it looked like she had jumped on the gluten-free bandwagon for exposure. Her fraud had almost ousted me.