“Honestly, for a bunch of grown women, news travels way too fast around here. You’d think this was a place where gossip comes to thrive instead of a place to enjoy coffee.”

“Ooh, defensive,” Caitlin says.

“I ran into Micky this weekend,” Sheryl says. “She told me.”

“It wasn’t me who spilled the beans,” Caitlin says. “I would never.”

“Where is Micky this morning?” I ask. Even though I’m glad for one less inquiring mind that wants to know too much.

“She has the day off,” Josephine says.

“When is, er, she leaving?” Sheryl asks me.

“Camille is leaving on Thursday morning.” Oh, just saying her name to my friends. “Her plane takes off at eleven thirty in the morning.” I should plan a really exciting activity for that day. Thursdays are always recording days so I definitely won’t be able to take time off to accompany Camille to the airport. It’s simply not possible. Who am I interviewing again this week? My mind is so preoccupied, the interviewee’s name escapes me.

“So, it’s a holiday romance,” Sheryl says.

“It is for her because she’s on holiday. It’s back to the dreariness of everyday life for me after she’s gone.”

“Aren’t we being a touch dramatic?” Caitlin asks.

How can I explain to her that a woman I met only three days ago has already shifted my perspective on everything. That I dread this coming Thursday when she will fly out of my life for good. When I will come home in the evening to the same old house Rebecca and I shared and everything will be covered in a new layer of gloom. A double one. One post-Rebecca. And one post-Camille. And how the upcoming loss of an overly long one-night stand is going to hurt me just as much as the unraveling of a sixteen-year relationship. That I know it was meant to do me good. Make me feel desirable and alive and get me out of my own head where I was spinning circles feeling sorry for myself. And that I fear it will only end up increasing my self-pity. Because the madness of it all is that, after these three short, romantic, frenzied days, I don’t want Camille to leave. I want to talk to her more about all the things she’s so eloquent about. I want to marvel at the way she articulates her thoughts, and how her cheek dimple deepens when she ponders a question for a minute and holds up a finger, and says, “I’m still thinking” and the th always sounds more like an s.

I shrug. “I’d best get to work.”

“We’re here if you want to talk,” Sheryl says. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I might move into the rental after she leaves. Be closer to my new friends.” It may sound like a joke, but I should just do it.