I arrive early for lunch, and the woman at the table next to ours lets me hold her newborn while she finishes her food, and we talk about contractions and breastfeeding and self-employment. Coffee from the Southbank food market with a pal at the weekend, our kids ricocheting around the Royal Festival Hall. All-you-can-eat breakfast with old PTA colleagues at our regular haunt. Cocktails with the bookclub, a sneaked cigarette, a peek into the Tinder world on a single friend’s phone. Another lunch, a few days later, in a high marble room filled with harried French waiters, where we order extra extra frites and rub our bellies.
When I get home, J says, You look happy.
I say, I do, don’t I? There’s just something about hanging out with these smart, funny, ambitious, kind women. I didn’t get it for ages, but it’s… magic.
He says, All the women you hang out with are smart and funny.
And I say, Yup. Aren’t I the lucky one.