Page 81 of Secret Paths

I consider lying.

The wine encourages honesty.

“There was a flight from Nairobi to London,” I say. “During my Doctors Without Borders years.”

Peter turns fully onto his side. “This already sounds promising.”

“It was not.”

“For you, no. For the story, possibly.”

“I had been working for nearly three weeks without a proper day off. Karim and I were flying back for meetings, and someone at the airport gave us chicken in a foil tray.”

Peter closes his eyes. “Oh, Mandy.”

“I know.”

“You are a doctor.”

“I was also hungry.”

“That is how they get you.”

“The chicken looked fine.”

“They always do.”

“It did not smell strange.”

“Classic trap.”

I point at him. “Do you want the story or not?”

He gestures for me to continue, smiling.

“Six hours later, somewhere over Europe, I realised I was going to die.”

“Clinical diagnosis?”

“Very confident.”

“What did Karim do?”

“He laughed.”

Peter’s mouth falls open. “Your husband laughed?”

“My ex-husband. And yes. I had spent twenty minutes insisting I was absolutely fine while turning an increasingly alarming shade of grey.”

“That seems fair.”

“I was trying to preserve dignity.”

“How did that go?”

“I vomited into a paper bag while a German businessman patted my shoulder and told me in excellent English that his wife was also stubborn.”

Peter laughs so hard it turns into a snort.