Page 31 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

‘I’m sorry?’ I faltered, until I realised she was asking about my husband – not that she knew that, of course. ‘Oh, he. Embarrassingly straight white male. Throws himself around town like a horny, bank-rolled teenager.’ At least that wasn’t lying.

I had a hideous memory then, of David sitting across the kitchen table from me and explaining the intricacies of “juggling women”. With a knowing expression he’d simply shrugged and said, ‘Patti, the best way to lie is to tell people the truth.’ And I swore to myself that it was advice I would never, ever take. Yet somehow…

‘We live together, actually. We’re an old married couple at this stage.’

‘How delightful! Tell me all about–’

‘Sorry, ladies, let me squeeze in with these drinks.’

I could have kissed the woman for having interrupted us. But I decided a healthier show of appreciation would be to leave a wedge of a tip for her at the end of the night instead.

‘Have you had a chance to browse the menu?’

‘Not just yet,’ Sheila answered. ‘Could we have another minute?’

‘Absolutely. Take your time, I’ll saunter back.’

‘We’d better get looking,’ I said, gratefully snatching my menu from the table and taking a hard stare at it. I’d spent most of the quiet hours at work googling a) the menu, and b) ingredients from the menu – honestly, why is everyone eating plants now? – so I was sure I knew it by heart. But the excuse to look away from Sheila’s questions was too good an opportunity. ‘Is there anything catching your eye?’ I asked.

There was a long pause where Sheila didn’t answer, causing me to glance up. I saw she was watching me, head tilted, arms loosely folded in front of her, and a very confident smirk on her face. She nodded. ‘I think there is, actually.’ She reached into her inside pocket and pulled out a pair of thick-rimmed, bottle-top reading glasses and slipped them on, before casting an eye over the menu. But seconds later she repeated, ‘I definitely think there is…’