Her head snapped up.
Billie stood to the side of the table, framed by the restaurant’s soft lighting. Her overcoat hung open, the crisp white shirt beneath it almost glowing. She looked exactly as Debra expected her to, only now she carried a faint breathlessness, as though she’d hurried, even though Debra knew Billie didn’t hurry for anyone.
“Sorry I’m late,” Billie said. “Traffic.”
Relief rushed through Debra so quickly that it left her a little lightheaded. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“I considered it.” Billie slid into the chair opposite her. “But here I am.”
The waiter appeared, and Billie ordered coffee while Debra stuck with the wine she already had. When he left the table,silence settled over them, sparking with something Debra couldn’t quite put her finger on.
It’s just the relief of her showing up for you.
Billie glanced around, smiling, and then her eyes landed on Debra. “You chose well. It’s lovely here.”
“I come here with a friend when we’re able to catch up,” Debra said. “She swears by the risotto, and I can confirm that it’sverygood.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.” Billie folded her napkin neatly on her lap. “You look…well.”
Debra lifted a brow. “That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not. I promise you.” Billie lifted a hand. “Youdolook well. You look lighter.”
The compliment landed in a place Debra didn’t realise had been empty. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she said as she cleared her throat. “I think I’m just good at pretending.”
“Pretending can be useful. It buys us time to become whoever we’re pretending to be.”
A small laugh escaped Debra. “And what are you pretending to be?”
“That’s quite the question.” Billie looked down at her coffee as the waiter placed it in front of her. “Uncomplicated, maybe?”
That honesty knocked the wind out of Debra, but she wouldn’t delve too deep. Right now, she was just happy to be sitting across from Billie.
When their food arrived, the conversation shifted in a different direction. Debra talked about her new flat, about burning her first roast chicken in said new flat, and about fixing a dripping tap with a YouTube tutorial while swearing at the screen.
Billie listened the way she always did. With a focus that felt like warmth settling over Debra’s skin.
It wasn’t until Billie asked, “So, what do you do?” that everything stilled.
Debra’s fork hovered mid-air. “Do?”
“For work,” Billie clarified. “You strike me as someone good at whatever she puts her mind to.”
Debra smiled, even though she hated talking about her lack of career or life over the years. “That’s generous, but no. I don’t have a career. Never really did.”
A faint crease formed between Billie’s brows. “I’m sorry?”
“I was a housewife.” The words felt antiquated as they left her mouth, but it was the truth. That was all she’d been for as long as she could remember. “For twenty-three years.”
“That’s work,” Billie said. “And it’s harder than most paid jobs.”
“Not work that earns you a pension or a personality.” Debra set her fork down, her appetite no longer where she wished it was. “He was very traditional. I ran the house, raised the children—now nineteen and twenty-three and both away at university—and smiled when people told me how lucky I was.”
“And you don’t think you were?”
Debra met Billie’s gaze. “Luck isn’t the same as happiness.”
Billie’s nod held a weight that made Debra wonder what parts of her Billie understood.
