Writing buddy 1B sneaks in through the kitchen door. I don’t hear a thing.
A little later, she slides down the hall, pauses in the doorway of my work space and, because she’s like that, she poses, grinning at me over the top of my screen.
–Kare, she says, throwing her arms wide. Jug’s on. Off your nono. A cuppa and a double feature at the Cuba Lighthouse. If we get going, there’s Florence Foster Jenkins followed by Hunt for the Wilderpeople.
I don’t move.
–It’s ten o’clock on a weekday morning, I say. I have to finish this. And I’ve seen Hunt for the Wilderpeople.
–So? You like watching movies a second time. With a mate, particularly avec moi and a shared pot of tea.
–One more viewing of a man-directed New Zealand movie with a male protagonist will kill me.
She shakes her head, beckons.
–I’ve been six hours on the road. Com’on, girl, a cuddle at least.
–I didn’t know you were coming.
–Because you don’t answer your ******* phones. Because you send out-of-the-office emails.
–Saw that the moment I walked in the door. You white girls. You get busy, and your kitchen is a tip and there’s nothing-in-the-fridge.
–I came prepared. Armed and dangerous, with almond croissants.
–I’m not eating sugar. Or wheat.
– **********. 1B is cross.
She edges round to look at the screen.