I Booked Her In

I hate that the tear went into the steak jus. It makes the whole thing feel embarrassingly literal, like my body finally got bored of waiting for me to say the sentence. I said I was fine. I always say I am fine, even when the words have started scraping against my teeth. Mum heard the difference, because of course she did. She has spent my whole life hearing me perform a version of myself that does not need anything.

When she squeezed my wrist like she did when I was nine, I wanted to make a joke about the meat being underpaid. I wanted to turn the waiter's concern into a bit. Instead I sat there with steak juice on my cheek and felt nine years old again, except now the nine-year-old has a show and a ticket price and all these clever people deciding whether he is worth listening to.

I booked her a third-row seat from the gents. Third row is close enough that she can see every ugly flicker, and far enough away that I can pretend she cannot. I stared at my face while the confirmation loaded, as if the phone might tell me which one of us was lying.

Part of me is afraid she will come and see exactly what Yara has been trying to make me admit. The rest of me is already writing the joke about it. I do not know which one is worse: her seeing me fall apart, or her laughing when I do. I keep thinking about the woman in the fourth row and her little oh no. At least she had the decency to be shocked. Mum has known me too long for that.

I am not fine. I am just booked, for Friday, and suddenly that feels like the bravest thing I have done all week.