Page 68 of While I’m Still Here

“Don't.”

“If I have two, Nigel and Farage.”

“Bea.”

“If I only have one, Farage… maybe Barbara because fuck Farage.”

“That's considerably worse.”

She grins at me over the top of her coffee cup, and something about the expression makes me realise she knows exactly what she's doing now.

She's teasing me… And I'm letting her. Worse, I'm beginning to suspect I like it.

“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I wasn't expecting breast cancer to involve this much admin.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Naming your surgical drains isn't compulsory.”

“Maybe not in your treatment plan.”

“It wasn't in mine either.”

“And yet Nigel existed.”

“Nigel was a mistake.”

“No.” Bea shakes her head with complete seriousness, although the corners of her mouth are already twitching again. “Nigel was a gift.”

I look at her for a moment, then down at the remains of my coffee because smiling at it feels marginally less revealing than smiling at her.

Eight days.

I've known Bea James for eight days.

This is probably going to become a problem.

That shouldn't feel particularly significant, except that I don't usually have coffee with people from the group. This is a boundary I've maintained since treatment. I'm happy to answer questions. Happy to talk after meetings. Happy to be the man in the room when another man needs to see one.

I don't usually take any of it outside.

Bea catches me looking at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You've got a face.”

“I always have a face.”

“No, a specific one. What?”

I should tell her nothing. Instead, I say, “I don't usually do this.”

Her smile fades slightly. “Have coffee?”

“With people from the group.”

“Oh.”

“So why are you having coffee with me?”