We’re thinking about ordering more coffee when Celine finally arrives. Usually we don’t stay this long. Even when it’s the five of us. But I don’t usually have this much fun. And I think Henry might be enjoying it more too. I don’t want to leave. I could happily stay here chatting with him all day. Huh.

Celine drops into a seat and stares straight ahead, through the window, without speaking. She’s wearing a hoodie that I recognise as Adam’s, not least because it’s got an egg stain down the front. She’s not wearing any make-up and while she doesn’t usually wear her full face on a Sunday, she draws her eyebrows on at the very least. She’s also wearing her glasses, not her contacts, and the flip-flops she wears around the house instead of slippers. I’ve not sure I’ve ever seen her looking this rough inside the house, never mind outside it.

I look at Henry and he pulls a face that I think means ‘How should I know?’

I say, ‘Hey. Everything OK?’

She nods. Too much. ‘Fine. Everything’s fine. Sorry I’m late. Have you eaten? I’m starving. Oh no, wait. I’m going to be sick.’

She gets up and half-runs through the cafe to the loo.

‘Hungover then,’ Henry says. ‘Bet Adam’s still in bed.’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like a hangover to me. Usually she would just stay in bed.’

‘I’ve never seen Celine dressed quite like that,’ Henry says.

‘No,’ I agree. ‘That is definitely… new.’

‘She’s puking though,’ Henry says. ‘So… They were out last night, right?’

He lifts his arm and looks at the cuff of his shirt – he’s wearing a blue and white striped shirt that’s probably a bit more pyjama-ish than he realises. The cuff has ketchup on it and Henry sucks it into his mouth before looking at me and saying, ‘What?’

‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘And you’re probably right about Celine. Either that or—’

‘I have black coffee for Angry Girl,’ Mrs C interrupts, putting the coffee down on the table in front of where Celine was sitting. ‘She sick, yes? Tell her I know good cure.’

‘She’ll probably just have a fry-up,’ Henry tells her. ‘Best hangover cure.’

Mrs C shakes her head, waggling her finger at him and says something that actually sounds like ‘pshaw’ – ‘You tell her I have good cure, yes?’

‘Absolutely,’ Henry says.

When Celine comes back she looks pale and damp and exhausted. Some tendrils of hair are stuck to the side of her face and neck. And I think there’s a bit of sick in her hair, but I’m not going to tell her. She smells horrendous.

‘Big night?’ Henry asks her.

She shakes her head and, to my astonishment, her eyes fill with tears. I’ve never seen Celine cry. Not when Bowie died. Or Prince. Or George Michael. Not when we all went to the cinema to watch Lion and I cried so much I burst a blood vessel in my eye. Not even when her mum phoned to tell her the family cat had been run over. Celine just isn’t a crier.

‘Celine!’ I say, leaning over to grab her arm. ‘What’s happened?’

She takes a shuddering breath. ‘Me and Adam. Are over.’

God. I thought someone had died.

‘Really?’

‘You don’t sound shocked,’ she says. ‘Why aren’t you shocked?’

‘You… fight a lot,’ I tell her.

She shakes her head. ‘I love him so much. I just can’t—’

Mrs C appears again. ‘You tell her?’ she asks Henry.

‘Sorry, no—’

She tuts and puts one hand on Celine’s shoulder. ‘I have good cure for this.’

Celine looks up at her, her eyes bright and hopeful.

‘Patsas is Greek soup of lamb with head and insides—’

Celine jumps up, knocking her chair back and scarpers to the loos again.

‘I will make,’ Mrs C says, and heads back to the kitchen.

‘It’s tripe soup,’ Henry says, turning his phone to show me. ‘I Googled. It’s tripe soup. Why would she think anyone would want to eat that?’

‘Some people must want to eat it,’ I say. ‘I bet Celine isn’t one of them though.’

‘It sounds bloody awful. “One large lamb head,’’’ he reads. ‘“Use the whole skull.”’

‘It does not say that!’ I reach for his phone and he hands it to me. It really does say that. God.

---

When Celine comes back she looks, unsurprisingly, even worse than before.

‘So…’ I ask, as she sips tentatively at her black coffee. ‘What happened?’

She shakes her head. ‘We want different things.’

‘What…’ I don’t know what to ask. I look at Henry and he’s no help. I wish Freya was here. She’d just ask all the full-on nosy questions and not even care.

‘What do you want?’ I try.

Celine groans. ‘I want to do my job. And come home to someone who loves me. And have great sex. That’s it.’

‘That sounds… Adam doesn’t want that?’

‘Adam wants to move to Southend and buy a house and have babies.’ She shakes her head, winces, and closes her eyes.

Southend is where Adam is from and he has enormous extended family there that he’s still really close to. Celine’s not really close to her family at all.

‘And you don’t want that?’ I say. Even though it’s clear that she doesn’t.

‘I do!’ she says, wiping her face. ‘I think. But not now! Not for years. I’ve got a fucking ten year plan.’

This is why I find Celine intimidating. I don’t even have a ten day plan. Sometimes it’s all I can do to plan for the next ten minutes.

‘And it’s in your ten year plan?’ I ask. ‘Marriage and babies and… Southend? With Adam?’ I realise too late that I’m talking sort of carefully and gently to her, as if I’m a therapist.

‘Yeah,’ she says, draining her black coffee. ‘Can you get more?’ she asks Henry. ‘I’m worried if I turn round I’ll puke again.’

Henry waves at Mrs C and Celine says, ‘Wait, no. Fuck. Get me a mint tea.’

‘So you do want it,’ I repeat. ‘But not yet.’

It makes sense to me, but I’m not really sure why she’s quite so upset. Maybe Adam would be willing to wait five years and Celine could bring it forward and they could meet in the middle? It doesn’t seem to me like something you’d split up over. But what do I know?

‘Yes,’ Celine says. ‘But now it’s all fucked up.’

‘Why is it?’ I ask, as Mrs C approaches to take Henry’s order.

‘Because I’m motherfucking pregnant,’ Celine says.