September 2nd 1979, Amanda and I ate in a fancy Chinese restaurant Amanda had heard about from a friend. We had won ton soup, crispy seaweed, then pork in black bean sauce with spring onions and ginger: peculiar, salty-sweet, slightly sticky things. Egg rice. Straw mushrooms. What do you mean when you say, Tell me everything? How much detail do you want? Those bright yellow chickens squashed flat, the brown ducks slowly turning on spits in the window, the bundles of lanterns, the little red candle in a glass bowl, the tiny waitress with heavy framed glasses who poured out wine for Amanda and water for me, Amanda’s napkin smudged with lipstick, our smiles as we fumbled with our chopsticks, us pushing hand in hand through the crowds in Leicester Square to get back to where I’d parked the van in Frith Street? Tasmin, I want to point out there’s nothing I can do right here. Such as, when I use the word ‘we’. You and I both know that Amanda and I are soon to be as separate as you can get.
