Many years ago – less than ten but not more than eight, when I was four kids down and newly back to work in a part time role, I found myself at an awards ceremony for lawyers. I got sat at a table with my lovely lady boss and a bunch of people I didn’t know; among them, a New Zealander with a topknot and a signature flower in her hair which matched her very high heels and lipstick, and a man named Lawson. Lawson was handsome and funny and slightly catty and gorgeously dressed. He asked me thoughtful questions and helped me feel a little less out of place. We talked about running and families and restaurants and probably drank too much. On our way out our table passed by the photobooth and rummaged through the props and we got a few photos of us with wigs and boas and I think a fake moustache. I can’t find that photo now but I remember the impression of colour and closeups and foreheads and party clothes and big grins. It was the start.

Lawson and I began to meet up every now and then to go for weekend runs. He would get up at 7ish and run from his flat in Victoria to meet me at the Italian Fountains. We would always have a sweaty slightly gross hug and a salty cheek kiss before slowly, steadily, making our way to Holland Park, up the hill, right through to High Street Kensington and then back to the fountains again so I could go home to my hot little flat and my still pyjama’ed boys. Lawson, dressed in very serious thermals in winter, would carry on, jogging all the way back to Victoria where he would have a full weekend planned. He was always keen to go a little bit further on the runs than I wanted to, but I would go along anyway, because he was fun and we liked each other. Once he convinced me to run to Battersea and back which was a neat 10kms and I loved it (though never repeated it, which says something).

It wasn’t ever the run that I was after, but a chance to see Lawson and to tell him stuff. He was my friend. He would always ask me about the children in turn and ask after Mark, and we would do deep dives into problems at work. We talked about dating, galleries, church, yoga, and the problem of carbs, which took us to a lot of cinnamon bun conversations. (He loved a Gail’s cinnamon bun – fair enough – but even better, he said, was his weekend thing of saving up his weekly carb ration for a bun from Ole & Steen. We agreed on that.)

I kept loose ties to Lawson: Mark did up his flat (we inherited his cinema chair), that original awards ceremony table of lawyers met up at a hens’ weekend, Lawson and I surprised each other when our work overlapped, sidling up to each other to steal gossipy chats over lunch and in between breakout sessions and keynotes. Our runs were infrequent, and we mostly discussed meeting up rather than actually meeting up. Two weeks ago I asked him to come to a few work things planned but he said he couldn’t because he was abroad. I said “Next time! XX”

But then Lawson died. He died last week. I don’t know how. I don’t know where he was, or who he was with, whether he was sick, or sad. His workplace published a beautiful obituary and it was like a punch in the throat – or, maybe it was gentler than that because it felt like a stupid lie. He was also written about movingly by the gallery where he was a board member. Of course he was a board member – how thoroughly correct to have him as an arbiter and gatekeeper of taste and culture.

I keep making constant Google searches to find out more but keep coming up with nothing. I try Linkedin for posts mentioning him and there are no answers, because a few weeks ago he was still here, attending things and doing all the usual stuff that a prominent GC in London would do. So I am a bit stuck. How do you grieve for a part time friend? How do we gather appropriately and tell our stories of him? What is that weird in-between unnamed friendship place called where you love someone but the threads aren’t woven tightly enough to take a recognisable form?

I don’t know. I hope stories are enough. I was, and we were, lucky to have known you. Love you Lawson xx