“I drove you to drink,” Sonja slurred, a mocking tone creeping into her voice.

My face flushed, and it was only partly the vodka.

“You were always so high-and-mighty about it. You were always so much better than everybody else. How does it feel to be down on earth with the rest of the … you know … the humans? Do you feel ashamed? Do you feel anything at all?” What is it about a British accent that makes contempt so much less bearable?

“I feel…” I began.

There was a pause.

“Well, that’s a start anyway,” she muttered with a surprising tenderness. Then she knocked back a double. Her third in half an hour. She levelled a devastating gaze at me, tenderness forgotten. “You’re a bloody cold bastard, Guy. I used to think your stoicism was charming. It used to make me hot. Did you know that?”

I managed a nod.

“Well, here’s to love and stupid sex and stoicism and everything in between.” She clinked her glass against mine and stood up.

“Goodbye, Guy.” She was gone.

And then it all began.