“She’s what the Spanish Inquisition would aspire to be. In the old days she’d have been running training seminars for them.”

He chuckles, and we sit down. Introductions are immediately performed, and I smile genially around, already knowing I won’t remember anyone. People aren’t really my strong point, and I lack small talk. My sister is already chatting happily with the woman next to her. Lennie must have got my share of that as well.

I turn to Mags to find him watching me. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, unfurling his napkin as the waiting staff arrive to serve our starters. “You just have a very expressive face.”

“Have I? No one has ever said that before.”

His smile is wide and far too charming. “People are my bread and butter. I spend a lot of hours every day observing their expressions and gestures.”

“Poor you. I paint them and forget them just as easily.”

The smile plays on his full mouth, and I find my eyes fixing on those wickedly curling lips. I remind myself not to be stupid, but when I look down, I notice his big hands and their prominent veins. I’d like to draw them, I think idly, wishing for a piece of paper and a pencil.

I scrutinize my own hands, my nails bitten down to the quick and the cuticles stained with paint. I scrub them hard whenever I shower, but I think at this stage, the paint is a permanent feature.

Conversation flows around us, becoming louder as everyone drinks their weight in wine. Mags seems to know everyone and does not attempt to speak to me, regardless of his assertion that I was his only intelligent company. Irritation stirs, but I push it down and turn determinedly to the lady sitting to my right. We become involved in a discussion about kitchen design, but I’m not sure I hold up my end of the conversation.

I turn back to Mags to find his eyes intent on me. “I need to apologise to you,” I say softly.

He takes a sip of his wine, his brown eyes warm and curious. “What for? Hiding in your flat?”

“You knew?” I say before I can think better.

He smiles. “Your silence has a rather deafening quality.”

I hesitate. “Well, I am sorry. It was rude. I should have said thank you.”

“Ack. Please don’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be thanked. It’s very tedious.”

“You are a strange man.”

He chuckles, and the sound is rich and warm. “It has been said. How are you feeling now? Any more migraines?”

“No. None at all.” It’s a complete lie, and I can tell that he knows it. “Thank you for looking after me,” I say hurriedly. “Especially as it was my silly fault that you had to.”

His brow furrows. “Why? You had a headache. It couldn’t be helped.”