“I prefer to drink that when I’m over there. It doesn’t taste the same here. You’ve been to Copenhagen?” I nod. “What did you think?” he asks, continuing to rummage through cabinets.

“It’s a beautiful city.”

I pull off my suit jacket and throw it over one of the white leather barstools. He places a cut-glass bottle in front of me that shoots little rainbows across the counter when it catches the light. Two shot glasses follow, the glass frosted from being in the freezer. He removes a brightly coloured tin from the fridge and a packet of blinis.

“I spent a couple of months there fulfilling some commissions,” I say, watching as he pours vodka into the glasses.

“I bet you painted Oscar Nielsen,” he says, naming a model who’d been famous in the seventies.

I gape at him. “How did you know?”

“He’s completely in love with his reflection. If he can’t find a mirror, he’s going to need a picture of himself.”

“He did seem very passionate about the painting,” I say diplomatically. He shoots me a look, and I laugh despite myself.

His mouth quirks. “Help yourself,” he says, nodding to the plate of food. He takes off his suit jacket and tie and then undoes the top button of his shirt. The opening reveals a hint of brown chest hair shot through with silver. I drag my eyes away and tuck into the food.

“God, that’s good,” I groan through a mouthful. I glance up to find him staring at me, his eyes darker than usual. He quickly looks away, and his strange expression vanishes.

“It is good,” he says. He grabs the plates and nods his head at the bottle and glasses. “Bring those, and we can relax on the sofa.”

I obey and follow him to the lounge area. There’s a huge cream sectional sofa and two big leather chairs grouped around a low coffee table that looks as if it was carved from driftwood. On one wall is a massive television, and brightly coloured artwork is hung everywhere. I recognise some more of his mother’s work. The whole effect is one of modern comfort and warmth. And money. Lots of money.

“It’s so tidy,” I say in an awed voice.

“Yes, I can see that it’s an alien concept to you.”

I grimace at him and wander over to a sleek entertainment centre where there’s an expensive stereo. “You’ve got a record player and a cassette recorder,” I say in a wondering voice.

“It’s Bang and Olufsen.”

“It’s a dinosaur in a record cabinet.”

He laughs.

“You like vinyl?” I ask, eyeing the record player.