This didn’t feel good. She couldn’t very well let him loose on the roads while under the influence. It wasn’t just about him. She plucked up courage and turned around to face the man.

“Happy?” she said in a forcedly pleasant tone of voice, taking the bottle from the counter where he had put it without waiting for a reply.

Then she took the few paces to the larder and noted that he must have filled his mug generously on both occasions, because almost a third of the bottle’s contents was missing.

“Not quite,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound as friendly anymore. “I don’t think you’ve thanked me properly.”

And then she felt him place his hands on her hips and press himself against her. That the situation might develop like this hadn’t crossed her mind, and suddenly sweat broke out on her brow. She had to try and get out of this without causing an unnecessary scene. She still had the bottle in her hand—she shouldn’t have provoked him by questioning his driving.

“Perhaps you’d like more whisky?” she said in an overly cheerful voice.

She tried to turn away from him while at the same time attempting to escape his unwelcome embrace. She thought that she would wordlessly, without insulting him, let him know that she wasn’t interested, and that he should go home or to work or wherever it was he was going. Right now she didn’t care that he was too drunk to drive. He needed to leave straight away. She would call the police and ask them to stop him somewhere on the roads, which wasn’t much of a thank you for the lift—but he was an adult who made his own decisions, after all.

But his grip tightened. She didn’t manage to get free and didn’t succeed in turning around. If she were to tell him off, he would feel wronged and probably turn angry, and angry drunk men who took what they wanted like this weren’t the kind of people you should toy with. Everything was going wrong and she had to make him understand that he should stop without offending him.

She put the bottle on the counter, took hold of his hands and tried to force them away while slipping out of his grip. But it didn’t work—and wouldn’t if she didn’t take really drastic measures, and she wanted to avoid that.

“Surely you’re not playing hard to get?” he said in a darker, more drawling voice than before, speaking into her neck just below her ear.

His breath was warm and moist, his lips wet, and the fumes of alcohol reached her nose when he spoke.

“A little gratitude would surely be appropriate?”

A big, sweaty paw fumbled under her top while the other maintained a firm grip on her waist. Sandra was really getting scared now, and realised there was a risk she wouldn’t get out of this. She made a serious effort to free herself, a very definite one, but without words, so that he wouldn’t feel trampled on. Anything that wasn’t said would never happen—she gave him every opportunity to back out of the situation.