‘You have a beautiful smile, Teeshy. Let me buy you another drink.’

‘I’ll get my own, thanks.’ She tried to catch the eye of the barman who was filling flute after flute with cheap fizzy wine in anticipation of the imminent countdown.

The hotel bar was crowded thanks to all the grounded flights – synthetic jazz music piped through ceiling speakers, party spirits roaring, its huge, muted television screen ready to show the New Year fireworks. The countdown clock read seven minutes to twelve. Surrounding Pax were a curious mix of the displaced and the nightshifters taking a short break – couples, families, co-workers – all determined to make the most of things.

The barman was refusing to catch her eye. How many vodkas had she had? Just two, surely. And the one in her room. She must keep count. Maybe make this next one an espresso martini to keep her sharp. It would be her last. She’d sober up with fresh air taking the puppy for a wee break, followed by unadulterated caffeine in privacy upstairs.

Thinking about the deerhound made her jump guiltily. She needed to check him soon. Just one more drink. She waved at the barman, but he’d turned away to serve a crowd of grounded Germans.

Hairy Wrists had moved his bar stool closer, his tailored suit leg pressed against her denim one now.

‘Eef you won’t let me buy you champagne,’ he breathed, instantly summoning the barman for her with no more than a raised finger as though they had concealed earpieces, ‘then let me tell you about myself while I work out how to seduce you, Teeshy.’

She laughed her canned laugh again. A bottle of vodka was the most reliable way of getting her horizontal, she wanted to point out. Ordering her martini with relief, she noticed him knock back a flute of fizz in just one mouthful, which struck her as strangely unFrench, as was the wink he gave her. ‘You like what you see, no?’

Dark-browed, with a mole like a beauty spot on his upper lip, Hairy Wrists reminded her of a dissolute eighteenth-century vicomte. Probably early forties, his cocky swagger was redeemed by melting laughter-creased brown eyes, the first grey flecks in the black hair lending him gravitas. He worked in industrial development, he told her. Two sons living with his British ex-wife, the divorce recent enough to make him catch himself and look away to regroup. Theirs had been a town and country life. He’d kept the country house. He loved shooting. He cooked. He played tennis. He had two race horses in training. His greatest love after his children was his Braque du Bourbonnais bitch, Cher Cher.

Had he bothered to ask her about herself, he’d have discovered that they were surprisingly well matched on paper. In a year or two, they could be meeting on a blind date set up by mutual friends, his amour propre and diminutive stature a turn-off in sobriety. Would her world ever change that much? It seemed another lifetime.