‘Well, here you got manta ray and yellowfin taquitos with pico de gallo, Caldo de Siete Mares, which is a kind of fish stew, chiles rellenos – stuffed bell peppers – duck croquetas, chips and guac, grilled broccoli and a chocolate and pecan brownie to share.’

‘This… this makes me so happy. That’s so sad, isn’t it?’ I laughed. ‘How much do I owe you?’

Rafael wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Buy me dinner tomorrow, we’ll call it even.’

‘Deal.’ We clinked bottles.

We chatted long into the night. I told him about The Alibi Clock, my ill-fated attempt at writing a book and getting it published; he told me about his army career and his dabbling in oils and watercolours, as evidenced by the artworks on display in Salomé’s gallery.

‘Yeah, I saw those,’ I said, swerving around what I wanted to say – that they were shite – and instead opting for the less offensive ‘They’re all sold’.

‘Did you like them?’

‘I don’t know anything about art.’

‘But what did you think of them?’

‘So colourful and… you’re incredibly talented.’

The lie stuck in my throat like a bone but he beamed at the compliment. I’d tell a thousand lies to make him look at me like that all the time.

‘I was nervous to talk to you before. At the airport.’

‘You were?’ I sank half my beer in one go to get the butterflies drunk. ‘Why were you nervous, Army Boy?’

‘Some women have that effect on me.’

‘What women?’

‘Ones I like. Ones I want to like me back.’

I sank the other half of my beer. ‘So you like me?’

‘Maybe.’

We’d got so flirty, all of a sudden. ‘Good. Well, feel free to check out my arse again any time you like.’

‘What?’

‘When I was coming up the stairs and you were behind me – you were totally checking out my arse.’

‘I was not checking out your ass,’ he said, all faux-annoyed.

‘Oh, all right. I was checking out yours earlier, that was all.’

‘When?’

‘In Salomé’s gallery. You were putting my bike in her store room and you bent over.’

‘Well, I wasn’t checking out yours.’

‘All right.’ I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘I was actually studying a tropical bird that had flown into the bar,’ he explained. ‘And if I did happen to glance up at—’

‘—stare at.’

‘—your ass, it was completely by accident.’ He couldn’t help smiling.

I couldn’t help it either. ‘I don’t know where we stand anymore on arse-checking. I mean, can we do that?’

‘I guess so,’ he shrugged. ‘If the ass-checkee doesn’t mind.’