McGraw was next to her, long fingers holding something circular and shiny. The souvenir coin of St. Matthew that Susan had kept in a succession of wallets and purses since her yaya gave it to her when she was six years old.

“Thank you.” She took it carefully, making sure there was no contact between her fingers and McGraw’s.

“Since I’m ordering one for me and Ed, would you like me to buy you a drink?” he offered.

Such an offer directly contravened the ever-breachable Clause 4, but the flames of rage reserved for McGraw were losing their heat. In the last two nights, dwelling on her grudge had barely kept her awake long enough to see her alarm clock tip over into single digits. With Vectra on the scene, Susan’s enmity toward McGraw seemed a little . . . unnecessary.

Besides, in accepting a drink from her old enemy, she could avoid further engagement with her new one.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“Still drinking Lagavulin? Single measure? Neat?”

“I am . . .” Susan looked him in the eye, waiting for a familiar stab of hostility. “But make it a double.”

She was still waiting for it when he turned to summon the woman behind the bar.

Five whole minutes Susan had been speaking to McGraw, and Esther had yet to see blood. What was happening over there?

“I see Susan’s ditched us for a guy.” Vectra followed Esther’s gaze. “Typical.”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Make that two guys. Richard Branson’s arrived.”

“Richard Branson?” Esther was confused—the only other person she could see talking to them was Ed Gemmell.

“You know. Virgin.”

“Of course. Ha, ha, ha.” Esther didn’t like the sound of her laugh any more than she liked the joke. “We could always go up and—”

“No.” Vectra turned her back on the bar. “Susan doesn’t like me.”

“She’s like this with everyone.”

“Then you should really get some better friends.”

Esther wilted. Sure, Susan could be a bit caustic at times, and sarcasm was her first language, but Esther had never really seen that as a problem.

“Well, you’ve not yet met Daisy,” she began, but Vectra was losing interest, and Esther decided against pursuing it. The amount of time Daisy spent doing yoga would make it impossible to arrange a meet-up anyway.

They needed something else to talk about, and Esther looked down at her T-shirt. Vectra was wearing a sweatband with the familiar Marilyn Manson logo stitched white on black, but she’d not mentioned Esther’s outfit, and if Esther wanted to steer the conversation toward music, then she was the one who needed to take the wheel.

“Um . . . so . . . you like Marilyn Manson, too?”

“What gave you that idea?” Vectra frowned.

“Your um . . . this.” Esther tapped Vectra’s wrist, taken aback at how fast her friend recoiled from the contact. “Sorry.”