Not what he expected, but his mind was already doing a tour of potential sophisticated cocktail establishments. He didn’t want to let her down on choices, he wanted to be the initiator, the all-knowing male. He wanted to be in command of the situation. He wanted to be in control of this element, at least, of his life.

He presumed he could sit down in the big brown room but didn’t: the cushions were immaculate and perfectly plumped, having received attention, he guessed, from Manita. His nervous observations, this time, which he just did to occupy his thoughts, revealed there were no books in the room. No television and nothing as far as he could see that supplied music, except the piano. He had got that far in his assessment when the door to the left of the room opened and there stood Lomita.

She was wearing a black trouser suit with the material on the legs flowing softly; they were wide, like a forties shape, the jacket nipped to the waist, her hair up, and with the turn of her head he could see it was in a French pleat, beloved of his mother.

She wore only, as far as he could tell, the red lipstick, although the shade was gentler in tone, and didn’t form such a contrast to the delicacy of her face. She did, he thought, look so elegant, and light, and floating as she walked tentatively towards him, on shoes with only the slightest of a heel.

‘The Polo Lounge, haven’t been there in twenty years.’

The decision was taken from him already, with the realisation: I am not in control. I am out of control. He now was aware, as he opened the car door for her, momentarily releasing her arm from his, that a cream blouse nestled around her neck underneath the tightness of her jacket. And indeed, she did have the gentlest suggestion of blue eye shadow on her upper lid, bringing out the fierce blue of her eyes. The dropping sun hit them and made her tense the muscles around them, ever so slightly, in defence.

He drove.

She spoke.