‘Darren Aronofsky or a Tarantino and your life path is immediately on an exciting and positive track. You meet some exploitative little scumbag who wants to fuck you, please excuse my language, it’s the martini, and make some cash out of you and the next thing you know you’re in glamour magazines wearing very little, with a nice enough place to live, admittedly, but your track is pretty much set from there. And let me tell you, my sweet, it may have some pearls on the way and may put some diamonds on your fingers, but you are heading on the track downhill. Full speed, well, depending on how long you hold out physically. You know, not strength-wise but looks-wise. You are, wherever you are, a commodity, a tube of toothpaste, you just hope they keep liking your flavour.’

Ever decided that it was again inappropriate to ask her to elaborate on this topic and instead allowed his mind to rest on the two things that had occurred to him while she was talking.

Firstly that ‘my sweet’ seemed to be her term of endearment and he hoped it wasn’t a general one she used for everyone, that it was reserved for him alone; the other was that when she started talking she liked to carry on. She got fired up and didn’t stop. He reflected on both these observations and regarded them as qualities that he liked. As he prepared to slice the burger in half he considered asking for ketchup and mayonnaise, but they arrived as the request was on his lips.

And he toasted her for the second time that evening with a glass of his Grgich Hills cabernet.

‘Here’s to—’

Before he could finish, she interrupted, or rather completed, the toast with,

‘Health.’

A definitive and unquestionable affirmation of the most important thing in the world.

‘Health, my sweet.’

She reiterated. She seemed to eat small mouthfuls of her salad, pouring on globule amounts of the creamy dressing, a dollop at a time, and pushing the chicken to the side of the plate. Essentially she was eating iceberg lettuce, but at a cost.

Polo Lounge cost.

But the martini was taking a hit.

It was her decision that the time had come to leave; she opened her purse and pushed a bunch of notes into his hand, hidden from view, under the table.

‘The check I think, don’t you? When you’re ready, otherwise I’ll be forced to have another martini and then that Sultan is going to get it in the neck.’