Jennifer wasn’t giggling. That was a slight problem with her – a bit too serious. They’d met only three weeks ago in the queue of volunteers for Rolt’s campaign. Having just lost another bar job and with fuck-all else to do, he’d thought it might be a laugh. That, plus doing his bit for the country, of course, making a stand against Muslim extremist nutters, putting them in their place – preferably back where they came from. He’d seen her in the line and couldn’t take his eyes off her – she didn’t seem to mind. When they’d got talking it turned out she was heading towards her university finals in politics and was on a mission to help right some wrongs. Her father, a cop just retired from the Met, had egged her on to support Rolt. ‘Dad says he’s our only hope,’ she’d told him earnestly. He’d nodded vigorously. Next thing he knew they were paired up on the campaign trail. Bingo.

She’d agreed they would spend election night together, and he’d pulled off something of a coup by securing the suite that had been booked for Rolt, who hadn’t even shown up at the victory party downstairs. Everything had come good, except now she was spoiling it by going all serious.

Jennifer stood close to the door, listening.

He beckoned her. ‘C’mon, get over here.’

There were two more thuds, louder this time. She shuddered, gripped the lapels of the robe and bit her bottom lip as her eyes welled. He sighed as she wiped away tears. They had had their share of scares during the campaign and he had put on a show of chivalry, which he reckoned had only half convinced her.

‘Maybe they’re chucking furniture down into the atrium. Lock the door, come to bed and let the rumpus begin.’ He raised his arms in her direction and put on a sinister James-Bond-baddie voice, which seemed to go with the surroundings. ‘Come, my child.’

The lights snapped off and the TV screen faded to black.