‘It’s unbelievable; these kids would do anything for a few drops of alcohol. Can I offer you something, mademoiselle? If I manage to squeeze through, that is . . .’

He had a warm, husky voice, almost cracked. Very masculine. I turned around, a typical reply-that-takes-the-wind-out-of-the-sails-of-don-juans-who-talk-like-in-a-novel on the tip of my tongue: ‘No, thank . . .’ And stopped mid-sentence.

The guy was good looking. Charming. Not what I had been expecting. Forty, or a little more – it didn’t matter – in any case, a lot older than the average age of the other guests. Tall, fairly classic features and a muscular physique that was visible through his loose, long-sleeved grey sweatshirt. A thin, well-kempt beard, longish curly black hair, which he’d smoothed behind his ears but which I could immediately tell he had trouble taming. Of Mediterranean origin, most likely, both coarse and sophisticated at the same time. Very dark, almost black eyes, with a steely glint, despite his smile – because he was smiling at me, waiting for my answer. I was standing rooted to the spot, probably looking a little gormless, and then a girl carrying several beers bumped into me. Crash. Beer spilt all over the floor. I desperately clutched at the person next to me. Missed. Slipped. Beer all over my white blouse. Humiliation.

The young woman apologized profusely, repeatedly calling me madame. Further humiliation. My handsome stranger had said mademoiselle, that was my consolation prize. Shit – my blouse. All I needed was a beer-soaked wet T-shirt competition . . . I told the girl it didn’t matter – ‘Honestly, I assure you –’ and my knight in shining armour held out his hands and helped me up. I was surprised by the contrast between his firm, vigorous grip, completely in keeping with his slightly gruff image, and his unusually long fingers. A man’s hands are the first thing I look at – after his eyes and buttocks, of course. As for his bum, I hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of it yet, but his eyes and hands fulfilled their promise.

‘I’m so sorry; it’s all my fault . . . If I hadn’t distracted you—’

‘Don’t worry; it’s nothing – and, besides, I love the smell of beer on my body.’

Jesus, Thelma, what kind of stupid joke is that? Can’t you think of anything better?

‘That’s lucky. I also love the smell of beer on your body.’

The guy had a sense of humour. He was on a roll.

‘Let’s go back to where we left off, shall we? Allow me to offer you that drink I promised . . .’

Where the hell did this guy, who looked like an action-movie hero and spoke like an educated actor, come from? Impossible to remain indifferent, in any case. I have to admit, I felt an immediate, almost animal attraction towards this stranger. It was inexplicable, disconcerting. Fucking pheromones.