Protozoa was a gobsmackingly sad establishment. Presumably the owners had fancied the sound of the word when they chose it as the name without investigating the meaning. In fact, ‘a single cell parasitic microbe’ accurately captured the microscopic life breeding on the fixtures and furniture inside.

Paula felt self-conscious as she walked between the tables. Luckily, the new hair, shoes and clothes helped—a costume to play the role of someone who would feel confident about strolling into a bar like this alone.

She made a show of scanning the place, as if looking for someone she knew, before she fronted up to the bar. She ordered a bottled beer, on the basis that a sealed commercial product was the thing least likely to be contaminated by the E. coli which clung to every surface.

Taking the beer to one of the small round tables, she took off her warm jacket and sat down, crossing her legs in the braided, vampy way which was the only possible position in such a tight skirt. She tugged her top a bit higher on her shoulders, self-conscious about the two centimetres of cleavage.

Her phone was a handy prop—checking messages was a way to keep up the performance that she was waiting for someone who was late. Even so, she was conspicuous. Within ten minutes a guy sidled over and stood a metre away until she eventually looked up. He was only in his late forties, but already alcoholism had mottled his face with enlarged blood vessels and his abdomen, tight with ascites fluid, was stretching the front of his T-shirt. He stood there smiling at Paula. Was it a come-on smile? Too hard to decipher in the low lighting.

Finally, he said, ‘Hi there. Are you, uh …’ The guy didn’t even have enough confidence to finish whatever pick-up line he’d planned to use.

Paula jumped in quickly. ‘I’m waiting for my boyfriend.’

He showed her the palm of his hand to indicate he would leave her alone, then he sauntered over to the bar, as if that had been his destination all along.