‘Can I just explain,’ Santino said, ‘that this low-grade place is not my usual style. But I’ve attracted a bit of media attention lately, so if I want a quiet drink, if I don’t want to be harassed, I have to come somewhere like this.’ He hooted a little laugh. ‘No one I know is going to show up here.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Paula.

‘Gotta say, I’m surprised to see a classy woman like you in Protozoa.’

‘Well, my reasons are similar to yours. Don’t want to run into anyone I know.’

‘I’ll pay that.’ Santino smiled. ‘I’m John, by the way.’

‘Hello, John.’

‘This is where you say your name.’

‘Oh. Well, uh, call me Doc.’

‘Short for … ?’ he asked. ‘Or because you’re a doctor?’

Paula shrugged.

‘Mm. Intriguing,’ he said.

Santino wasn’t intrigued for long. Being an A-grade narcissist, he preferred to talk about himself and Paula let him rattle on with a self-pitying rave for thirty minutes. The guy was puffed up with outrage at the way he’d been persecuted. Without mentioning the actual crime, he gave Paula his version of the last few months—the way he’d been falsely accused, put through a trial, forced to spend buckets of money, upset to see his family traumatised. Even now he’d been acquitted, people were still giving him shit. And it wasn’t just cops and journalists. His own girlfriend was shooting him filthy looks, as if he was some terrible monster, even though he’d been acquitted.

Paula made sympathetic noises. She sipped on her one drink and declined a refill, claiming she’d already had several. But Santino went to the bar and brought back two double bourbons for himself. On top of whatever he’d drunk earlier, the guy was clearly well pissed by now.

As he complained about the way he’d been wronged, Santino drifted away from slick charmer and closer to angry guy.

‘There are women out there,’ he said, skewering Paula with his hard brown eyes, ‘I mean, present company excluded—but there are bitches out there who want to tear your balls off.’ He smirked. ‘Well, those bitches can try but they don’t always get away with it.’

Then he frowned at Paula, registering the look on her face. She realised she must have let some disgust creep into her expression.

‘Bad unfair shit can happen,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t believe me? It can happen.’

‘I know unfair shit can happen.’

‘Too fucking right it can. You were looking at me just now like …’

‘No, no, sorry if I seemed—it’s not …’ Paula sighed. ‘Listening to you got me thinking about some of the stuff I’ve been going through.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Paula had rehearsed the next part in her mind and now seemed the right moment to drop it in.

‘My husband died of cancer eighteen months ago,’ she said.

‘Sorry to hear that. My condolences.’