‘You know what I believe, Doc?’ He lowered the pitch of his voice, going for a combination of intimacy and profundity. ‘I believe there are times when people like you and me—people who’ve been through a lot—we should go easy on ourselves. You know what I’m saying?’

His gaze kept shooting towards her handbag, as if he could X-ray through the leather to see the Dilaudid inside. Presumably he wasn’t aware of how obvious he was being about his fixation on the contents of the bag.

‘You do whatever you need to do to get through the dark times, you know?’ he continued. ‘And if that means sometimes you rely on alcohol or a drug to make you feel good, give you a little bit of peace—well, hey, that’s okay.’

He smiled at Paula and she returned the smile. His mind was moving exactly where she had envisaged it would.

It was almost midnight on a Sunday, so there weren’t many people around when they turned into the Darlinghurst side street. As Santino punched in the code at the entrance to his apartment building, Paula was relieved to see there was no one around to notice him go inside with a blonde woman.

They travelled up in the lift to the fifteenth floor and Santino unlocked the front door of his apartment, ushering Paula inside with a welcoming flourish.

There was an entrance hall with a chrome and glass side table and a mirror with a chrome frame. The hallway was otherwise a dark tunnel, swathed in charcoal carpet and black-on-black wallpaper—matte black background with shiny black embossed circles on top.

Turning the corner out of the hall, the apartment opened up into a huge space, with the kitchen and living room looking out over the night cityscape through floor-to-ceiling windows. The place must be worth a packet—paid for by his family, according to Anita.

The interior was a symphony in black, white and chrome. Two white leather sofas, black high-gloss kitchen, glass-and-chrome dining table with white leather chairs. There was another large mirror—how clichéd a narcissist could this guy be?—and the only artworks were a couple of enormous chiaroscuro photos of naked women.

Santino’s face, its surface as glossy as his apartment, had settled into an expression of expectant smugness about his home. Paula made the impressed ‘mm’ noise she knew he was expecting.

‘Cleaners haven’t been this week,’ he said as he darted about, kicking a few items of clothing into a corner and sweeping takeaway containers into a cupboard. Otherwise the place was pretty neat, or at least uncluttered, with lots of hard, bare surfaces. The opposite of homey. Paula tried to imagine bringing a baby into this apartment.

‘Another bourbon?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please,’ she replied.

Santino dumped his leather jacket onto a bench and said, ‘Want to take your coat off?’