‘It’s Sawyer’s,’ I said, rolling my eyes and turning back to get some water. ‘What did that Gourmet article say? It’s easy to forget you’re not in a gentlemen’s club in the roaring twenties.’ I gave him a wry smile as I topped up his glass. ‘You can almost smell the cigar smoke,’ I went on.

He laughed, picked up the whisky. ‘Still, it keeps you sane.’

I touched the bar again. ‘What?’

‘This place. The other night you …’

I remembered, cringed at the memory.

He pretended not to notice. ‘Despite the cigar smoke.’

‘I like cigars,’ I said. ‘Entitled, over-cashed private school grads whose parents still pay their rent but never taught them to keep their hands to themselves, less so.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘What?’

He shook his head, obviously amused. ‘Nothing.’

‘So Nic tells me you’re a doctor?’ I went on, changing the subject.

‘I am.’

‘What kind?’

He gave me a quizzical look.

‘Come on.’ Something flipped in my stomach, exhaustion and terror giving way to delirium. ‘Doctors love telling people what they do. It’s almost like part of the training.’

‘Is it?’ His eyebrow came up again.

‘Yes.’ I grinned. ‘You’re supposed to have a God complex and want to remind me of how important your job is at least once in every conversation.’

‘Am I?’ His eyebrow was still up. Still amused.

I raised an eyebrow of my own. ‘Are you really a doctor? Or is that just something you told Nic to impress him into giving you free drinks?’

He laughed, properly.

‘You can tell me. I won’t let on.’

‘Caitlin …’ He leaned in as though to tell me a secret. The way he said my name made me feel warm, the fact that he remembered it at all. ‘I am really a doctor.’

I smiled. ‘So, what kind?’

He hesitated, picking up his drink.

‘You’ve seen what I do,’ I said, raising my hands as though to show off the bar. ‘It’s only fair.’

‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘I work in emergency medicine.’

‘Oh.’ A chill rolled up my spine, and the warmth faded. ‘Sounds intense.’

‘Sometimes.’ He took a sip. ‘Sometimes it’s boring. Boring is probably better.’

I nodded as though I understood, not sure what to say.

I wanted to ask what happened when someone came in after a car accident, their blood so thick on their clothes there couldn’t possibly be enough left inside them. I wanted to ask how it felt when he realised there wasn’t any point even trying. I wanted to ask if he’d been there that night, or any of the hundred other nights that this happened. But it wasn’t the time, the place. I touched the bar again. Still solid.

‘Sorry.’ He held up his whisky, smiled at me over the glass. ‘That killed the mood.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s my fault.’