‘That face there, sexy indignant – it’s your signature look.’ Quinn watched her for a reaction, pointing the pen in her direction. She noticed his hair was ruffled and disordered.

‘Wh … wha … ’ Minnie floundered. This was not the same Quinn she’d met the other day.

‘Anyway, apology accepted, I’d-forgotten-about-all-it.’ Quinn slurred the last few words, merging them into one. ‘I guess I’m sorry you think I’m obnoxious and patronising,’ he said in an odd, deep voice.

‘Why are you being strange?’ Minnie frowned. Then it dawned on her – his glassy eyes, his languid body movement. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Am I drunk? Am I drunk?’ Quinn screwed up his face, leant forwards and then flung his body back in the chair. His eyes darted over to the sideboard. Minnie followed his gaze and saw an open bottle of whisky sitting there.

‘Look, it’s none of my business,’ said Minnie. ‘You’re free to drink alone in your office on a Saturday afternoon if you want to. It just explains a lot.’

‘Do you want a drink, Minnie Cooper?’ Quinn asked, leaping to his feet and doing a little dance around the reception chairs before landing next to the sideboard where the whisky stood. ‘Non whisky-based beverages are also available.’

Minnie shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’

She had nowhere else to be and she was intrigued to hear more from drunk Quinn. He poured her a whisky over ice. He had a drinks cabinet hidden behind a black lacquered bureau, complete with vintage silver ice bucket and tongs. He poured himself another at the same time. Minnie sat back down in the armchair properly. She felt more relaxed now she knew Quinn had been drinking – the drunk version of Quinn was less intimidating, less virtuous. She felt her mental guard slacken.

‘So why the office? Secret drinker not a social drinker?’ Minnie asked.

‘You drove me to drink, Minnie Cooper – your elusive enigmatic quality.’ He said it with a wry smile, toasting her with his glass in mid-air.

‘Ha-ha.’

He locked his gaze on hers, unblinking. For a moment he looked entirely serious and sober. Minnie felt as though she was in an elevator plummeting several floors. She put a hand to her stomach, recalibrating her balance by studying the cracks in her ice cube.

‘Are you drowning your sorrows about Lucy Donohue’s article?’ she ventured.

‘Not especially,’ said Quinn, ‘but I’m still dealing with damage limitation.’

‘It was pretty harsh,’ said Minnie.

Quinn shrugged. ‘Better to be hated for what you are, than loved for what you’re not.’

‘Profound,’ said Minnie. ‘Where did you read that – the back of a cereal packet?’