Snow. By the time they’re seated, it’s full-blast. When
Sophie swiped right, she hadn’t envisaged this. Dinner in a Michelin-starred
restaurant, miles out of town. He offered to pay for cabs so she could travel
separately. She said they would go together, so he collected her in his Daemon.
The restaurant is one she would
have conjured herself – paneling gleaming in the lamplight, crisp linen, smiling
staff. He orders Bloody Marys, shrimps and turbot for her, oysters and rare
steak for him, insists she tries the dripping meat when it arrives. When he goes
outside to smoke, she follows him for air, breathes in the bitter aroma and
coughs, even though he has put the cigarette out. They take their time over dessert
and coffee, and, when they go back to the car, it is entirely white, a
coffin-shaped hump amongst more rounded ones.
He says that they are stranded,
he’ll get rooms, don’t worry, he’ll pay and, of course, they will be separate,
but she still goes with him to check. The receptionist smiles knowingly and offers
them two separate keys, saying the numbers under her breath, and they have a
final brandy and go up in the lift together.
When they get upstairs, Sophie
realises the numbers are meaningless - they are adjoining rooms with a connecting
door - and she sees his smile and wonders if he knew. At least there is a key
to the connecting door, so she locks it, thinks about moving something in front
of it, but decides that’s overkill, that
it will be fine.
Next door, he blows lazy smoke
rings and laughs, glad there’s no cigarette, glad he doesn’t need one, because
devils don’t, and he decides to wait an hour before going next door.
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