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I sat in the armchair by the window and pointed myself very firmly at the television. It was showing a documentary about otters. I have never watched otters so hard in my life.
Priya didn’t put clothes on. She got two miniature gin and tonics out of the minibar instead, handed me one and curled up on the bed with hers, the towel tucked under her arms.
“You’re very polite,” she said.
“I’m in your room. It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s nice. Rosie would have had you thrown out by now. Or snogged you. Hard to say with Rosie.” She sipped her drink. “Tell me something interesting about firewalls.”
“There’s nothing interesting about firewalls.”
“Then tell me something interesting about you.”
So I did. My divorce, three years ago, amicable and still sad. The allotment I was failing at. The fact that I’d never once in my life done anything impulsive. She listened with her chin on her knees, and somewhere in there she stopped watching the otters and started watching me.
“Never anything?” she said.
“Never anything.”
The gin was warm in my chest. She’d let the towel loosen. I could see the soft curve of her breast where it gaped.
Then the phone rang. Reception. They’d found a room on the fourth floor. A porter could bring the key up in five minutes.
Priya looked at me over the rim of her glass and said nothing at all.