‘Well, maybe we should go up to her dad’s after. Make sure she’s OK,’ he suggested, his focus intent on the paper clipped to the board. ‘OK.’ Jenna twitched, feeling the onset of pins and needles in her left hand. ‘Keep still,’ growled Jason. ‘I can’t. My arm’s starting to go to sleep.’ She shook her hand vigorously and propped herself up on an elbow, giving Jason an accusing stare. ‘I wasn’t born to be a life model. And I’m getting cold in this ridiculous rig-out.’ She was wearing Jason’s favourite black underwear set with all the cut-outs, reclining on her reconditioned eighteenth-century chaise longue amidst a pile of marabou-trimmed cushions. ‘Five more minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m almost done with this sketch, I promise. Now, lie back down and think of England, babe.’ Jenna, clenching and unclenching her hand to restore life to her fingers, grinned at him. ‘I didn’t think that was the look you were aiming for,’ she said. ‘Staunch and patriotic.’ ‘No, that’s true,’ said Jason.
