I slip on my bikini bottoms and go into the kitchen. I know exactly what will cure my hangover. The hair of the dog. Jaron is bent over something at the kitchen table. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I’m repairing your watch. It was running late.’ ‘You can repair watches?’ ‘Sure. I’m very handy with anything that is full of tiny springs or precision machined to close tolerances. When I was young I spent hours completely dismantling watches and locks and putting them back together.’ ‘Great.’ I open the cupboard and reach for the vodka bottle. A large hand covered in golden hairs curls around my wrist. I jump. I didn’t hear him come up. ‘Don’t,’ he says softly. ‘What?’ ‘You drink too much, Billie.’ ‘What?’ I repeat in disbelief. ‘You heard me.’ ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ ‘How old are you now?’ ‘Fucking none of your business.’ ‘Let’s say you’re twenty-two or three.
