Despite the earlier promise, Lillian hadn't managed to sneak away early with Richie.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked, squeezing his hand. They were stood at the bar in Galactica, a private members club in Royal Exchange Square. Galactica's rooms took up the second and third floors of the building and its rooftop bar looked out over the square.

Night-time made it glamourous. Fairy lights strewed the surrounding potted mimosa plants, their bright yellow blooms just starting to fade. Large, squashy armchairs dotted the wooden floors and waiters moved quietly among them, picking up empty glasses and setting down bottles of champagne in ice buckets.

The club had been Kippy's idea. He was a long-time member, despite professing Groucho Marx style that he hated the place and everyone who belonged there. Once, membership brought you into contact with useful people. Now, it came in useful only when you didn't want your night to end.

Kippy held court at the table closest to the bar. John was curled up fast asleep in one of the huge armchairs next to him. Gareth had sneaked Lorraine in and the rest of Lillian's award night guests gathered around too, their table loud and noisy.

"No," Richie said, returning the squeeze. "This makes a change. I'd always wondered who came here."

"Now you know. No-one worthwhile."

He congratulated her on the win again and Lillian smiled. That and the way he'd dealt with Mick earlier meant Richie kept improving.

And he'd been high in her estimations, anyway.

The night was warm, and Fedde Le Grand urged them all to put their hands up for Detroit. Richie took a sip of his beer and she watched his profile—big nose, five o'clock shadow and an asymmetrical jawline that made him look better sideways than face-on.

The artist in her wanted to draw him. A first, she realised. In all her years of dating, she'd never wanted to draw anyone. That was Kippy's thing. They'd both been students at the Glasgow School of Art fourteen years earlier. He always drew or painted his friends and lovers, however fleeting the relationship.

To Lillian, it always seemed too permanent—a giant gesture that so few people deserved. And the last time she'd painted someone she... No point raking up that old history.

They should go though. As her mind had imagined herself painting Richie, it had whipped off his clothes. The imaginary chalk drew the outline of his torso, lingering over the chest and stomach, shading in contours and hair.

"Let's get a taxi to mine," she said. "I want to..." The rest she whispered in his ear, gratified by the enthusiastic response.

Galactica's services included ordering taxis for their privileged customers. The barman told her tonight was exceptionally busy. All of Glasgow's inhabitants appeared to be out on the town. A taxi couldn't get there for another hour. She suggested they chance the taxi queue at Central Station, but a woman nearby called out that the queue snaked its way half-way down Gordon Street. They'd be lucky to reach the front before the dawn chorus started.

"I'll get you another drink," she told Richie. "Another beer?"

The bar up top was crowded, and Lillian needed the loo. She made her way downstairs. The reflection in the bathroom mirrors astonished her. Lillian wasn't classically beautiful, her nose too big and her face too square to satisfy conventional feminine standards. But now, her skin glowed, the shine of it highlighting cheek and collarbones. She'd gone for a shorter haircut last time too. It emphasised her neck as did the long dangly earrings she wore.

And the sparkle in her eyes? Richie, that's you!

The downstairs bar was far quieter, and the barman reached for the bottle of Stolichnaya and wiggled it at her. The staff here made a point of remembering your orders. She nodded.

"Didn't know you were a member here."

The words were whispered too close by. As she turned her head, Mick laid his forehead on hers and stuck his arm out on the bar, trapping her there. She wriggled, but the movement pushed her too close to his body.

"I'm not," she said. "Kippy tells me membership to this place is for wankers." She hoped the barman couldn't hear. Who wanted to drink anything with phlegm in it?

"Kippy should get over himself."

"Should he? Dod died thanks to you."

Mick backed off, though his arm remained in place. "That your take on it, is it?" The voice was cool, not offended. Was this a question that had come up—and been batted off—before?

"You didn't figure to yourself he was a greedy wee bastard who thought he'd like to make a few thousand pounds?"

True enough. Lillian knew nothing of the fabled Dod. He might have been a nice guy, targeted by the likes of Mick. Or maybe, he saw drug smuggling as a chance to earn a hell of a lot of money quickly. And he joined the supply chain with no regard to what happened next or the lives that might be ruined by the flood of drugs to a deprived community?

"You've got better with age."

Ah. He meant his statement as a compliment. For a woman, an ageing appearance you did nothing about counted as the worst crime. The ones refused to accept it merited praise. What an achievement. Lillian didn't reckon her appearance had changed. She was simply better at knowing what clothing, hairstyles and make-up suited her.

Just behind her, she could see a young woman sat at a table, whose eyes kept darting glances at Mick and her. A supposed girlfriend and Mick's usual type. She looked as if she'd need to show ID every time she entered a bar. She might not be his girlfriend, but it was still unbelievably crass of Mick to flirt like that in front of her.

Mick moved again, pressing himself closer to Lillian. She shifted, trying to push back. The arm about her stayed in place.

"Oh, stay," he said. "I'm bored. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs anymore. Life's shit. The only thing I've got left is..."

Guess the answer to that one—it hung in the air, so dangling and obvious Lillian wanted to laugh. How did you rate the vices? Was Mick now claiming sex addiction as his? The Rock 'n' Roll chef, his image built on naughtiness, had to be the man who couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Excuse him for it. He has nothing else that gives him joy.

His face shifted closers to hers once more. "I bet you're a tiger in the sack." Whisper, the quiet murmur of a sentence, but what words he said. They rested for a second before the impact struck her.

A tiger in the sack.

Saliva flood her mouth and this time she didn't bother with subtlety, elbowing him as hard as she could in the ribs. He doubled up, "What the f—"

Lillian didn't wait to hear, ignoring the barman who'd returned with her vodka and Richie's beer. The place became overwhelming, its music too loud, its air too warm and muggy—the mingling of too many perfumes and colognes, the smell of them choking her.

She. Must. Get. Out.

Upstairs, she wondered if she should warn Kippy Mick was here. A fight on the premises wouldn't do his reputation any favours. But her need to leave was too urgent. Kippy could figure it out all by himself.

"Richie, can we go? I need to get out. We can wait for the taxi downstairs?"

Richie looked surprised and then shrugged. "Of course!" He grabbed his jacket from where he'd dropped it next to the armchair. Lillian pulled him past Kippy's table, sketching a quick wave as she did so. Calls to stay and questions about where she was going trailed after them.

Luckily, there was no sign of Mick on the way down or outside in the square. Taxis pulled up at the far side and one waited there. It wasn't the one the club had called on her behalf, but the driver said his fare hadn't showed. He was happy to drive them back.

"Lillian, are you okay? And er... do you want me to come back with you?"

She'd barked out her address to the driver already. Richie's house was in the opposite direction, but it was closer. Earlier that evening, she'd tidied the flat especially, vacuuming the carpets, and changing the bedsheets. She'd also swept the place for embarrassing crap—the self-help books about finding love and the cream in the bathroom she used to remove her moustache. She'd also hidden two of the three vibrators she owned, figuring that one was okay—modern woman and all that—three looked excessive.

In that flat too was peace. Lillian bought the place ten years ago and gave it her individual stamp; her furniture, her pictures and the positioning of her belongings just where she liked them. Freddie, her incredibly spoiled cat, waited up for her, rubbing himself around her legs whenever she came in.

Tonight, those clean sheets and the little black cat dazzled her, the temptation of them too strong. The next fifteen minutes played out in her head.

Taxi comes to a halt, she gets out, lets herself in. In the kitchen, she feeds Freddie some extra biscuits and helps herself to a large glass of red wine and two slices of cheese on toast. She takes them to bed, slipping out of her clothes and letting them drop to the floor. She drinks her wine, eats her toast.

Then, I sink into the mattress and sleep and sleep and sleep.

Shetook Richie's hand in hers. "I've had an amazing night," she said, turning soshe could see him. "I'm sorry I'm not terribly well. Too much excitement, Isuppose. I'll call you, I promise."