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By ten thirty things have calmed down. The pastry chef transfers perfect slices of lemon mousse onto square glass plates and lifts a sieve of icing sugar high above them. The porter scrubs heavy bottomed pans in the sink, his shoulders hunched forwards.

Alex slips to the toilet; pisses; checks his phone. Nothing.

Of the six people in the hot tiny kitchen, only one is a woman, and only one is in a relationship: the chef de partie, a skinny blond man with tiny hands, who scurries away at the end of each night to his girlfriend, leaving the rest of them - single, restless - to party. There is a pattern even to their drinking. The Wellington, then Bar Rumba or CC Club if they want to dance. The aim is usually to pull, and when a new waitress starts - as one has tonight - a book is set up to predict who will get her into bed first. Recently, Alex has begun to find it all a little tiring. He'd never say as much, never give anyone the excuse to rib him: getting old, getting boring - he doesn’t want to have to listen to that. He orders Guinness and then wishes he’d gone for vodka, straight and eye-watering. As he waits for his drink, he surveys the group - chefs, waiters and waitresses, a few friends hanging on. The new waitress catches his eye and smiles. She is pretty in a plump, puppyish kind of a way and he doesn't much feel like going back to his flat with its pile of dirty laundry and the thump of music from next door. He returns her smile and gestures to ask if she wants a drink. She stands and weaves her way towards him.

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