Mira looked up at him and squeezed his arm, ‘you say the most beautiful things,’ and then she buried her head into his shoulder. She clung onto him like a limpet. George wondered if she was trying not to fall over.
‘You choose some music and I will open a bottle of wine,’ he said quietly as he tapped in the alarm code at the front gate.
‘Shooters first, shooters first,’ she cried as she danced across the room towards the Tequila.
‘Whatever you like,’ George called after her as he reached into the cooler for a bottle of Merlot.
‘Aren’t you supposed to drink red wine at room temperature?’ Mira asked as she lined up eight shot glasses.
‘You certainly are,’ replied George, ‘if that room is in the cellar of an old manor house in the Northern Hemisphere and it is Old Calendar 1744.’
Mira g
