The measure he eventually poured Jeanette was, if anything, larger. He passed her a straight that had been smoked almost to the filter. He topped off her measure he with a sliver of vermouth and a drop or two of bitters. “That’s a Manhattan,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Shall we sit down?”
He sank into what was plainly his favourite spot. Jeanette’s felt like it’d never been sat on, squeaking and springy like a new couch.
“Have you been here long?”
“Ages. What, four years? Five? Something like.”
“Did you get all this from that book? You know, the one – Dougal mentioned it at the time. Bastian’s book, wasn’t it?”
“What? God no, no-one bought that. Did you? Have you read it?”
“I haven’t, but-”
“Exactly, no. But old Bastian did buy me this place, sort of – ever drink Berkeley estates?”
“Ri
