CHAPTER TWELVE
Driven back to Martin’s apartment by police car, they decided the first thing on the list was to raid the refrigerator. They heaped the leftovers from last night’s fancy meal onto the kitchen table and tore into it like a couple of street urchins that hadn’t eaten for a week.
With Lobster juice pouring down their chins, they feverishly sucked on the claws, crunched on mouthfuls of salad, made doorstep sandwiches filled with the remaining terrine of foie gras, in between slurping ice cold Sancerre straight from the bottle, and then falling into fits of laughter as they belched away in turn. Finally, they attacked the half segment of Black Forest gateau using their hands.
Martin and Victoria sat back, their faces covered in chocolate. They didn’t care.
‘Jesus, was I hungry
