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then?” I spoke more to the room than to either of them.
    Tristan’s voice was neutral. “Leave it, Jim.” He stretched out his arm in the direction of the door. “Let’s go get a coffee and you can see my room.”
    He turned quickly and began striding down the corridor. I followed him, two steps to every long one of his. He had reached the kitchen and was opening the cupboard, taking down coffee beans. “Fresh coffee all right?”
    “Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” I looked around the room. It was a fairly spacious kitchen, with white linoleum tiles and white doors with chrome fittings. A large silver refrigerator was on the other side of the room, and I watched him cross the room in one motion and retrieve the milk. Each rack of the painfully bright white interior was filled with beer, and champagne and soda cans. No food. He turned to me and saw me looking. “It doesn’t bother me, all the alcohol, if that’s what you were thinking.” He stared at me, his eyes dark with challenge.
    I looked back at him. “You’re right. But you’re wrong. I was thinking that actually, I still find it hard to be around a lot of drink.”
    “Have you stopped?” Tristan asked.
    “Working on it.”
    He nodded, satisfied. “Milk? Sugar?”
    “Just milk please.” So far the interview was looking like it was going nowhere. If he had already taken a dislike to me, and I was alternately angry and disturbed by his physical presence, it was unlikely we’d get anywhere. I felt there was nothing for it; I had to try and be honest with him.
    I waited until he sat down. “I feel like we’ve started off badly, and I’m sorry for that.” I felt my face color. “I’ve been really looking forward to doing this interview—I’m a big fan.” I took a sip of coffee and felt his eyes upon me.
    “Well thank you. Isn’t that something you have to say?” He sat back in his chair, hands around the cup, looking vaguely smug.
    “I’m not sure I have to say anything. A bit like you perhaps.” I sat up straighter. If there was going to be trouble, then I was ready. “I’m not here to trip you up, but maybe you’d prefer that.”
    He laughed. “I’m used to a fight. Maybe you want to get in the ring with me?” He winked.
    “Oh just add me to the queue. But I don’t like waiting, so move me up faster, ok?”
    “How fast?”
    I looked at him. His eyes were sparkling with some kind of infectious glee. Jerk, I thought. Pretty jerk. “As fast as you like, darling.”
    “Oh we’re on to darling now. That must mean we are making progress.”
    “Aren’t we just? You make a mean cup of coffee. I feel so much more relaxed and welcome.” I raised an eyebrow. “This is great. Listen, why don’t we cut it, and you can tell me what you want to have out in the press, and I’ll try to ask some questions that you’ll deflect. But I warn you—although I’m tempted, I’m not going to label you an arrogant ass in the article, if for no other reason than it’s been done so often.”
    He really began laughing then, and the sound of it bubbled up inside me and I couldn’t resist joining in. “You are funny. Come on, let’s do this.” And with that, he swallowed down the rest of his coffee. I found myself strangely fixated on his neck muscles and tried to cover my confusion by drinking down the coffee grounds at the bottom of my mug, which only made me cough.
    We stood, and he put his arm around me. “Come on, I want to show you where I work.” I nodded. All my attention was on the warmth and size of his hand around my shoulder, the closeness of his body. I felt my face going a bit red again. Fuck, the man was a tease. I took a deep breath, and tried to relax into his arm. “It’s going to be ok,” he whispered in my ear. The rumbling velvet sound of his voice that close to me was screwing with my mind. I knew he knew it. I tried to breathe.
    “Yeah, it’s fine. Sorry, I’m just not used to being touched.” He sprang