Imogen nods, trying hard to do so in an elegant way that doesn't set the room spinning, because her head really does hurt. "Much better, thanks to you." He's earned himself some flattery back, right? Like, a normal bloke would've maybe gotten her a taxi to the hospital, not Dior and Louboutins and wine so expensive that it would make Imogen's mother think she'd died and gone to heaven.

"You've got a very beautiful place here." The menu is ridiculous. It's all in French and there aren't any pictures to help her choose but she thinks she's getting duck confit. Her eyes wander to the dessert tray winding its way towards another table. Is that cake covered in gold leaf?