The doorbell continued to torture his sore head with another attack of shrill noises. A groaning next to him made him suddenly aware that he was not the only one in his bed, and a hand with long, sharp fingernails pushed its fingers into the flesh of his bicep. The sharp pain was stronger than the throbbing in his head, and it made him finally open his eyes. Through a thick mist of tiredness, he recognised a naked peroxide blonde, beautifully draped on his black satin bed sheets. The fact that her breasts served as additional pillows confirmed that it was not only her hair colour that wasn’t natural. It was useless to search his brain for a memory that didn’t exist, so he didn’t even try to remember the blonde one’s name or where he had met her after he had left the club alone. He had probably picked her up on the street, where she was either throwing up in the gutter or trying to get a mini cab, a mission impossible in the West End on a Saturday night—an experience he had discovered himself last night after leaving Maggie Dawes and her date behind in the club.