'Go on.' There's an urgency in her voice, almost a plea. 'Wait in the bedroom, I'll get rid of them.'

God, what now? What could possibly be so important that it justifies pounding on someone's flat door at 2 o'clock in the morning? She tucks her hair behind her ears, her thoughts skittering madly from one disaster to another. (And she knows who it is; how could she not?) Just -- how to get rid of him. How to make this right again?

She's still thinking the evening is salvageable when she opens the door...