Irene doesn't look for a mirror of her style in her partners' clothes anyway, or not always. She likes Odessa's colourful shoes, likes the reminder that after a week which has seemed like a month of running and hiding and killing and being locked in (almost worse), such kitsch and innocent and impractical things as green shoes exist.

"Darling."

So do pet names, and pretty women, and the promise of wine. She's okay, she reminds herself, for the hundredth time; this is a world she can survive in.

She puts one gloved hand in Odessa's. "More than ready."