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'Do you like Italian or Spanish?' 

'Women or food?'

'Food, silly.'

'Italian.'

'Oh. Me too. Thai or Chinese?'

'Thai.'

'Brunettes or blondes?'

'Either. Not fussed.'

'Milan or New York?'

'New York.'

'London or Paris?'

'London.' Duh.

It had been like this for an hour now. One relentless question after another. Boring, boring, boring. He was definitely considering asking her to fuck him now, just to shut her up. It must have been over seventy degrees in the lift. He could feel the perspiration dampening his armpits and drenching the back of his shirt. Shifting with discomfort, the pain in his collarbone was stronger now; sending agonising waves pulsing across his shoulder.

'What’s your favourite colour? Oh wait, it's black, I already know that one. Favourite holiday destination? Never mind I know that too.'

'You know where I like to holiday?'

'Every good fan should know that.'

'Oh.' He frowned. What happened to just knowing all the song lyrics?

'You like New Zealand. Most people think it's the Maldives or somewhere predictable like that but you like hiking and camping. You rent a cabin near Christchurch.'

Kyle stared at her. Click, click, click.

'How would you know that?' That was his place. His refuge. His secret hideaway.

'You mentioned it once in a magazine interview,' she shrugged.

'No. I didn't. I might have mentioned the hiking or something, but not the place.' But had he? He could have said anything when he was high. The headache spiked across his temples and he knew he needed a line, just a little bit on the gums even.

'Well, whatever,' she grinned. 'I'd love to go to New Zealand one day. I much prefer hiking than sitting on a beach.'

He knew what she was doing. I love hiking. I love Italian food. I love everything you love. Yes, darling, we're so compatible, we're soul mates, let's get married and have kids and live happily-ever-bloody-after. Yada-fucking-yada.

'Did Lizzie like hiking too?'

He flinched. 'Lizzie?'

No one called her Lizzie. Just him. To everyone else she was Elizabeth Jameson, singer/songwriter, darling of the pop charts. A National Treasure. But to him, she was Lizzie. His Lizzie.

'Is this some kind of set-up?'

The girl stared back at him. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'A set-up. A joke. Some elaborate plot to freak me out on film. Do you have hidden cameras in here or something?' He scanned the lift, his eyes probing the dark corners of the ceiling.

'The lift is broken. There's been a power cut or something, I don't know. Of course this isn't a joke.'

'Then why hasn't anyone come to rescue us yet? We've been here over five hours now and no one has come. It's a five star hotel; they wouldn't just leave us here. I swear, if this is a fucking set-up.....'

'It's not. I wouldn't do that to you. Someone will come soon.'

His eyes narrowed. 'How can you be so sure?'

'Dunno,' she sniffed. 'They just will. They can't just leave us here. Are you sure you're not claustrophobic? You're getting awfully tetchy.'

He stared hard at her for a moment, mouth open incredulously before groaning and clutching his head in his hands.

'Romance films or horror?' 

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