Chris glanced at the suspicious looking cocktail and shrugged. He abstained from alcohol and was in no hurry to try it. He smiled at her comment and grabbed a nearby towel, rubbing the sweat off his forehead and sighing. "I judge how good a gig was by how sweaty I get. So far, it's a nine. Nice shirt, by the way. And I love that logo." He shrugged at Ptricia's groupie comment. "Not tempted to eat any of 'em then? Nice restraint." He, typically, had had multiple bras thrown at him, one of which was hanging off his ear when he came backstage. He giggled as he remembered the moment and said "To be honest, I'm not interested in any of the girls here. A cheap fuck is not what I'm after." He watched the phone call exchange and was tempted to ask for something, but he somehow doubted a bakery would have the Greek delicacy (that vine leaf stuffed with rice. I can't remember its name) he wanted. He rarely ate anyway. He hurriedly stifled a laugh at Ptricia's password by shoving his hand in his mouth, accidentally biting his plectrum in two. He hurriedly put it behind his seat so no-one would notice. As he listened to her war story he remembered his adopted parents showing him pictures of a dragon in uniform, staring stiffly at the camera. As she mentioned D-Day he said "Really? You were at D-Day?" He leaned back and a smile crept across his face. "You didn't happen to meet a black dragon called Luther Trompenaars? A Russian guy on one of the British boats. He was my grand-uncle. My grandfather was a Desert Rat-which was ironic as he was a wolf-in one of the Indian divisions, I can't remember which one." It's only now you notice the slight inflection in Chris's voice-he's Anglo-Indian. As she glared at the drink he excused himself and headed to the bathroom, locking the door. If you listened closely you could hear the sound of hysterical laughter.