It was all bollocks, Gene Hunt decided as he tried to keep his attention on his pint and not on the door to the restaurant.

Love was the invention of greeting cards and crap Hollywood blockbusters, it didn't exist out here in the real world. Passion, lust… they were real emotions, but they faded soon enough and you were left with nothing but divorce papers and bitter memories. Love was something that happened to other people no matter what do-gooder Elaine whats-it said. Bloody good kisser though, he grinned to himself.

Now, in a moment of brutal honesty, Gene wasn't so sure that the woman he was supposed to be meeting hadn't arrived, taken one look at him and fled. Desperate enough to answer his dating agency questionnaire but not desperate enough to actually sit and have dinner with him.

Gene had to admit that he didn't look his best. Shit had hit the fan forty-eight hours ago and he hadn't been home since. His suit was rumpled, he hadn't had the time to shave and he suspected that there was a spot on his tie that might well be blood. It was no wonder that the snotty waiters were looking down their noses at him.

The door to the restaurant swung open, and despite himself, Gene looked up only to see an elderly couple enter. He returned to his contemplation of his beer.

Bloody women. Bloody Bolly. She had him wrapped around her little finger and she knew it. As soon as she had started wittering on about being scared of women, Gene had risen to the bait and arranged this farce. Now here he was, sitting on his own in an expensive restaurant like a pathetic loser.

Dear God… this is what it felt like to be Ray.

Well bollocks to this. Gene drained his glass and stood to leave, only for his gaze to fall on the woman who had just walked in. Long legs, great arse, nice tits… a dress that left just enough to the imagination… and she was walking towards him.

"Sorry I'm late," she smiled.

She sounded a little out of breath, as if she'd been running, but judging by the height of the heels she was wearing that couldn't have been the case. Fumbling a little, Gene pulled out a chair for her to sit down. He retook his seat opposite and signalled to the waiter.

"Sir?" the young man asked, not nearly so patronizing now that he saw the company Gene was keeping.

"Another beer for me, " Gene grinned, " And a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for the lady… but make sure it's from the South Island of New Zealand. "