With just the hint of a sigh, Geraint decided to do Smethwick a good turn and turned to the woman, a blowsy type who clearly favored applying her make-up with a trowel. Geraint’s first few applications of insincere Celtic charm seemed to be received with an almost devotional eagerness by the tridjock. She’d probably been given the cold shoulder by almost everyone else here that evening, and there was something almost touching about her relief at finding someone willing to talk to her. Hell, maybe her job was on the line; she was obviously only a junior. At least I can buy her dinner, Geraint thought, and make sure I don’t let anything slip.