His hand sweeps across the table, catching the napkin, quivering in the wine glass as it passes, then thwacks into the water jug, spilling a miniature iceberg tsunami over the glass table top, washing up breadcrumb detritus into the lap of her designer dress. His hand raises to slap her and she grabs it, tugs it down, hair flying, words hissing: "Not here. Someone will see." She inclines her head towards the doorway, the waiting photographers.