She meets his gaze, and her smile returns, a bit more restrained this time perhaps, but genuine. Her chin dips, and maybe he can see the tiniest flush of colour in her cheeks.

"Almost done," she says, and bends her head to the page again. She has an intensity about her when she slips into the zone. It's a long few minutes before she can take a breath, and turn the sketchbook towards him.

"Here." It's a minimalist sketch, not a study for a portrait in oils, but it captures his likeness in a way a photograph never could. "Oh wait, hang on." She flips it back around and sketches the eight-point star in the lower right corner, and dates it. "There."

She hands the whole book to him, and reaches for a glass of champagne.