The Eurostar is half empty. It’s not due to arrive in Paris till 20:30 – most people’s festivities will be underway by then, she thinks.

She has no particular plans. She’s alone – she has been for three months now, but unlike at Christmas, tonight she’s grateful for the solitude. It doesn’t even bother her than the train has no power sockets; her phone is dead, and she’s uncontactable, at least until she gets to the hotel.

She goes straight to a bar.

At a corner table, she sips a Kir Royale, slowly. A man gestures to the seat opposite her. ‘T’es d’accord si je laisse ma veste ici?’

She smiles. ‘Bien sûr.’

Even once he’s draped his jacket over the chair, he lingers. He was breaking the ice, she realises – there’s a coat stand in the corner. She’s not in the mood to make conversation just yet, and turns back to her book.  He gets the message, and leaves her in peace. It doesn’t stop her checking out his arse as he turns away.

Her second cocktail is on the house. The barman laughs off her attempts to pay – ‘J’insiste, mademoiselle!’ – and holds her gaze as he pours. She hangs out at the bar for a while, flirting with him between orders and in return he shows off – there are flaming drinks, bottles being juggled, and champagne fountains.

Because she has no intention of fucking any of them, no man is off limits. She smiles broadly at a guy with a wedding ring, makes eyes at another while his wife is in the Ladies’. She glances at bulges in trousers, at well fitting black tie, at stubbled jawlines. When midnight comes, she’s not short of kisses – they’re practically queuing up to wish her a Bonne année. 

And it will be. She knows it.

She takes a taxi to her hotel a little after one. She’s tired, but exhilarated, alive with the possibilities that await her in the year ahead. In the elevator mirror, she smiles at her reflection. It’s one of those rare evenings where she can see her own beauty; has utter faith in it.

In her room, she takes off her make up, hangs up her clothes, and lays down between cool sheets. Her fingers find her clit and she rubs firmly, thinking about those men, imagining them without the black tie, without the wives, with hard cocks and eager hands. She imagines going back to the bar, naked this time, and them pushing tables back, making room for her to get down on all fours.

The men in her head are queuing and jostling not to kiss her, but to fuck her. She conjures up one – the barman, with his cheeky grin and deep blue eyes – fucking her mouth, and another – the one with the salt and pepper hair and the gold band on his ring finger – in her cunt.

She doesn’t have to imagine her orgasm.

Satisfied, she curls her knees up to her chest, and drifts off. There are so many potential men out there, she realises now. And they can all wait until tomorrow.