Friday rolled around, and Pete gave us a half-holiday. "Go home," he said, and there were cheers. "Get ready for tonight. I'll see you all down the pub to send Sean off in style."

Viggo looked a little surprised, but shrugged and stretched. "I'm not complaining."

"Me neither," I agreed. "A girl needs time to look her best."

I fluttered my eyelashes at him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Dressing up for anyone in particular?" he asked, but I just laughed, and headed for make-up.

Back home, I checked the clock and called Dad, left a message on his machine: "Hey, I'm fine, busy with filming. Everything's great. Love you."

I stuck a CD in the stereo, one I'd rescued from Elijah's tender mercies. ("Ugh," he'd declared, hitting eject. "It's total chick music.") I had no idea about music, but it was peppy and slightly angry, and good enough for wiggling around the house getting ready for a big night out.

I showered, and blew my hair dry in the kitchen, singing along without knowing half the words, using the hairdryer as a microphone. Eric was my only audience, and he didn't care if I made a fool of myself. I painted my fingernails and, on a whim, my toenails as well. It would all have to come off before filming on Monday - I laughed at the idea of Eowyn with a beautiful burgundy manicure - but hell, it was a special occasion.

With the same thought in mind, I rummaged through my lingerie drawer. Why had I brought my garter belt to New Zealand, after all, if not for nights like this? The rest followed more or less naturally from there. If garter belt, then lace-topped stockings, rolled slowly up my legs. And then the skirt with the split to infinity, to show an almost risque hint of lace.

I giggled in the mirror, and then laughed at myself.

To complete the ensemble, the little, slinky silver top with the neckline that draped and gaped, daringly bare at the back. I hadn't been sure I would ever be able to wear it. But Eowyn was young, full of vigour. She could pull off anything.

I was in the bathroom, twisting my hair up at the back of my head, when I heard a car pull up outside. The engine stopped as I skewered my hair with pins, and a car door closed. Footsteps up the stairs, a knock at the door; I dabbed perfume at neck and wrist, and smirked in the mirror.

"He's history," I promised myself, and then raised my voice to call out: "Coming!"

Quick dash through the kitchen to snatch up my bag, blow a kiss to Eric, and out into the hall. I pulled the door open.

Viggo was standing on my front verandah, hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring up the street. He turned to look at me, and I knew I hadn't kept the shock off my face.

"Viggo! What happened to Sean?"

"He got hi-jacked by hobbits." He looked me up and down. "You look nice. Dressing up for anyone in particular?" he repeated.

I folded my arms across my chest. "No."

He shrugged and turned away. "We'd better go, or we'll be late."

I followed him to the car, sat in the passenger seat and stared out the window as we went. Viggo didn't say anything, so neither did I. There was silence until he stopped the car, parked on the street a block from the pub. When the engine stopped, the quiet seemed louder.

"Miranda," he began, taking the keys out of the ignition.

I looked at him. He was looking at me. "Was Sean really hi-jacked by the boys?"

"Yes."

"But?"

"But they were acting on my suggestion," he admitted.

My teeth were clenched; I had to prise them apart to let words out. "What are you, his guardian?"

"No -"

"He's a grown man."

"I agree." Viggo's voice was so quiet, so insistent, that it became hard to just talk over the top of. "He can look after himself."

"So what the hell are you interfering for?"

"Miranda, the problem's not him. The problem's you."

"Oh, fuck you." I opened the car door with a shove, slammed it behind me.

His door made a quieter sound over my heels on the pavement. "Miranda!" I didn't stop, didn't even slow until running footsteps caught up and a hand gripped my elbow. "Miranda."

I stopped, shook his hand off. "What it is, Viggo? Are you jealous? Want me to fuck you instead? Want him to fuck you instead?"

He took a step back. "Listen to yourself."

"I'm fine. I'm not the one who's decided his best friend suddenly needs baby-sitting, needs some sort of knight in shining armour to protect him from the horrible wiles of terrible women out to steal his soul."

He was just looking at me, that steady gaze. "I don't know what your story is, Miranda. I don't know what you left behind when you came here. But it's not as far away as you obviously like to think it is. You're just going to go in there with all your baggage and fuck him over on his last night in the country? Are you going to do that to him?" He stepped forward again, hand back on my elbow where it had gripped before, firm and sure. "Are you going to do that to yourself? You're damaged goods, Miranda, but it doesn't have to be like that."

I closed my eyes. Damaged goods. Gee, where had I heard that before? Bright-eyed, this is for the best Paul. Why didn't you ever…?

My eyes snapped open. He was still watching me. "It's none of your business," I managed. I backed up. He let me go; there was a wall behind me, bricks harsh against my back.

"You're right," he said, voice curt and clipped now. "It's not. I'm just your fucking friend, that's all."

He turned and walked away. I trailed after him for the few paces left to the pub.

The place was monumentally rowdy. The entire back, raised section was taken up with film people. We edged through the crowd, climbed the few stairs.

Sean was in the middle of the press, and loving it. Orlando was beside him, laughing loudly; he spotted us, and pointed us out so Sean could turn, beam at us both. "Viggo! Miranda, love!" A bear hug for Viggo, wide-open arms turned towards me.

I smiled brightly, and stepped forward to hug him. His hands were very warm on the bare skin of my back. "Wow," he said appreciatively, peering down over my shoulder, and I laughed lightly as I pulled back. "Nice top."

Orlando slid between us, handed me a full glass. "You need a drink!" he declared.

"What is it?" I asked. The drink was some sort of cocktail, half-full of ice and bright blue. At the edge of my vision, Sean was talking quietly with Viggo, their heads close together.

Orlando shrugged, grinned broadly. "Who knows? Suck it and see." With a wicked smirk, he pushed off into the crowd.

I took a sip - wow - and when I lowered the glass, Sean was at my elbow, Viggo gone. "What is it?" he asked, gesturing with his glass (full of nice, safe beer) towards my own.

"Alcoholic," I told him, and smiled. "I think Orlando's trying to get me drunk."

"Aren't we all?" he replied with a grin.

Before I could think of anything to say, the elf was back, Dave and Hugo in tow, and they dragged Sean away with a lot of shouting. Hugo winked over his shoulder at me, and I watched them go. They had a chess board set up at one of the tables, and a space cleared around it. The concept seemed to be Sean versus everyone else. I sipped at the blue drink. Kelly appeared beside me, in a skirt Dom would have approved of. "Having fun?" she asked above the ruckus.

"Absolutely," I replied, and she continued on, slipping between people.

I looked back to the chess game. There was a spirited argument going on about the next move. Sean looked up and caught my eye; he raised his glass to me, and I returned the toast, took a sip, and looked away.

Liv was laughing with two of the wardrobe girls. One of them was pursuing Billy - it was common on-set gossip - but she didn't seem to making much of an effort tonight. Seemed content just to listen to her friend talk about (I guessed from the gestures) Wonderbras.

Looking the other way, I caught my reflection in the mirror along the pub wall. I thought maybe I'd overdone it a little on the eye make-up.

I set the blue drink down on the nearest table. Edging through the crowd - smiling, apologising - I made it to the chess game. Everyone else seemed to be losing, but then again, there seemed to be an argument over whether one of the pieces was called "the knight" or "the horsie bit".

At my hand on his shoulder, Sean looked up. He started to stand, but I pushed him back down, bent over so he could hear me. "Sorry, but I'm going to go."

"You've only been here half an hour," he protested, looking up at me.

"Sorry," I repeated. "I've got a headache." I smiled at him. "It's been great not quite working with you."

"Yeah," he agreed.

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, then laughed and wiped the lipstick mark off with my thumb.

I apologised my way out through the crowd again. It was easier going once I descended into the main part of the pub, and I pushed through quicker.

Just outside, I stopped, leant against the wall to catch my breath. My eyes slid closed.

A voice asked: "Do you need a lift home?"

I opened my eyes and looked at Viggo. He looked sad. He looked a little tired.

"You look a million bucks," he said quietly, tenor of his voice not changing. "He wouldn't have stood a chance."

I slapped him then, giving it everything sword-training-enhanced muscles could provide. There was some sort of satisfaction in the way he recoiled, staggering back two steps, hand to his cheek.

My palm tingled, close to pain. "I'll take a taxi."