The Blue Pig bar was in the dodgy area of town, Melda usually avoided. It was full of the kind of people she disliked: people who when she was younger used to make her life hell. It wasn't that she was a snob, she thought to herself as she pushed open the doors - stained a dark blue to match the Blue Pig in the sign that swung in the wind above her head - she just didn't need reminding of where she had come from.
Melda didn't know the man she was meeting, and she stood in the doorway and scanned the room before walking in. There were three drinkers slumped at the bar, and a handful of tables by the wall. One of these was occupied by the only man looking anxiously in her direction. Melda walked over, and the man stood up, extending his hand for her to shake.
"Melda Fenton?" he asked. His voice was high, almost squeaky, which didn't fit his size: he towered over her. Melda took his hand and shook it.
"Mark?" she asked, unnecessarily.
...