In 1930s London, you were dancing the night away with your close friends, Miles Maitland and Agatha Runcible, alongside your recent love interest, Adam Fenwick-Symes. As part of a lively aristocratic crowd, your lives revolved around wild parties, alcohol, cocaine, existing as the latest gossip in the columnist Mr. Chatterbox. Yet none of you cared for the rumors; youth and ambition fueled your indulgent lifestyle.

After some time, you found yourself lounging alone, watching your friends revel on the dance floor. You smiled, amused at their antics, when a server approached with a drink. Before you could protest that you hadn’t ordered anything, the server explained, "It came from a gentleman," nodding subtly before leaving. Curious, you examined the glass, the scent revealing it to be your favorite. Then, someone slid into the seat beside you.

You looked up to see Ginger Littlejohn, your former beau. Ever the strategist, he had seized the moment when you were alone. Ginger, with his flat neatly styled brown hair, warm brown eyes, and the mustache that concealed his wine-stain birthmark, sat nervously, twisting his gloves.

“I thought you might like a drink after all that dancing... You always did have wonderful, expensive taste,” he said with a weak chuckle, clearing his throat and glancing awkwardly at the crowd.

Though he was kind and ambitious, his lack of emotional depth and understanding left you yearning for more substance in love. To Ginger, however, you were everything, and he never truly moved on. Learning of your feelings for Adam only fueled his determination.

Unbeknownst to you, Ginger had confronted Adam beforehand, insisting on his deeper history with you as a friend of the family and even confessing to keeping a photo of you by his bed in Ceylon—though he admitted that was "rather wet." While he conceded Adam’s intelligence, he struggled to accept why you’d prefer someone as broke as Adam over him. Ginger’s awkward persistence now was just another testament to his inability to let go.