"Merry fucking Christmas!" she railed to herself as she waited beside the baggage carousel for her bag to come around.

Christmas crap was everywhere. It hung from every wall, streetlight and window, and it assailed her senses at every opportunity. Festive music tinkled through the airport, the cabin crews and ground staff wore Santa hats to jolly everyone along through interminable delays, brightly coloured lights glared through the condensation on the insides of the taxi’s windows, as it carried her through Dublin city centre on her way home from England for the holidays.

She wasn't a lover of Christmas, so she usually just suffered through it in a haze of alcohol and boredom. For five years she'd lived the traditions she'd shared with Clive, her ex-partner. They'd begin the festivities the moment the calendar turned December. The first week they'd buy a box of an Afternoon Tea biscuit assortment, then have fun as they each tried to steal the chocolate rings with the jelly on top. Clive would watch TV with the opened box resting on his stomach, mindlessly dunking one after the other into his tea before swallowing them almost whole.

Then there were the boxes of chocolate sweets, accompanied by the same repetitive and tired joke that he came out with when offered a Quality Street or a Celebration from the tin.

"No thanks, I'm holding out for a Hero," he'd say to patient smiles from those present.

Then there were the Christmas Markets, the Christmas lunch sandwiches, the Christmas Carveries in every fucking pub in the city. Christmas-themed coffee in Starbucks, Caffe Nero, and Costa; Gingerbread, nonspecific-gender people; Arnotts' windows; Brown Thomas' windows; the festive lighting on Henry and Grafton Streets that needed to be visited, cooed over, and photographed, even though they were the same lights every fucking year.

After she found Clive in their bed with her best friend, Angela Lynch, she moved to Manchester to take up a position in her company's UK operation, where she thrived in an upper-level management position that she'd been offered just three months after her arrival in the city. Her phone rang in her purse.

"Who the fuck is this?" she sighed as she worked the shoulder strap around her body so she could access it. "Fucking Denis."

"Hi Denis," she sang in reply, overcoming the desire to puke at the sound of his whiny voice.

"Emily, sorry to intrude," he said, "when are you due back?"

"I've only just fucking left, Denis," she said.

"I know, and I'm so sorry, but it's not marked on the holiday roster."

"I've got some holiday time banked, Denis, and it's due to run out on January 26th. I don't plan on staying here until New Year's, so I may come back a bit earlier, unless I get a better offer."

"I hear ya," he said with a lascivious laugh. "I'll blank out your calendar until the 27th."

"Thanks, Denis," she said, "Merry Christmas to you and Jill."

"You too, Emily."

"What is he still doing at work?" she thought. "He needs to get a life."

While she had the phone out, she called her mother.

"The Cantwell residence," Kath, her mother, said in greeting.

"Mam, it's me," Emily said. "I'm in a taxi; I'll be about forty minutes."

"You sound tired, love. How was your flight?"

"It's Ryanair, and it only cost a tenner each way. What do you think it was like?"

"Did you get that Jellycat thing for Melissa?" her mother asked.

"Yes, I got everything on the list."

"Good girl. I ran into Clive's mother in Dunnes during the week. Him and that Lynch tramp split up."

"Did they? I hope she gave him a dose of knob rot, the slimy bastard."

"It takes two, you know."

"Yes, and I wasn't one of them. I'll see you in a bit, Mam."

"What would you like for tea, dear? I made a stew."

"That sounds perfect."

The taxi dropped her outside the house, and she dragged her suitcase and assorted baggage up to the garden gate and then on through to the hall door. She paused before she inserted the key in the lock, had a brief glimpse around the four sets of houses in the small cul-de-sac, breathed in deeply, and pushed on through the door as it opened. It wasn't a raucous welcome home; her mother and father were the only people in the house with her at the time. Hugs were exchanged perfunctorily, and her father handed her an envelope before she'd even taken her coat off.

"What's this, Dad?" she asked.

"Open it. Happy birthday, Emily."

"It's not my birthday for a week," she replied.

"I know, it's only something small, and I didn't want it to get lost in the Christmas shuffle," he said. "Besides, we won't be here after the Christmas; we booked a winter break in Ashford Castle."

"When are you off?"

"The day after Christmas."

"What? So you're leaving me here on my own?"

"Yes, and no rowdy parties while we're gone either, young lady," he said with a snigger. "You'll be twenty-eight this birthday, so you'll have to act it."

She was stunned at the revelation. All that hassle getting flights, shopping, packing and the mad rush to get to Manchester Airport. All for nothing. She could have just stayed in Manchester, for all the difference it would have made. She took her bags to her room to unpack, working out a list of friends she could hang out with, and she reclined on her bed until she was called for her stew.

After she ate, she smoked a cigarette outside the back door, deciding, at 10:30, to retire for the night as the tiredness overcame her. She opened the window a couple of notches and sat on the bed, standing up and slipping out of the top and jeans she had travelled in. She stood in front of the long mirror on the door of her wardrobe and inspected herself.

She was cultivating about five stray pounds that didn't really show on her figure. At five foot ten, she was quite tall, and she was slim overall. She pulled the sports bra she wore for ease of movement over her head, releasing her breasts that looked straight at her; they were just a sexy handful, her large brown nipples imitating the look of a Koala bear as they stared accusingly back at her.

She squeezed her breasts, stimulating some life and blood flow back into them and then slowly pushed the black G-String she wore down over her legs and kicked it off into a corner of the room. She took a step towards the mirror, her hand stroking a slight bit of stubble that had appeared around her vulva. The touch of her own fingers causing a reaction that begged for her touch. She slipped two fingers along inside her labia, pushing the lips aside as she did so and had felt the familiar tingle in her clit when she heard her mother calling her from downstairs.

"Fuck!" she said. "What now?"

She walked to the window to close it and saw Mr. Jones from next door with his dog. They were outside the gate, and he was staring up at her from the street. She pulled on a robe and waved to him, too late for self-consciousness or embarrassment. He simply waved back and turned away as she drew the blind.

She slept naked, waking in the darkness as she turned restlessly. Her phone face down on the bedside locker. She lifted it slightly to see it was only 3:40. That was how it had been since the split. Every morning she woke in the darkness, she saw Clive lying on his back, his head between Angela’s legs, his tongue buried in her pussy and his cock fucking her mouth. She almost regretted not taking the offer of a fuck from Trevor Brennan at the Irish office after she witnessed the betrayal, but that brief thought vanished when she hurled herself at the pair and slapped them both silly.

Now, a few months later, the pain had eased, but the memory still lingered. She'd experimented with different guys on several occasions since that night, each one merely adequate and each only the once. None had made her head spin; none had lasted long enough for her to come. She even found herself in bed with Lenny Weldon, a tall slim hunk from data management, hoping that the stereotype of the huge black cock was true, but his was really no bigger than any of the others, and he certainly did not know how to use it.

She recalled how he flopped on the bed beside her, sweating profusely and struggling for breath, the wrinkled condom hanging loosely from his shrunken cock, weighed down by a large load of come that hadn't, at least, had to be cleaned out of her pussy. He'd fallen asleep quickly, and she rubbed one out before leaving his flat, frustrated and annoyed at herself, cursing the magazines and rumours that had got her hopes up in the first place.

Not wishing to piss her parents off by smoking in her room, she rose from the bed, donned her robe, and crept quietly down the stairs. She opened the back door and walked down to the little saloon bar that her father had built during the lockdown. He'd spent weeks building it and had done a fantastic job on it, separating it from the house with a hedgerow that elegantly concealed it from view. It had a covered outdoor seating area and there was also room inside if one wanted a quiet pint when a match was on the TV on the wall behind the bar.

She sat on a bench seat and lit up, dragging the smoke deep into her lungs as she leaned back against the timber wall of the lounge building. She felt her phone vibrating in her pocket and touched the WhatsApp notification on the Home Screen. It was the daily Yuletide text from Janice, her secretary at work, and a huge fan of the Christmas madness. Janice played happy families with her husband and three kids and wore something red, green, green and red, or red and green every day in December. She even wore a Christmas-themed thong to the office party. Emily saw it around her ankles when she was bent over a table in the canteen being roundly fucked by one of the lads that worked in the mail room.

TWO MORE SLEEPS!!! It screamed above a picture of a scary-looking cartoon reindeer.

Yay!!!! Emily replied by rote and promptly deleted the text.

She lit up another smoke, trying the door to see if it was unlocked. It was. It creaked on unoiled hinges as she pushed it slowly, hoping not to disturb the house. The slowness of her movements only exaggerated the noise and prolonged it. She left it ajar instead, and took a seat at the bar, the lights from the Heineken and Guinness taps casting an eerie glow across the room and reminding her that she was parched.

She leaned over the bar and picked up a glass tumbler, struggling as she tried to hold it in place under the Heineken tap and push the lever simultaneously to fill it, conscious of how she might appear to anyone who saw her, with a smoke dangling from her lips and her arse on display under the hem of the short robe as it rose above her hips.

"Ahem!" she heard from behind her, the fright causing her to slip off the stool and land on her back on the carpeted floor.

She pulled her robe together and was shaking the spilt beer from her hand as she looked to see who was there.

"Mr. Jones!" she exclaimed, somewhat in relief. "You put the heart crossways in me. What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, pet," he said. "I thought you were your father, that Heineken is mine; your Dad lets me use the bar when I can't sleep. Sometimes we meet in here in the wee hours of the morning, but I come here most nights, have a beer and a smoke, and go back to bed."

"I spilled some of your Heineken," she said, struggling to her feet in as ladylike a fashion as she could, giving him a long look at her tits as the robe misbehaved when she finally got her balance.

"I'm not territorial about it in any way, pet," he said and walked behind the bar, two pint glasses in his hand as he pulled the lever to fill them three-quarters the way full.

He handed one to Emily and raised his in toast.

"Sláinte agus fáilte, dear," he intoned in Irish, taking a deep draft of the brew.

Emily sipped hers, a little turned off by the pint glass. She preferred the half-pint tumblers that fitted in her hand more easily, but the alcohol warmed her as she began to enjoy it. She watched the neighbour as he slowed his pace and placed the glass on the counter before climbing onto the stool next to hers.

"So how is London treating you?" he asked.

"Manchester," she said. "It's ok, I don't mind it."

"I spent a week in Manchester one day," he said, and they both laughed.

"That's a very old joke, Mr. Jones."

"Everything about me is old, pet, and call me Tommy, please."

"I will if you’ll call me Emily."

"I thought you were Petula," he said with a grin.

"Do I look like a Petula?"

"What does a Petula look like?"

"The queen of the desert?"

"That's Priscilla," he said, quieting down suddenly; Priscilla was his wife's name.

"Is this your second or third Christmas without her, Tommy?"

"Second," he said, "I miss her, but it was time."

"What caused it?"

"She had a brain tumour. She'd been very sick for a while, but it was still a shock."

Emily held her glass up.

"To Priscilla, The Queen of the Desert," she said, making them both laugh.

"And all who sail in her," Tommy added with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

"Mam told me it was a big funeral."

"Yes, it was quite a turnout. It cost a fortune in soup and sandwiches down at the pub, that's for sure."

"She said it was a great day, or as great as a funeral could be, I suppose."

"It was that. Priscilla had many friends and admirers."

"My parents took it hard; I recall."

"Yes, your Dad and I sit here most nights just reminiscing."

"How long were you married?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight years," he said. "Good times and bad."

"Are you back on the market yet? I heard there were lots of female admirers at the funeral service and afterwards in the pub."

"No, I haven't made any moves like that, Emily; there are rules, you know."

"Tell that to my ex," she said ruefully.

"Sorry?"

"The rules, I caught him in bed with my supposed friend," she explained.

"Is that the young Lynch girl?"

"You're well informed," she laughed. "Yes, it is."

"I wouldn't be too hard on her; you don't know the circumstances. At the end of the day, it was your ex who made the decision to stray, Emily; there's an old and crude expression that applies here."

"What's that, Tommy?"

"Forgive me for saying it, but it goes, 'a standing prick has no conscience'.

"Tommy Jones!" she laughed.

"I'm so sorry, Emily," he said, his face reddening.

"No, don't be, I'm just pulling your leg."

"Make peace with young Lynch," he said. "You two were always as thick as thieves, and you were childhood friends. You can't lay all of the blame at her feet. Give her a call while you're home."

"I'll think about it," she said as he stood and placed his empty glass on the counter. "I'll wash that for you."

"Thanks. Well it was lovely to see you, Emily. I must go and get my beauty sleep, take care."

She watched him leave as she picked up both glasses and placed them in the sink, recalling how he'd put her at ease and knowing that he'd had a world-class view of her tits, pussy, and arse, yet hadn't even mentioned it. She closed the bar down and returned to bed, sleeping fast, and waking to an empty house at 10:30 the next morning.

With no real plans other than a few drinks with friends at some stage, she lingered over a breakfast of coffee, eggs, and toast before taking a long luxurious soak in the double-ended roll-top bath, stroking her clit to a quietly satisfying orgasm in the process. She thought of what Tommy had said about the standing prick, and she laughed quietly to herself. Maybe he was right, maybe she should talk to Angela. She wandered into her parents' bedroom, her nostrils taking her back a few years as the familiar scent hung in the air.

She let her finger roam along the smooth walnut of a dressing table, placing it on the front of a slightly open drawer to push it closed. It wouldn't budge, so she pushed harder with no success. She pulled it open with the intention of pushing it back with more force to close it fully. A thin strip of red lace caught her eye from among the otherwise drab colourscape of the garments inside. Curious, she fished it out and was mildly shocked to find it was a skimpy little lace G-String.

"Oh Mother," she said, grinning widely as she placed it back as she had found it.

She wondered what other little secrets the furniture in the room held but admonished herself. They were only human after all, but even still … yuk!

She picked up her phone, lay down on her bed and called Angela. It rang twice before it went to voicemail. She was about to leave a message but couldn't find the words or the tone of voice, so she hung up. It rang about ten minutes later.

"Hi," she said.

"Were you looking for me?" Angela said.

"Yes. I just thought I'd give you a bell."

"For what?"

"Just to talk, that's all."

"About what?"

"To see if you want to go for a drink or something?"

"I'm off it, Emily."

"What? Fuck off, Angie."

"I am, I haven't touched a drop ever since … well, you know," she said. "How about lunch? There's a new place just opened in Stillorgan. It's supposed to be great."

"Ok, I'll see you there in an hour or so. I'll book an Uber."

"Uber? This isn't England, you know," she laughed.

"You know what I mean."

They met outside Donnybrook Fair in the Stillorgan Village Shopping centre and walked into Brambles, the new restaurant merely a figment of Angela's imagination. They sat down and ordered bottled water, sandwiches, and coffee.

"I fucking detest this place," Emily said.

"Sorry, I heard the new restaurant was here," Angela said. "It must be on the main road."

"Fuck it, we're here now."

"So what's on your mind? Are you going to give me more grief, Emily?" Angela said. "Because I really don't need it."

"No, I heard you broke up with dickhead."

"There was nothing to break up. It was a one-night drink-fuelled thing, and I've regretted it ever since."

"So how long are you off the drink?"

"Since that night," she said simply. "We think our drinks were spiked."

"We?"

"Yes, me, Sandra Todd and Belinda Hennessy."

"How? What? Why?"

"All three of us finished up fucking someone, Emily," she said, "and none of us remembers anything past when we were sitting at a table in Sardi's. It's a miracle none of us caught the clap."

"Fuck," Emily said. "Sorry, but where did Clive fit into this?"

"He was in Sardi's that night, I remember him chatting to that Phoenix one from Foxrock. Next thing I knew was his cock was halfway down my throat, and you were slapping me silly."

Emily sat back in her seat, staring at Angela and not seeing anything.

"I wonder why he was there that night," she said, almost to herself.

"Does it matter now?" Angie asked.

"No, it doesn't. I wish I'd known this at the time, Angie. Tommy said there had to be more to it."

"Tommy? Who's Tommy?"

"Sorry, Mr. Jones from next door. We were having a drink in the garden saloon last night. He came in for a beer while I was in there having a smoke."

A sly look came over Angela's face.

"A drink in your garden saloon? Were your parents there?"

"No, it was after three in the morning."

"Just you and Tommy?"

"Mr. Jones. Yes. Why are you talking like that, Angie?"

"Like what?"

"As if you know something that I don't know."

"You know that the Joneses were swingers, don't you?"

"Fuck off!"

"Yes, when the wife died, he stopped," she said. "Did you not hear about the amount of women at her funeral?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, Mr. Jones is reputed to have quite a sizeable cock and knows how to use it," she said. "Plus, he loves girls under thirty with dark hair and nice tits that aren't short in height."

"Seriously?"

"Well, the part about the dark-haired girls is a joke, but the rest is true, allegedly."

"How do you know all this?"

"Ok, but this is top secret," she said. "Do you remember Irene Byrne and her wimpy husband?"

"Yes."

"Tommy fucked Irene at a swinger's party up in Ticknock while her husband watched. Irene told everyone that his cock was over a foot long."

"Fuck off, there's no such thing," Emily said.

"Black cocks are that length, Emily, everyone knows that."

"I can tell you for sure that they aren't, Angie," Emily said.

"How? You mean …"

"Yes, I let a black guy fuck me, and it was smaller than Clive's, and Clive is not that big."

"I noticed."

"So do you want to revise the whole 'halfway down your throat' thing?"

"It was just an expression, Em," Angela said. "I don't really remember anything about it at all."

They burst out laughing at the table, burying the hatchet for the moment, yet not making further plans to meet up over the holiday when they went their separate ways.

Emily wasn't in the humour of going back to the house just then, so she took a walk around the shopping centre. She was flush with cash, having received quite a tidy bonus from work along with €200 in cash from her Dad in her birthday card. She'd completed her Christmas shopping in Manchester and didn't really need anything, but she enjoyed the feeling of just browsing the stores mindlessly. At 3:00 she'd had enough of the Christmas banality and wandered out into the car park, hailed a taxi, and went home. Tommy was out in his front garden tidying some leaves as she walked past.

"How's the head today?" he said over the fence.

"Not bad, Tommy. How's yours?"

"It's good, thanks."

"I took your advice," she said. "I had a chat with Angela."

"Good, how did it go?"

"It was fine, you were right, she said that she thought their drinks were spiked."

"That's becoming very common these days, Emily," he said. "If you're going for drinks over the Christmas, you need to be on your guard."

"I will, but I'll probably get out of here when the folks head away for their week in Ashford."

"That'll be a shame after coming all the way over," he said, "but I don't blame you. Christmas is an awful time to be on your own."

"I know, but I'd better get on; this hair won't wash itself, you know."

"Good luck with that," he said, and they both laughed.

She walked inside and went straight to her room. As she undressed, she could hear the scraping and swishing of the brush across the ground from next door. Piqued by Angela's story, she tiptoed over to stand beside the window, leaning against the frame whilst admonishing herself for her actions. Tommy was working close to the front of the house, making it difficult for Emily to see properly or with any comfort. She lifted the edge of the curtain slightly, which gave her a better view, and tried to assess or confirm Angela's words.

She was surprised at how spryly he moved. There was a definite rhythm to his work, and it held a pleasant cadence that was evocative of the ballet lessons she'd taken as a child. He moved with purpose and natural grace, every movement counting with no wasted effort. He was lithe, almost balletic, his body in tune with his hands as they swept the brush across the ground whilst his feet and lower body remained flexible to accommodate the purposeful swirling of his sinuous upper body.

When he bowed his body to pick up the leaves he'd swept into a pile, he automatically fell into a classic pose; his back and shoulders arrow straight, and his legs bent perfectly at the knees. His ease of motion when he straightened up was that of a much younger man, and not once did she see him grimace or place his hands on his hips to lean backwards and stretch out in discomfort.

When he finished, the garden was spotlessly clean. He gathered his few tools assiduously and walked to the gate where his jacket was hung beside a hedge, almost blocking him from view. He opened his cardigan and attempted to push his errant shirt tails deep inside the waistband of his trousers, falling miserably short of perfection. With visible irritation, he placed his jacket on top of the hedge and unzipped his trousers, pulling them open to allow room for the fabric of his shirt to fit in easily. As he moved his hips to accommodate everything, she caught a glimpse of it.

Her hand went to her mouth when she saw the tubular shape nestling under the white cotton of his tight briefs. It was nowhere near a foot long, but it wasn't far off either. She deduced that an uneducated guess would place it in the eight to nine inch range, but it was difficult to judge, seeing as it almost disappeared as it hung down the leg of his trousers. It was the girth that got her attention mostly.

It reminded her of a stick of rock she'd had as a child. It wouldn't fit in her mouth and had to be broken with a hammer so she could eat it. He smoothed the shirt down into his trousers and his hand noticeably reached in for his cock to adjust it. He zipped himself up and was buttoning his trousers when he suddenly looked up at her window, catching the movement of the curtain as she let it drop quickly. He smiled and shook his head slowly before pulling on his jacket, collecting his tools, and returning to his house.

Emily sprawled on her bed, imagining what it looked like unclothed. She pictured him as he bent and moved, applying that to how he might have appeared to others at a swinger party as he fucked someone. She was convinced that he must have been an accomplished lover in his day and wondered how long it had been since he'd fucked anyone. He didn't appear to be overly outgoing, and assumed that he'd probably used the services of an escort or two occasionally.

She shook her head roughly, trying to despatch from her head the images that were making her juices flow. She rustled in her bag, found her small pink vibrator and eased her arousal with a violent orgasm that lifted her hips off the bed as she tried not to scream. Her G-String was soaking wet, so she removed it and rested her buzzing head against the pillow, drifting off to sleep as her trembling eased.

The sound of the front door opening woke her at 5:30. She heard her name being called and footsteps on the stairs as her mother came to look for her. She jumped to her feet and hid the thong and vibrator under the mattress just as the door burst open.

"For fuck sake, Mother! Can you not knock at the door like a person for once?" she almost screamed. "I could have been naked in here for all you knew."

"Sorry, love, but it wouldn't be anything I hadn't seen before, would it?"

"Christ! Give me strength," she said as she ushered her out of the room.

"Your father will be home at 6:00. The dinner will be on the table then."

"Good, what are we having?"

"I got your favourite, ribeye steaks from Buckley's."

"With mash?" Emily asked.

"Yes, and beans like you used to love."

"Thanks, Mam, you're a star," Emily said with a smile, "but fuck off barging into my room in future."

"Ok," she said as they both laughed. "I'll put a peephole in the door instead."

Emily joined her mother in the kitchen and peeled potatoes with her. She wanted to watch how her mother cooked the steak so she could replicate it at home; instead, she got a lesson in poking her finger into the meat and something that her mother had seen Gordon Ramsay doing with his fingers on the palm of his hand on TV.

"I'll open the beans," she said with a laugh as her father ambled in from work, a stupid smile on his face.

"Have you been drinking, Dad?" she giggled.

"I had a few at the Christmas gathering. What of it?"

"I hope there were no shenanigans with that Dolores one this year," she said jokingly.

"Don't mind her, Jerry," her mother said quickly. "Take a seat, the dinner's nearly ready."

As they ate, they listened to Jerry's commentary on the Christmas gathering.

"I think the boss is having a thing with that new secretary," he mentioned in passing.

"You'd think he'd have learned his lesson from the last time," her mother said, "the fucking idiot."

"Mother!" Emily said.

"I think Tommy is up to his old tricks too," she continued as her father's head shot up.

"Why, Kath?"

"There were two glasses in the sink when I was cleaning the bar this morning and six cigarette ends in the ashtray."

"How long has it been now, Kath?"

"Since Priscilla died? It's over two years now."

"What do you mean by his old tricks, Dad?" Emily asked.

"Oh, just in the sense that he hasn't been, ehm, intimate with anyone since Priscilla passed away."

"You'd hardly call that old tricks, would you? Isn’t that just something normal for a married couple?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right, Emily," he said as his wife looked at him sternly.

"Maybe there's a different reason for the cigarettes and glasses."

"Maybe, but it's unusual," he said. "It's never happened before. I might reconnect the camera tonight, just to keep an eye on it."

"You're not getting up on a ladder with drink on you," Kath said. "If it happens again tonight, you can do it when we get back from town tomorrow."

"What are you doing tonight, Emily?" she asked.

"I might go down to The Orchard Inn, just to see if there's anyone there."

"It'll be messy down there tonight, dear. Everything is shutting down today for the holidays."

"I know, you're right, Mam," she said. "I'll give it a miss and head over to The Dropping Well instead; some of the girls from the Irish office are meeting there."

"Just be careful, dear, a lot has changed over here in the last year."

"Yes, Angela told me what happened to her."

"Yes, I heard about that. It's frightening."

Emily changed into jeans and a heavy grey sweater to battle the frigid air. She pulled on a bubble jacket and ran out to the taxi that she'd ordered twenty minutes previously. The Dropping Well was packed with holiday revellers, and she found the three girls from her former office as they sat in the corner eating chicken wings and drinking pints beside a roaring fire. After two hours of constantly rejecting advances from drunken males wearing silly Christmas jumpers, Emily decided to call it a night, her desire for sleep overriding her desire for entertainment.

It was still only 10:00, but she'd heard one of the girls say that the Dundrum Town Centre was open all night. She needed some things, most of all a coffee from Butler's Chocolate Café that would help her stay awake, and she didn't fancy being the third wheel at home. A taxi dropped her outside the Mall, and she was surprised that the centre wasn't busier when the dearth of people in the centre took her pleasantly by surprise. She passed a few Yummy Mummies, their designer clad designer babies asleep in designer strollers, and the ubiquitous South Dublin blonde airheads.

As usual, they were flashing their cards everywhere, as they spent some of Daddy's lovely money, screaming in abject panic and spouting nonsensical phrases as they complained about the lack of supplies of the currently trendy Tiffany anklet that Brown Thomas existed for. They formulated plans for their funeral arrangements as the onset of death loomed large in their future unless adequate stocks of the life-preserving product were immediately made available to them.

In the well of the communal area, where the escalators merged and wound upwards through the upper floors of the monolith, she heard the shouted juvenile meanderings of the privileged rugger buggers. Crude renditions of rugby songs their mating call to their airhead paramours located somewhere else in the cavernous structure. Emily strolled on past, to the accompaniment of fatuous and unimaginative cat calls and wolf whistles that echoed around her, to the apparent mortification of fellow shoppers as they cast sympathetic eyes in her direction on her journey past.

She smelled the proximity of the Butler's Chocolate Café before she saw it, almost camouflaged by the excessive gold and silver seasonal decorations that adorned the Mall as Roy Wood let her know that he wished it could be Christmas every day through the pervasive sound system. She delighted in the apparent emptiness of the cafe as she carried her tray to a lone table in the corner, sat down and slipped off her shoes, cradling the latte in her hands to return them to a tolerable temperature, and sipped the brew slowly as she watched the light human traffic sailing by in the mall outside.

She appreciated the peace and near solitude that was at odds with the frenzied atmosphere that would prevail in this very spot a few short hours hence as Christmas Eve arrived and good sense and good manners disappeared. With nothing on her mind beyond the coffee in her hand and the free lone chocolate on a plate in front of her, she focused on the carrier bags that were carried by the relaxed shoppers outside. High on the popularity list were those bearing the branding of Victoria's Secret.

The branding caught her attention and her thoughts turned to the sparsity of her own current wardrobe. She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken much more than an academic interest in her appearance. She tended to shop for clothes on a 'needs must' basis, the style or cut secondary to the immediacy of her need. She was also aware that the prices would be slashed in half less than forty-eight hours later, when the sales kicked in, while the generous Sterling to Euro conversion was another gift from the Gods. She popped the chocolate in her mouth and finished the coffee, deciding to have a browse through the outlet at least and pleased to have found a purpose.

She joined two women at the store directory wall of the centre and overheard them as they chatted about the various stores in the Mall. The Victoria’s Secret store was part of the Next outlet on Level 1, and it appeared from what they were saying that the post-Christmas sale was already in operation.

"Excuse me," Emily said to the woman closest to her, "did you say the sales were on?"

"Yes," she said excitedly, showing her the notification on her mobile phone, "I got an email at 9:00. We drove over here from Coolock."

"Fuck, is that unusual out here?"

"I don't know, it's my first time out here," she said. "I'm registered on the site for notifications. Here, show me your phone. I'll bump this on to you; you need to show it at the register to get the lower prices."

"Wow! That's very nice of you," she said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, love. Happy Christmas," she said, and they walked away excitedly.

Emily wended her way to the Next outlet and found the Victoria's Secret concession. She spent some time perusing the rails, nothing obviously jumping immediately out at her. She smiled as she watched a man trying not to look at the lingerie too closely. He was middle-aged and stood with his hands behind his back, staring at a rack of ladies' underwear. His obvious reticence touched Emily as he reminded her a little of her own father at home. She went up to him and touched his arm gently; he jumped at the intrusion.

"She'll love that," she said quietly.

"It's not for her, it's for me," he said. "I just can't find my size."

She was mortified and apologised profusely, but the man just cracked up in laughter.

"You should see the look on your face," he said. "I'm only joking, I'm sorry."

She could only join in the joke as the relief washed through her.

"Don't be," she said. "The colour wouldn't suit you in any case."

"Oh, I don't know," he said playfully, "in a certain light, in a certain room …"

They shared a laugh as he lifted it off the rail.

"It's fucking expensive, though, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes, but the sale is on tonight, just tell them you got an email an hour ago."

"Oh, that's fantastic. Thank you, dear. I might even get one for herself too. Happy Christmas."

"Many happy returns," she said and moved away with a lighter step.

Her thoughts returned to her immediate need. She was running low on underwear, so she felt it necessary to replenish her supplies. This helped her focus her mind on the task. She found a rail of sexy little lingerie sets. She had bras to burn at home, so concentrated on the G-String part of each set. She picked up a delicate black confection and held it up to the light; it was almost sinful in appearance, but it was alluring, and she wanted it. Her fingers tested the flimsy lace of the bra; it was soft and a little decadent. She found her size and saw that the complete set was €90, not excessive at the sale price.

She held the black set and picked up a white set too. She was satisfied with that, but there was also another in a lovely shade of pink that she couldn’t leave behind, so she added that to her collection before selecting another in a beautiful shade of teal that called to her also. She ambled along the aisles, her eyes scanning for nothing else in particular, when she saw a delicious little slip dress in white satin that she felt would be soft against her skin in bed at night. She chose a red one too and added that to her expanding collection, walking quickly to the register before she became addicted.

She showed her phone to the girl behind the till and exchanged smiles as she handed over her card. Happier still when she noticed a further reduction of €110 on the receipt. As the assistant packed her purchases into several bags, Emily caught sight of a mannequin clad in a black pencil skirt and a white semi-sheer blouse. She asked if they were in the sale too and was told that everything in the store was on sale.

"Fuck!" she said, and they both laughed. "Can I try one on?"

"Of course, the fitting room is over in the corner there," she said, "but do it now because you won't be able to move in here tomorrow."

She picked up her size and one either side of it and moved to walk over to the curtained-off room. She pulled the drape behind her and looked at herself in the mirror that covered the entire wall. She looked a mess in her dowdy bubble coat, jeans, and jumper. She recognised that it really was time for an overhaul.

She stripped naked, the sight of her faded Marks and Spencer underwear further reinforcing her decision. Her bra was beginning to show signs of wear and her thong hung loose and looked awful. She was reminded of the wet thong that she hid under the mattress at home and reflected that it mightn't be a bad idea to pick up some everyday items from Penney's while she was in Ireland.

She opened the white lingerie set and stepped into the G-String, luxuriating in the feel of the seductive lace as it hugged her skin, enjoying the snugness as it embraced her hips and genitals. She slipped the bra on next; it fitted perfectly as she took a step back to view the overall effect.

The bra was soft and light in texture. It was very revealing, her breasts clearly visible through the sheer fabric, the mystery preserved by a lace appliqué which barely concealed her nipples and swept low across her breasts and the side panels of the cups. The thong was just a wisp of the same material stretched low across the swell of her Mons, just a microscopic scrap of lace that barely covered her, emphasising the slight curve of her pubis as it snuggled between her legs and disappeared in a thin string that slipped seductively inside the cleft of her bum.

She lifted the string of the waistband high on her hips and delighted in how she looked and felt. The thong, as small as it was, dominated her vision and screamed for attention as it concealed the bare minimum but obscured everything else enough to leave the dullest imagination to run riot.

She slipped into the blouse, buttoning it up to just above her breasts. It fitted like a glove, and she smiled as she lifted the skirt from its hanger, stepping into it carefully and slowly easing it over her legs and hips, teasing the loose tails of the blouse inside the waistband and zipping it shut. A quick swivel of her body showed her that it was perfectly formed, fitting, her cute bum enhanced by the material of the skirt. It stopped about two inches above the knee and, although she revelled in the look, she was unsure of how she would be perceived outside the fitting room.

"Fuck them!" she said to herself, and stripped off again, dressing quickly in her street clothes, and returning to the shop floor. She handed the extraneous blouses and skirts back to the assistant and took three more blouses in teal, black and pink from the display, along with another skirt in navy blue. She paid for everything and left the store on a cloud of satisfaction, her thoughts on a quick visit to Penney's on her way out.

It was after midnight when she walked out into the chilly night. Her arms were laden down with bags, and she smiled when a cab driver pulled in front of her after a wait of only a minute or two. She arrived home to a darkened house at 12:40 and let herself in quietly. She heard a noise from above and met her mother on the stairs as she was halfway up.

"Did you go shopping, Emily?"

"Yes, I went a bit mad. I met two girls from Coolock who gave me a code to get fifty per cent off at Next, and there was another ten or fifteen per cent off at the till."

"No way!"

"Yes," she said. "I was in a bad way for clothes, Mam. I was overdue and, with the currency conversion, it was a complete steal."

"Did you not go to the pub?"

"Yes, I did, but you were right, it was loud and uncomfortable."

"Were there no handsome men there?"

"No, everyone seemed to be drunk and messy; it was a turn-off, to be honest."

"You probably did the wise thing," Kath said. "Good night, love, I'm off to bed."

She walked into her bedroom and set the bags down on the bed. She sat beside them, carefully taking the contents out and placing them in piles beside her. She'd bought two bras and ten G-Strings in assorted colours, trusting the sizing as she had reached the point when she just wanted to get home. Penney's weren't having a sale, but the stuff was never expensive there in any case, so she took a chance. She stripped off and tried a pink thong on for size; it was as close as it gets to being perfect, if just the tiniest bit tighter, and they were quite comfortable.

She packed everything away and slid gratefully into bed, hoping to get a full night of sleep for a change. She woke at 4:15, too distracted to return to sleep, so she remained flat on her back before the urge for a smoke betrayed her. Remembering the satin slip dresses she bought, she pulled the red one out and slid it over her head. It dropped over her shoulders and shrouded her body in a cloak of smooth, decadent comfort. It had two spaghetti straps at the shoulders and stopped three inches above the knee. It was sold as sleepwear and could be worn under a dress, but it felt wonderful against her skin. It was for her alone, and she instantly fell in love with it.

"Merry Christmas," she said to her reflection in the mirror, delighted with the effect of the figure-hugging garment as it flared outwards when she spun around.

She grabbed her robe, regretting she hadn't bought a new one too, and put it on over the slip. She tied it loosely and picked up her cigarettes, quietly descended the stairs and made her way out to the garden saloon, opening and closing the door quickly to minimise the noise of the hinges, and switching the fan heater on to warm the place against the cold of the night. She sat on a stool and lit one up, inhaling deeply in the dimness of the shed, shivering slightly against the cold as the fan heater took up the challenge and began to make decent headway.

Ten minutes later, the shed was toasty warm, and she relaxed as her shivering ceased. She reached behind the bar and switched on the lights that were contained within the housing of the bar taps. A relaxing shade of green tinged with red and yellow lit the room, and she settled back against the bar and thought through the day. The sight of Tommy as he fixed his clothing after work leapt to the front of her consciousness. The little smile and shake of his head indicated to her that he knew she'd been watching, but she couldn't do anything about it, so she suffered the embarrassment in silence as she leaned her head back and rested her eyes in the sensorial calmness of the room.

"You're not drinking my Heineken again, are you?" Tommy said, interrupting her thoughts and making her jump.

"Jesus, Tommy!" she said, her hand on her chest. "Could you not give a girl a bit of warning before you give her a heart attack?"

"Sorry about that, I thought you'd have heard the door squeaking," he said with a smile.

"That's ok, I must have been too far away to notice; it's not as loud as last night."

"I put a few drops of oil on it earlier today. It wouldn't do for them to seize up, would it?"

"No, I suppose it wouldn't," she replied. "My Mam deduced that you must have had a woman in here last night."

"Did she?"

She laughed. "Yes, she had evidence too."

"Kath was always a bit of a detective. What evidence did we leave behind?"

"Two glasses in the sink and six cigarette butts."

He laughed almost joyously.

"And that's the case for the prosecution? We should have left something for her to really get her teeth into."

"Such as?"

"I don't know offhand," he said, "but I'd love to be a fly on the wall when she found it."

They both laughed at the thought and imagined Kath going into Sherlock Holmes mode as he made his way around the bar. He held up a glass.

"May I offer you a libation on the house, young lady?"

"Why not?" she said with a grin, turning on her seat to lean on the bar.

He held a mysterious smile on his face as he watched the amber liquid flood into the glass. She watched him and tried to work out what was different about him compared to the previous night. He'd obviously shaved, and there was the merest hint of cologne about him. It was very faint, but noticeable, and not in a bad way. His hair was tidier too, as if he'd had a trim. As he handed her the glass, she saw his eyes dip to her cleavage, what there was of it, and she felt an immediate tingling sensation as her nipples hardened. She sat up and placed the glass on the bar in front of her.

"I heard some scandal about you today," she said with a grin.

He laughed. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

"Talk is cheap, my dear, and paper never refuses ink, as they say."

"You sound as if it's not an unusual occurrence," she said.

"My name is Tom Jones, so no, it's not unusual."

She collapsed in laughter at his little joke.

"My Dad was afraid you were up to your old tricks again," she said then.

"I wonder what he meant by that," he said, looking anywhere but at her.

"I wonder indeed. Maybe I should talk to Irene Byrne; she might know something."

"Well, you've had a busy day, Emily, haven't you?" he said.

"You think? So there's something in what Dad said, is there?"

"About Irene?"

"No, someone else told me about Irene."

"Who?"

"I can't say, it wouldn't be proper," she said, laughing at the ridiculousness of her comment.

He shut the tap off and came to sit beside her and looked straight into her eyes.

"Ok then, tell me what you think you know. I promise you it won't shock me because I've probably heard most of it in the past."

"I heard that you and Priscilla were swingers," she said, "is that true?"

"I can't deny it."

"I also heard that women were, shall I say, drawn to you. Does that work?"

"Let's say it does," he said. "Yes, that did happen occasionally but with the full knowledge and agreement of Cilla, who, as an aside, was not a swinger."

"Did she not go swinging with you?"

"No, she never did," he said, his eyes quiet and a look of sadness on his face.

"So what was it, Tommy? I thought swinging was a form of wife swapping, or am I wrong?"

"It was more complicated than that, Emily," he said, obviously struggling to put the words into an order that was comfortable for him. "Cilla couldn't have sex with me; we weren't physically compatible. Any time we tried it caused her too much pain, and it broke my heart."

"Tommy, I never in a million years …"

"I know, dear," he said gently, touching her hand. "She felt terribly guilty about, as she put it, denying me my full conjugal rights, and she afforded me the opportunity to have the marriage annulled, rather than deprive me of intimacy."

"Tommy, there's no need …"

"There is, Emily. Cilla knew about this group of swingers in Rathfarnham, and she signed us up for it. I never knew a thing about it. It was presented to me at a dinner party of sorts."

"Except you were the main course," Emily said.

"Something like that," he laughed, "a leg of lamb to the slaughter, so to speak. Of course, Cilla, not wishing to be present, disappeared next door to watch TV while everyone else got it going."

"Oh Tommy," she said, holding her breath.

"I wasn't experienced in that way, Emily," he explained. "I was a virgin when we married. That night was an education for me, I can tell you that for nothing, but I loved it. Until I discovered that Cilla wasn't there."

"Didn't it occur to you that Cilla might have been with another man? Would that not have bothered you?"

"As I said last night, dear, a standing cock has no conscience. I felt I'd done a shameful thing and destroyed my marriage in the process too, especially when I heard that Cilla had left the party."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing, she just asked me if I'd had a good time. Later I got her to admit that she'd set it up with two of her friends."

"Fucking hell! Was that the end of your swinging days?"

"No, I told her that I wasn't going to continue with it, but she broke down and begged me to. She said it was the only thing that she could do to balance the books. Either that, or we'd have to separate."

"So you had a free pass?"

"In essence, yes, but I got away from the swinging part of it; that just became weird, and there was no intimate connection, Emily, it was just sex. In actual fact, the last time I took part in it was that night with Irene Byrne. It was so crazy; it was almost performative."

"How do you mean no connection, Tommy? Your cock was buried in her pussy. How much more connected can you be?"

He held her hand gently.

"I don't know how you young people go about things these days, Emily, but I loved the romance and the intimacy of it. Kissing, for example, was, ironically, frowned upon. I always felt that a bit strange."

"Why?"

"You can't stick your tongue in someone's mouth, but a cock is acceptable?" he said with a frustrated laugh.

"It sounds a bit daft, now you say it. I'd never even have considered that. So what did you do ultimately?"

"I had a few … liaisons, shall we say?" he said. "All with Cilla's blessing, may I add."

"When was the last one?"

"About six months before she died. She hadn't been well, so I stayed home more and looked after her as best I could."

"I'm sorry, Tommy," she said, hugging him.

He waited a few seconds until she released him, sitting back in his seat in reflection.

"So, how many women have you brought in here?" she asked him.

"What? None, I don't know where Jerry got that notion from."

"Maybe the camera he put in?" she said with a grin.

"He thinks I don't know about that, Emily. But there's a fucking green light on it that even a blind man could see."

She doubled over in laughter.

"Well, I think he's going to put it back into operation tomorrow," she said. "He's convinced that you've got some kind of harem on the go again."

"Again? I never had one to begin with. Besides, how could anyone romance a lady in this shed?"

"Oh, I don't know, Tommy. In this light with the heat on, it's not the worst place I've ever been 'romanced'."

"Is that what we're doing, Emily? Romancing?" he asked with a wicked grin.

"Oh, I don't know, Tommy, but I'm not sure I'd like to be on camera."

"The camera is off now," he said, his voice low.

"I know," she said, lifting her eyes to meet his, her heart beating through her chest, her heat building slowly.

"I'm old enough to be your father."

"I'm not your daughter."

He lifted her chin with a gentle touch of his finger, stroking her cheek with his thumb as her eyes met his and her lips opened slightly. He saw her throat muscles constrict as she swallowed something, and smiled nervously as he leaned in slowly, anticipating rejection but praying for acceptance. She touched his face, enthralled by the softness of his weather-hewn skin. His cologne filled her senses as she kissed his cheek. He sighed at the touch of her lips to his face, her soft lips caressing him, teasing him as she offered her lips to him.

He kissed her softly, her lips yielding to his touch, her breath deepening, anticipating as she felt his strong arms embrace her and pull her to him, forcing her to her feet to wrap her arms around him.

"Tommy …" she whispered as he kissed her again, deeper now, his desire visibly apparent.

His lips entranced her as they moved in time with hers in slow circular patterns. An unhurried kiss that lingered and excited, building their arousal and heightening their desire. It was comforting, and it was easy. It demanded little but gave everything. She heard a low murmur of pleasure from him as the kiss remained fresh and unsullied, their lips almost adhering to each other.

Emily had never been kissed like that, and it was intoxicating, almost hypnotic. She was half expecting a rapid intrusion of his tongue into her mouth, but it hadn't happened, and she began to feel disappointed that it wasn't going to. Tommy, on the other hand, was lost in the kiss as Emily returned it with equal feeling.

His hands moved over her ribcage, stopping just below the swell of her breasts. Her heart rate increased, and she felt her pussy begin to moisten. Her nipples screamed for attention as Tommy slowly eased her robe from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. He broke the kiss and moved his lips to her throat and on down between her breasts, his hands sliding upwards to touch her soft skin, his palms feeling her extended nipples as they slid onwards over the smooth satin to the spaghetti straps of her slip, hooking them to the side and easing it away to pool on the floor at her feet.

He eased her back onto the stool, her naked body a feast for his eyes. He kissed her skin everywhere, moving his lips down over her stomach to her shaved Mons. She parted her legs, her breath coming in short, wheezing gasps as her pussy burned with expectant need. He opened them further, his tongue already touching her pink wetness and drawing deep agonised moans from her as it moved slowly between the swollen lips of her labia.

"Tommy ...," she groaned, her lip between her teeth.

TBC