She leaned back on her bed in Sardinia, her thighs quivering as her fingers and thoughts of the feel of Tommy’s cock touching her throat teased an orgasm. She’d failed to take him completely, almost choking before he eased her head away.

“You’re determined to take it all, aren’t you?” he smiled.

“I think I can get there,” she replied, almost sullenly.

He shook his head slowly, a look of admiration on his face that warmed her.

She recalled that look as that fuzzy post-orgasmic haze settled through her and settled her into a satisfied doze.

She woke to a quiet evening, hunger pangs making her stomach gurgle. The warm breeze off the Mediterranean ruffled the sheer white voiles that covered the balcony doors, left open to take advantage of the sea air. Her skin appreciated the pleasant comfort as she lay naked and partially covered on the bed.

She yawned and sat up slowly. Her flight home was due to depart at midnight, so she had a few hours to tidy the place before she left. She filled the Moka pot and brewed enough coffee for two cups before assembling a light meal of pane carasau, gioddu with asphodel honey and berries, and the last of the sourdough from the day before, with ricotta cheese and vine tomatoes.

Her phone rang, the telltale strains of Billy Idol’s version of Mony Mony, letting her know that her mother was calling. She waited for it to ring out before sitting down to eat. Her relationship with her parents had been a little uneasy since they’d returned home from Ashford Castle. Emily still shivered when she thought about that moment in the kitchen when she’d returned.

She’d woken at 10:05, naked as she lay on her side, her back to Tommy, he holding her against him as they slept. She vividly recalled the feeling of his cock, waking almost independently as though seeking her out. She’d opened her legs slightly to allow it some room to grow and explore, and she bent her hips slightly to take it inside her vagina, wet with anticipation and desire.

“Good morning, beautiful girl,” he’d whispered when he was fully inside her. She replied with a moan as he reached his hand around and began to stroke her clit gently.

“Fuck, Tommy,” she breathed as she felt her stomach muscles begin to contract.

“Come for me,” he whispered as he moved slowly inside her.

She came in minutes, her pulsing vagina hungrily gripping his shaft. She heard him groan and then cry out as he came inside her, powerful jets of his seed overpowering her senses as it brought a further reaction from her. Even the memory still prompted her to reach for her pussy.

They stayed in bed, planning their New Year’s party and making laughable suggestions, kissing and making love intermittently.

“I need to get a party frock,” she said. “I also need a robe, a hairdo … do you think I should get a mani-pedi … a Brazilian?”

“We don’t have to do it today, Emily. We’ve got a few days until the party, you know.”

“We? Are you getting a Brazilian, Mr. Jones?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” he said, and she laughed and kissed him.

“What is a Brazilian exactly?” he asked, and she told him.

“Oh, maybe not, I’m uncomfortable enough using a shaver down there.”

“Do you shave?”

“Yes, I always have since my swinging days. I’ve always felt that the ladies appreciated that.”

“This one does.”

“Why does all our conversation … what’s that noise?”

“What noise?”

“I thought I heard something from next door.”

They lay quietly for a few moments, listening intently until they heard the noise of a door slamming shut.

“Fuck! They’re home. What fucking time is it?”

“Nearly one o’clock,” Tommy said.

“Shit! I’d better get up.”

“Relax, Emily, are they expecting you to be waiting for them?”

“Well, now you say it … no!”

“Ok, so don’t get your water all hot. Let’s have something to eat, ease ourselves into the morning.”

“It’s the afternoon.”

“I know, you go take a shower, and I’ll make us something to eat.”

She left his house at 3:00 and walked through her parents’ door at 3:01, a confident smile pasted on her face. She peeled off her coat and hung it on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. The house was quiet, save for two hushed voices emanating from the kitchen. She pushed the door open, a wide smile on her face.

“You decided to come …” she began, the smile suddenly freezing on her face when she saw what her parents were watching on her father’s iPad.

It was a high-definition video of her bent over the table in the garden bar, naked and salivating as Tommy plunged his cock deeply and rhythmically inside her, both of them perspiring and breathing raggedly as she screamed, “Yes, fuck me, Tommy. Fuck that pussy!”

Her father seemed to be paralysed as he watched, her mother covering her mouth in shock. Emily paused when she focused on Tommy’s cock as it sank deep inside her, the sounds of their skin slapping against each other as he pounded her smoothly and evenly. She grabbed the screen and switched it off.

“What the fuck, Dad?”

“Your father fixed the camera before we left, Emily. I have to say I’m disgusted with you, and as for that bastard next door …”

“It just happened, Mam, we were both alone … we … I … we had sex, he didn’t force me.”

“Emily,” Jerry said, “this is just unacceptable. It’s… just fucking wrong.”

“Why? Because of the age difference?”

“Fuck the age difference, child. It’s disgusting,” Kath said, her voice spluttering in outrage.

“I’m not a fucking child, Mam, I’m a grown woman. It’s not the first time I’ve had sex, for fuck’s sake!”

“Did you just come from him now?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Mam, it’s none of your business. I don’t have to justify it to anyone.”

“But in our home, Emily. With our neighbour, a man twice your age.”

“I don’t see what difference any of that makes, Mam. Do you want me to leave?”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere out of here, this is just weird. I’ll pack my stuff and go home. Where’s that video card, Dad?”

“What?”

“The card from the camera.”

“It’s not a card, it’s connected through the iPad.”

“Delete the file then.”

“No!”

“Why not? So you can get your kicks watching someone fucking your daughter?”

“Emily Burke!” Kath said.

“I … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Will you delete the file, please?”

He looked at Kath, and she lowered her eyelids infinitesimally, took the iPad from Emily and deleted the file.

“Happy now?” she asked.

“A bit. I’ll see if I can get a flight home.”

“You don’t have to, Emily. This is your home.”

“If I stay, I’ll be seeing Tommy.”

“No!”

“You can’t stop me, Mam.”

“But there’s no future in it for either of you.”

“Maybe not, but it’s nice at the moment, and I haven’t had many nice moments these last few years.”

“Will you be … sleeping with him again?”

“If he wants me to, and I’m agreeable.”

Kath looked down at her hands on the table. “Jerry, will you say something, please?”

“What’s there to say, Kath? Are you jealous?”

“What?”

“You heard me. I know you’ve always had a thing for Jonesy. Did you ever sleep with him?”

“How dare you!”

“Mam?” Emily asked incredulously.

“I certainly did not sleep with Tommy Jones.”

“But you would have if he’d asked,” Jerry said.

“I’ve heard enough - this is ridiculous. I’m going to the shops,” she said, getting quickly to her feet.

That moment still carried through every conversation she’d had with her mother from that day onwards. Emily would never forget the look of shock and embarrassment on her mother’s face. She was also hyper-aware that she hadn’t answered when her father had asked if she’d have fucked Tommy if he’d asked.

Billy Idol played again. She answered this time.

“Hi, Mam.”

“How’s wherever you are today?”

“Sardinia, it’s lovely here.”

“We’re having sardines on toast for tea.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, we haven’t spoken for a while. You’ve been on my mind.”

“Why?”

“I think we handled that thing very badly at Christmas. It’s time to move on from it. Do you still keep in contact with next door?”

“No.”

“It’s for the best. We don’t see him at all. I hear he’s got a new job, spends his time travelling the continent … at his age. His house is up for sale too; €1.4 million.”

“What? €1.4 million?”

“That’s what they’re going for now, Emily.”

“Why don’t you sell up and buy something smaller?”

“Your father wants to, but I don’t know. What would we do when you come home?”

“I’m looking at apartments in Manchester, Mam. I’m not coming home.”

“Even for holidays?”

“After last year, are you fucking serious?”

“I know, and I understand, but it was a shock … to us all. And seeing that video didn’t help either.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sorry I made you delete it now.”

“Do not go there, Emily, I’m trying to make amends. Are you considering visiting us this year?”

“Not this year, I’ll be busy if I get this apartment, and there’s a restructuring coming at work which looks like it could be a slog.”

“Is there a man at the moment?”

“No, not at the moment.”

“You’re not getting any younger, love.”

“Thanks for reminding me, Mother.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How long will you be in Sardinia?”

“I leave tonight. I’m leading the restructuring team, and we’re meeting this outside consultant on Monday.”

“It all sounds very high-brow.”

“Yeah, that’s what it is - high-brow.”

“Ok, well I’ll leave you to your packing, travel safe and text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

“We love you, dear,” Kath said sincerely.

“Yeah, I know. I love you too. Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Do you still keep in contact with next door?” she thought after the call. “Can she not even use his name? Is he selling up because of me?”

She often regretted not keeping the video. Admittedly, it was a shock when she’d seen it at first, but the sight of his cock sliding slowly into her, along with her accompanying vocal encouragement, often made her gush when she thought of it. Her words betrayed a wild, uncontrolled abandonment that she hadn’t felt before that day or since.

Emily sat in her seat, her shoulder fast against the plane's fuselage, her eyes fixed firmly on the receding lights of Sardinia as it slowly retreated from view in the black night sky. The plane levelled out, the engines settling into a comfortable growl, the stars bright above them.

“Do you still keep in contact with next door?”

Her mother’s words, and tone of voice as she said them, still rankled with her. There had been no real confrontation between them and Tommy, just a coolness when he’d called to the door that evening.

He hadn’t been invited into the house, and the gate between their back gardens suddenly held a large padlock, closing off access between them completely. Emily tried talking to them separately, but nothing she could say or do had any effect. She communicated with Tommy by phone at first, but it became too uncomfortable. The stilted conversations caused further heartache and recrimination.

The last time she saw him was on the evening before she flew out of Dublin. She’d managed to book a late evening seat on the last Ryanair flight out of Dublin, and had knocked on his door to tell him before she left. She hadn’t entered the house, remaining on the doorstep as her tear-stained eyes tried to look disaffected. Tommy had just nodded his understanding, his sadness clearly on display, his hands firmly in his pockets as he wished her well.

He’d attempted to reach for her at first, his hand reaching for hers, but she’d pulled away, her eyes refusing to meet his. He couldn’t tell whether it was with shame or embarrassment, so he said, “If you ever need to talk to me, Emily, I’m always here. Don’t allow others to shape your thoughts or opinions. You’re a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent woman. Never forget that, and please think kindly of this time. I’ll never forget you, and I’ll always be grateful to you. You made me feel things I haven’t allowed myself to feel in such a long time.”

He took a step toward her and touched her face, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. He attempted a smile that didn’t quite convince either of them, stepped back across the threshold, and closed the door quietly between them.

When she reached home and walked into her messy apartment, the clutter she’d left on the day of her pre-Christmas departure seemed to delight in her depression. She moved silently around the flat, kicking discarded clothes out of her way, reclaiming the space as she shivered in the cold Manchester air. She’d slept in the clothes she’d travelled in, waking the next morning with nothing in her fridge and less in her soul.

She stayed in bed, driving in and out of consciousness, the loud call of her phone bringing her out of a restless stupor. She checked the screen, rejected her mother’s call, and rolled out of bed, intending to clean up and cook something to eat, but found no succour in her kitchen.

It was 10:25 on New Year's Eve. She should have been excited for their night at the Four Seasons - instead she was stuck in her messy apartment, a hundred miles from home across the Irish Sea, alone. Her phone rang again; this time it was Tommy. Her finger hovered above the screen until it rang off; she hadn’t the will to reject him. A text followed it.

Home safe?

She deleted his text, then blocked his number, then unblocked it again. Then she sat on the bed and cried.

The plane landing at Manchester Airport brought her back to earth. The taxi driver prattled on about City winning the treble as he delighted in United’s managerial and squad problems. She smiled as they passed by her potential new apartment, and she began to feel the city slowly becoming her home.

She met with the agent the next morning and shook hands on the deal, a friendly call from her boss to her bank helping oil the financial wheels on her behalf. The closing would take up to six weeks, but she felt a bit more secure as she puffed open her office door the next morning, smiling, happy and full of the joys of spring.

She had two days to pull a competent team together, and they worked diligently, despite a severe lack of information on what form this restructuring would take. As they discussed the possibilities, they tried to plan for every contingency. All they knew was that it involved introducing some form of streamlining efficiencies that they hoped would improve performance and reduce operating costs.

On Friday evening, the team repaired to the Lowry Hotel after work, where they would discuss it informally over dinner and a few drinks. They appointed Emily as the point person and offered sarcastic advice on how she should dress seductively to divert the consultant’s attention. Emily laughed louder than the remark deserved before screaming, “But what if the consultant is a woman?”

“That’d really work well if she were gay, Boss,” Eve Tate, the liveliest member of the team, said.

“Fuck it, Evie, we’re just going to take them as they come. There’s no point in overanalysing things. We’d just go fucking insane.”

The meeting broke up at a little after nine o’clock, and Emily found herself at home in bed at 10:30, the television humming quietly in her bedroom as she became engrossed in the latest Steve Cavanagh.

She woke early on Saturday morning with a restless mindset and leapt out of bed, her brain a chaotic kaleidoscope of tasks that needed attention. She forced herself to sit down with a mug of tea and the last two slices of stale bread in her cupboard, toasted to within an inch of their lives. With pen in hand, she made a list, prioritising each task numerically before transcribing it onto a fresh page.

The first requirement was grocery shopping. She had nothing in the apartment except for the curled-up heels of a Council sliced pan, two lonely teabags and half a bag of Demerara sugar that had solidified because of neglectful quiescence. She wrote a detailed list of provisions, including food, cleaning supplies, and wine.

On another day, she would most likely spend the morning at Factory Coffee MCR, drink coffee with an almond croissant, read the Irish Independent, and people-watch, but that morning she was too wired for that kind of luxury. She grabbed her bag, pulled on her coat and, with a brief final judgemental assessment of her flat, hurried out of the building.

Typical Manchester weather hit her as she stepped out of her block: rain trying to rip up the streets on a dank, grey, cloudy day. She rethought her visit to the Piccadilly open-air market in favour of the drier Morrisons in Piccadilly or the Tesco in the Arndale Centre. The cab dropped her off at Morrisons, and she spent a therapeutic hour in there, filling a trolley before exiting into a bright sunny day.

Breakfast was an informal fried egg and bacon butty and a coffee at Moose Coffee, with four bags of shopping at her feet under the table where she sat, unbothered by her hair, now air-dried after the early-morning downpour, lying flat against her head. She perused the Lifestyle Supplement of the Independent, but was too distracted to linger, so she finished her coffee and caught the nearest cab home.

She’d planned a long hot shower upon her return, abandoning her shopping bags the moment she closed the door behind her. She headed straight for the shower and spent forty satisfying minutes under the hot spray, resetting her equilibrium with soothing lather, shampoo, and self-care. She then dressed in a fresh set of casual clothes and set about storing everything away.

She checked off her list and spent most of the day in a frenzy of dusting and scrubbing floors, walls, windows, and every exposed surface in the apartment. She stripped the windows and bedding, consigned everything to the washing machine, scrubbed the bathroom tiles and fixtures, ruthlessly disposed of any quarter full of empty containers, and restocked with fresh linen, bath and shower products, and her favourite toothpaste and mouthwash.

Later that evening she’d just finished ironing the curtains and bedding and replaced her third load of clothes into the machine when she began to fail. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, so she ordered a Chinese delivery and waited for the first load of washing to complete the cycle in her clothes dryer. She cast her eyes around the lounge, pleased with her progress as she checked off the final items on her list.

Her food arrived at 9:45. She was running on empty by then and fell asleep halfway through a House Special Chow Mein that she finished for breakfast the next morning. Feeling a little subdued, she changed into a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt, filled the dryer with the last of her clothes, and went for a run around the empty Sunday morning streets of the city. She ran for an hour and jogged for another, arriving home tired but energised and lathered in sweat.

Monday morning saw her scan her badge into the fifth-floor office suite at 7:45. She’d slept soundly. She was focused as she exited the lift on the sixth floor and strode along the corridors to her office, her Adidas trainers surrendering to an odd squeak as the soles met the light blue linoleum floor.

She unlocked her office, left her briefcase on her desk, and headed to the conference room to check it was ready for an important meeting. The conference room was the largest in the office suite. It sat on the sixth floor, the suite's upper executive floor. It held a position of prime importance, overlooking the city with a panoramic view that could take one’s breath away on a fine day.

It nestled between four large executive offices, including Emily’s, an executive dining room with an ancillary food-preparation area, a relaxation area for informal interactions, rest, and sensory management; luxurious executive bathrooms; and two smaller spaces that served as overnight accommodation but were rarely used.

She pushed the conference room door and heard a breath as the seal punctured. She walked slowly around the curved table, checking for imperfections, missed dust stains, and the placement of chairs around the perimeter.

She touched one of the eighteen desk pads in front of each chair, lifted a corner, and moved it a fraction, then closer to where she felt it looked correct. She then slid a matching leather coaster with a Swedish crystal tumbler upturned in the centre to align with the pad before moving to the large glazed screen overlooking the landscape.

Her attention turned to the temperature of the room. Glancing at the clock on the wall above a Beech wall-hung credenza, she saw the time approaching 8:30. The visitors were expected at 9:30, so she programmed a lukewarm temperature into the ceiling-mounted air handling unit, set it with a gentle fan speed, and took a final look around before stepping out of the room, sealing it with an easy pull on the door.

With the lights on, the room looked impressive. Welcoming, but with an authoritative air, it focused the mind and set a businesslike atmosphere amongst the theatre it provided. The lift doors opened as she returned to her office, and she heard her name being called. She turned to greet the interloper and smiled.

“Jenna,” she said, “you’re early!”

“I couldn’t sleep, Emily.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I fucking hate this shit.”

“I know. Nice shoes by the way,” she laughed as they both looked down at Emily’s trainers.

“I have my proper shoes in my bag. Don’t have a fucking conniption.”

“I was joking. Relax! Do we need anything?”

“Everything looks good to me. If these bastards find something that displeases them, it’s not on us, that’s for sure. Will you organise coffee, tea and iced water on the credenza please? A box of pastries should be delivered before nine. Send them up to the kitchen.”

“You mean the ancillary food preparation area, don’t you?”

“That’s what I said. Oh, and Jenna, nice suit but only two buttons open.”

“I thought …”

“Let’s try to be professional for once. Hopefully they won’t need to be here for more than a day or two. I doubt I could handle much more of being nice.”

“What time is their flight?”

“It should be in at this stage. Will you check the status online? Ryanair flight FR552 from Dublin. It was due at 7:30.”

“Do you know where they’re staying?”

“The Lowry.”

“Are we arranging a car?”

“Patrick is meeting them at the hotel himself. We had to book the rooms for last night because of the late check-in time, and he picked up the room keys yesterday afternoon.”

“So they’re all checked in? Fuck me, Emily, we’re very organised all of a sudden. What warped mind thought of that?”

“Mine,” Emily said, and they laughed. “I think I’m turning into my mother.”

They parted company, and Emily headed straight to her office. Her phone buzzed with a text from Jenna.

Flight landed on time.

“Fucking Ryanair, never late when you need them to be,” she thought.

She texted Patrick.

Morning, Boss, any sign of our refugees from the ooold country?

She smiled as she sent it.

All good here. He’s finishing breakfast and should be on time.

She scratched her head and replied.

He?

Yes, he - why?

I thought they were a they.

That’s what the Lowry’s manager said.

Ok, can’t be helped. Text me when you’re close.

As she placed her phone back on the desktop, it rang. It was a number she didn’t recognise, so she ignored it and concentrated on changing her shoes. She stood, straightened to her full height, adjusted her tight black skirt, unbuttoned another button on her shirt, straightened it at the waist, and opened her office door.

She stepped out into a corridor humming with nervous energy, stopping at the door to check on the snack preparations. She felt a pang of hunger, hadn't eaten breakfast, and stole a mini muffin from a passing tray, smiling at the young girl carrying it. She popped it into her mouth, immediately regretting the wasted calories. Her phone showed a text alert from Patrick.

He’s here. Where RU?

She pocketed the device and began the short journey to the conference room. As she approached the door, she heard Eve giggling coquettishly while a male voice laughed hoarsely.

“Oh, I adore your accent,” she said. “Did you have a good flight?”

Emily pushed open the door and saw Eve with her hand on the visitor’s arm, her head bent to look up at his face, her other hand fiddling with the next closed button on her blouse, a wide smile on her red, glossed lips. She’d had her hair done and was dressed to kill in a tight white shirt that left nothing unseen, a tight black mini skirt and tall black heels that required a safety certificate before use.

She caught Emily’s eye and nodded in her direction, forcing their visitor to straighten his shoulders and turn to see who was behind him. He’d had his hair styled. It was slightly longer than she’d remembered. He wore a crisp blue suit with all the hallmarks of a Canali, a pristine white shirt with a safe navy tie, and black penny loafers.

It took her a moment to register his awkward smile. Her breath caught and her legs almost betrayed her as he turned fully to see her. She took two steps closer, and he reached out his hand.

“Emily,” he said as she took it and squeezed it softly.

“Tommy,” she said, shaking his hand, “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Do you know each other?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, we were neighbours in Dublin,” Tommy said, “weren’t we, Emily?”

“Yes, Mr. Jones was next door,” she said with a smirk that made his eyes form a question. “I hear you’re selling your house.”

“Yes, it’s going Sale Agreed this morning,” he said. “A young couple are buying it.”

“Mam told me it was for sale. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It was a difficult thing to do, too many memories, but it was far too big for me to take care of.”

“And you’re back to work too?”

“Yes, since January.”

“Is it a full-time job?”

“Yes, for the first year until we get everything up to speed. I’ll take a less stressful schedule after that, but how are you, Emily? You look fantastic, did you lose some weight?”

“Yes, a few stubborn pounds, but I ate a muffin just now,” she laughed, “so there’s one back on straight away.”

Everyone laughed, and Tommy moved to a seat at the table. Emily took charge and dismissed everyone from the room, then joined him in the seat next to his and opened her folder for the meeting. Patrick caught her eye, and they exchanged a conspiratorial glance. She nodded slightly, and he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him as he left.

“I tried to call you from the hotel this morning when Patrick told me you were the point person here,” Tommy said.

“Sorry, I didn’t recognise the number, so I just ignored it; no slight intended. I had no idea that you were the consultant they appointed either.”

“I’ll have to recuse myself on this file, Emily.”

“Why?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

She nodded her head quietly. “What if I step away from the process?”

“It’s still a conflict,” he said, placing his hand on hers.

“Does that mean you’ve had a wasted trip?”

“A bit, but I have to be in Edinburgh on Thursday morning, so it’s not a total loss. I’ll take a look around the city; my hotel booking is until Wednesday.”

“Is this what you do all the time?”

“For the present. I’m going home on Sunday. The house sale is closing, and I have to clear out the rest of my stuff.”

“Have you got next week off then?”

“Virtually, I’ll probably spend a couple of days in the office.”

“Where will you live? Have you got something organised?”

“I bought an apartment out near Galloping Green. It’s not finished yet, so the boss gave me a rent-free month in an apartment in the Docklands.”

“What about your stuff? Your furniture.”

“I bought new furniture. I’m just keeping the important stuff.”

“I’m looking at buying a place over here. Patrick is helping me with the bank.”

“Patrick? Are you and he …?”

“God no! Patrick?”

“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“Patrick is married to Evie’s sister. She’d disown us.”

“I didn’t …”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “What about you? Have you someone now?”

He laughed. “Hardly. Where would I get the time? Who’d have me?”

“Don’t fool yourself, Tommy, you look very good to me.”

“You’re very kind, but I’m feeling it these days with the travelling and the house and everything else going on. How are Jerry and Kath? I haven’t seen them in months.”

“Me neither. It’s been, shall we say, a tad awkward.”

“I understand, I’m so sorry for that.”

“Don’t be, I was equally to blame, if not more so.”

“That’s true,” he said, and they laughed as she punched his arm playfully.

“Cheeky bastard! So, seriously, what’s the story? Why aren’t there a few women in your life?”

“Ah, I’m not really looking, to be honest, Emily. After that escapade at Christmas …”

“Escapade? Is that all it was?”

“No, it was much, much more, I hope you know that.”

She nodded her head, “Yes, I do. For me too.”

He pushed his chair back and stood up, brushing something off his trousers as he rose.

“Nice suit,” Emily said, “it looks expensive.”

“It’s not really, I got it in the sales after Christmas.”

“Is it a Canali?”

“No, it’s just a suit.”

“A Canali suit … made by Canali.”

“I don’t know,” he said as she opened his jacket to see who the maker was.

“Look, it IS a Canali. I knew it!”

He sat back down quickly, and she looked at him quizzically. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, not at all. I … it was the shock of learning that it’s a Canali suit.”

She frowned a little, not believing him. “O … K, Mr. Jones.”

She sat down beside him, her eyes boring into his. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, honestly. I need a few minutes.”

“Are you ok? Will I get you a glass of water or something?”

“No, I’ll be grand in a few minutes.”

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, I’m fighting fit.”

“Then what? Tell me what’s wrong. Are you having chest pain or lightheadedness after the flight? You might need to drink something.”

“I’m fine, Emily, honestly. I need a moment.”

She jumped to her feet and picked up a phone on the table. “I’m calling a doctor. This is nonsensical, Tommy.”

He stood halfway up and grabbed the receiver out of her hand, sitting back down quickly. She saw it as he moved, her eyes fixed on it momentarily before looking away quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his face suddenly ashen. “I think it was a reaction to when you touched off my chest. I’ll leave when it calms down.”

“Tommy …”

“Don’t, Emily, you couldn’t feel any more embarrassed about it than I do. I’m so sorry. It was unprofessional. Will you ask Patrick to join us, please?”

“Yes, but …”

“Just ask him.”

Patrick arrived within minutes, and Tommy explained the situation and outlined the possible ramifications if he remained in place.

“If you like, rather than waste the resources we’ve expended today, I can take your documentation, go through it and make observations to my replacement on that basis.”

“That’d work for me. What about you, Emily?”

“Yeah, it’s something positive at least. Do you need anything that’s not in the paperwork, Tommy?”

“I’ll read through it and let you know,” he said. “I’ll take it to my hotel and review it first.”

“Ok, you have my number if you need anything.”

“Maybe you’ll answer it this time,” he said with a grin.

“I promise I will.”

Patrick shook Tommy’s hand and said, “Thanks for your help on this, Tommy. Emily has everything, including background and research, on file. If you can prioritise it and get another consultation in place soon, we’d appreciate it.”

Tommy nodded his head and watched as Patrick left the room with Emily slightly behind him. They spoke quietly at the door, and Emily held it open until he left.

“He’s wound tight, isn’t he?” Tommy said.

“He’d like to get this over and done with. We all would.”

“It can be stressful, I’ll give you that, but it’s just a paper exercise really.”

He closed his jacket and looked at her. “If you can get me that file, I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to delay you further.”

She watched him as he stood up, a look of something approaching regret on her face.

“Tommy, I …”

“It’s ok, love, there’s no need. At least I know it still works sometimes.”

He laughed as he said it and she joined in.

“I’m still single too,” she said.

“We’re a sad pair, aren’t we?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” she offered.

“I know, but it was wonderful while we had it.”

“Yes, it was,” she said as she moved into the apologetic hug he offered.

He held her lightly in his arms, and she snuggled into him. “I’d better be careful in case the beast wakes again.”

“I miss him.”

“I miss you.”

“Tommy?” she said, stroking his back through the soft material of his jacket.

“Yes.”

“Do you ever think about those couple of days?”

“All the time. It was perfect until it wasn’t. I thought Jeff was going to have a seizure that day.”

“Did you and my mother ever__”

“No, Emily, we certainly did not.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Yes, but nothing like that ever happened. I don’t know where Jerry got that idea from. It’s like something that Kath would conjure up to wind him up - she’s good at that.”

“She fucking is, isn’t she? And it looks like Dad fell for it.”

“Ok,” he said, disengaging from her, “I’d better make tracks. Talk soon?”

“Yes, please, and if you need anything at all …”

“I know,” he said and left her standing by the window, looking out into a brighter morning.

He strode to the lift, his gait strong and his shoulders straight. He was thinking through the process he’d use to assess Emily’s file, and if it was wise for him even to consider it. He pressed the call button and waited by the doors, thinking about lunch, regretting he hadn’t thought to ask Emily or Patrick for recommendations. The noise of heels beating fast against concrete made him turn to see where it was coming from

“Can you hold the lift please?” he heard from a smiling blonde woman, torn between running and walking toward him.

He smiled and affected a chivalrous bow, holding the doors open. “Your carriage awaits, m’lady. " Is that how they say it over here?”

“Back in the good old days, maybe, but not now. The football yobbos would trip you up to get there first.”

“Yes, that’s very likely, whilst singing something disgusting to the tune of The Star Spangled Banner, Guantanamera or, in the case of Georgie Best, Spirit in the Sky.”

She screwed up her face.

“Here we go?” he said.

She thought quickly, probably singing it in her head, then almost leapt in the air, “Yes, yes, of course, I never put that together before.”

They laughed as she clutched his arm. “That’s so funny. Are you our consultant from Ireland?”

“No, I’m here to inspect the speed and stability of the lift.”

“You what?”

He laughed. “You caught me. Yes, I’m Tommy Jones. How did you know I’m from Ireland?”

“Eve Tate, the shamrock blemish on your cheek gives you away.”

“The what?” he said, fingering his cheek.

She giggled and grabbed his arm for support as he joined in.

“I deserved that.”

“Consulting must pay well,” she said, “that’s a sharp-looking suit.”

“I decided to treat myself to a new wardrobe,” he said, “I think I deserve it, don’t you?”

“You should visit the Trafford Centre while you’re here.”

“I might do that, although I’m more in the market for a restaurant recommendation at the moment. I’m starving.”

“Oh, where are you staying?”

“The Lowry.”

“Nice, what’s your fancy?”

“Sorry?”

“Food, are you after Gordon Ramsay or soup and a sandwich?”

“To be honest, Eve, I’m so hungry I’d eat the leg of the Lamb of God.”

“L’Artigiano, if you’re into Italian food, Alchemy if you’re feeling adventurous, or The River Restaurant at the Lowry itself.”

“And Gordon Ramsay?”

“Yes, his Lucky Cat restaurant. I’ve not been, and the reviews are mixed, so I can’t say yes or no.”

“Ah, a wise woman.”

“Some of us go to The Salmon of Knowledge in Media City, that’s close to your hotel.”

“It sounds Irish. They don’t serve spice bags, do they?

“Yes, they do, but how is it Irish?”

“This is my floor. I’ll tell you when I have more time. It was lovely to meet you, Eve, thanks for the lively chat. I think I’ll take you up on The Salmon of Knowledge. I have to say I’m intrigued.”

“Lovely to meet you too, Mr. Jones,” she said with a smile and shook his hand. “Enjoy your lunch.”

He caught a cab to the hotel, changed into something less formal, and was outside The Salmon of Knowledge at 12:50, his stomach berating him for his negligence.

He went inside, and a waitress showed him to a table, handed him a menu and asked if he wanted a drink.

“A pint of Guinness please,” he said brightly, “and if it saves time, can I get a Buttermilk Chicken burger with chips too?”

She smiled, wrote his order in her notebook, and left. He read the menu while he waited. Sure enough, a Spice Bag was available. It was touted as. ‘Irish inspired with a hint of Southeast Asia’, and was available in three styles, all of them abhorrent to him. Further reading of the menu revealed a broader Greek or Mediterranean influence, rendering it just another Irish pub with an identity crisis. He regretted ordering the Guinness.

He checked his phone and blanched at the number of messages, missed calls, and voicemails. He opened his email, and it was just as bad. Several with information about his Edinburgh excursion, flight and hotel confirmations, and a restaurant reservation for four at a place called The Kitchin.

When he started the job, he’d joined a gym in Stillorgan. He wasn’t overweight, but he wasn’t as fit as he wanted to be. He was always there at six in the morning, spent an hour on the machines and left after showering. Everything was going well, and he felt great.

About eight weeks in, he’d overslept and didn’t arrive until after eight o’clock. The exercise room was more crowded, but the atmosphere was electric. There were a lot of younger people there, and the energy in the room was vibrant, loud and happy. He was one of only two men of his generation there and, even though nothing untoward happened, he’d felt a little removed.

Far more young women than men were there, and they all seemed to wear different colours of the same clothes. It was so prevalent that it was almost as if they wore a uniform. He admired their confidence, reflecting on the attitudinal difference in the generations, his and theirs in particular. They were more forthright than he’d been at the same age, more confident and quicker witted.

The greater percentage, male and female, wore their gym attire like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Every bump, hollow, crevice and crease highlighted and amplified. He was the oddity, as usual, in his old-fashioned football shorts, tank top and comfortable runners, known then as trainers. His eyes betrayed him, and he was caught admiring the shapeliness of women several times as they strolled around the floor.

He began to feel like a dirty older man, and decided to remove himself after fifteen minutes, opting for a quick dip in the pool and twenty minutes in the sauna instead. He’d been sweating in the sauna for about ten minutes when three young Miss World contestants joined him as he lay stretched out on a top bench. He’d covered his waist with a towel for propriety and was enjoying the solitude when they burst in, giggling at a shared joke or observation about some poor chap named Colin.

The room wasn’t huge in area, so he moved to accommodate them by sitting up suddenly, his towel dropping to the floor in the process. He saw their eyes drop immediately, the damp material of his shorts giving them an unadulterated profile of what lay within. All three stopped talking immediately, two of them turned away so fast that he was convinced he’d heard their necks crack. The last one, though, was transfixed, staring open-mouthed at his groin, her eyes wide and her hands crushing the unfortunate towel she held.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said, picking up his towel and wrapping it around his hips. “If I stay here much longer, I’ll turn into a prune.”

“The freak returns,” he muttered to himself as he hurried to the changing rooms, where he showered and dressed before leaving, never to return.

His thoughts were disturbed by a soft-spoken cough, “Ahem!” His head jolted up. “Eve, are you stalking me?”

“I wanted to hear the story about the Salmon of Knowledge.”

“Sit,” he said, “ and let’s see if we have a barman of knowledge when this pint comes over first.”

“Drinking at lunch?”

He laughed.

“It’s only a pint, Eve, if it’s even drinkable. What can I get you?”

“Just water.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“I think I’ll get the Halloumi loaded fries. Or maybe a spiced chicken gyro?”

“The waitress is on her way. Pick one. Or do you want both?”

“No, I’ll go with the gyro please.”

He ordered her gyro and water as his pint was placed on the table. He actually felt sorry for it. It looked miserable, sad, orphaned and alone, far away in a strange country. It didn’t taste too bad, though.

“How’s your pint? Does it remind you of home?” she asked.

“I’ve had worse, even at home.”

“So tell me about this fucking salmon.”

“Ok, but there’s a bit in the telling.”

She grinned. “It’s Irish, so what’s new?”