“Yes, it’s lovely, Sinéad, but you’re not getting it,” I said as my sister walked across the floor in Arnotts, dressed like a prostitute.

“Fuck you, Anthony Harris,” she seethed, “this is all the fashion now.”

“It is and my bollox,” I said, whilst wondering if it may have been.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I can see your arse for a start.”

“And you’ve never seen a girl's arse in your life, I suppose? Do you want me to give you a list of names to remind you?” she said, her hands planted on her hips.

“Look, I’ve been on the road all night, Sinéad, I'm tired, give me a break.”

“You promised me this,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. So what’s this dress for?”

“Joanne McCaul’s birthday party.”

“Who’s Joanne McCaul?”

“Suzanne’s sister, you know Suzanne,” she said.

Suzanne was a cheeky little cow, but I didn’t know there was a Joanne in the background too.

“Unfortunately, I do,” I said. “How old is Joanne?”

“It’s her twentieth birthday tonight. I told you last week.”

“I remember now,” I said. “Sorry, I was a little distracted that day.”

“Who was distracting you?” she asked.

“Does a picture of this Joanne person exist?”

“No, Tony, she’s off limits.”

“I’m shocked that you’d think I’d even consider something like that, Sinéad.”

“So why are you asking for her picture?”

“So I can guide you in choosing a dress, shades of makeup, hairstyle, shoes … need I go on?”

“You’re buying all of that for me?” she said, hopefully.

“Of course. We can’t have you going there looking like something the cat dragged in. We’re trying to achieve a look of sophistication and elegance, something that enhances your beauty without eclipsing your spirit and vibrant personality.”

“You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

“Just a little, now pick a different dress, or I’ll do it for you.”

I leaned against a circular pillar that had been sprayed a muted pink colour with black and dark blue veins through it. It may have been an attempt to simulate something you’d see in Pompeii before the volcano. I took out my phone and saw a message from Peter Smith.

Are you home yet?

Yes, I'm in Arnotts with Sinéad.

Is that on the north side?

Yes, question for you: is it wrong to chance one’s arm with one’s sister's friend’s older sister?

Give me an hour to decipher that.

I’ll tell you something for nothing, Smithser; there’s some amount of talent working in this store.

You’ve caught my interest.

Later. What do you want?

I need a wingman tonight, 8:00 in Scruffy’s.

Any pictures?

Yes, but I swore that I wouldn’t share any.

Of her face, you tart.

Oh, none. See you then, be on time.

As always.

“Tony?” I heard my name and looked up with a start.

Two absolute foxes, dressed from head to toe in black, stood before me.

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s me, Leah Morris. You put a kitchen in my Mam’s house with your Dad,” she said. “Over in Montrose Crescent.”

“Jesus, I remember that, Leah,” I said, hugging her, “that was years ago.”

“Yes, she still has that kitchen.”

“Thank Christ the guarantee is up,” I said, and all three of us laughed.

“This is Petra,” she said. “She wanted to meet you.”

“Hi Petra,” I said, taking her hand in greeting. “I love that name; its etymology is Greek, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Wow, that’s correct, Tony,” she said. “Leah said you were very smart.”

“Leah doesn’t know anything,” I said, squeezing her hand and winking at Leah.

“How do Arnotts attract such beautiful women to work here?” I asked.

“We don’t all work for Arnotts,” she said, “most of us work for the vendors. Leah works for Clarins, and I work for Creed.”

“I never knew that, so you’re kind of like subcontractors?”

“Essentially, but we get shifted around different stores,” she explained. “What do you do?”

“I’m an Architectural Technician. I’m out on loan to a hospitality consultant at the moment,” I said as Sinéad returned looking frustrated, an awful leftover from the eighties in her hand.

“What about this?” she asked. “There’s nothing else I can find. I told you we should have gone to River Island.”

“It’s nice, Sinéad, but it’s not your colour,” I said, looking at it closely, "although it'd be perfect if it was a fancy dress party and you were going as the cake."

I noticed a look of confusion on Leah’s and Petra’s faces.

“Excuse me, girls, I’m not with it today," I said. “This is my sister, Sinéad; we’re looking for a dress for her. She’s going to a birthday party.”

“When is the party?” Leah asked.

“Tonight, and I’m stressed fucking out because of Mr. Perfect here,” Sinéad said.

“I know just the kind of dress you need,” she said. “Do you wear makeup at all?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you have an hour to spare? We can give you a makeover.”

“What’s that?”

“We can do your face, hair, and nails, but we’ll need to get you a dress first. Do you need shoes?”

“No.”

“She does, Leah, don’t mind her,” I said, “a low heel suits her best.”

Leah took Sinéad by the hand, and they skipped away. Petra smiled as we watched them leave.

“She doesn’t realise what she’s just done,” I said.

“Leah? She loves that, and she has great instincts,” Petra said.

“She’s pissed off because I wouldn't agree to buy her a dress that basically revealed everything, including her tonsils,” I said.

“Well, that’s fashionable at the moment,” she laughed. “I can take her upstairs and show her some cute lingerie if you like.”

“I don’t know about that, Petra; she’s my sister.”

“I know, but she's not your daughter, Tony.”

“I’m aware of that, but I feel responsible for her; I have done since our Dad died.”

She touched my arm, stroking it gently.

“She’ll be fine; we all have to do this at some point. How old is Sinéad?”

“Nearly seventeen.”

“So she’s almost a woman.”

“I know. It’s terrifying, isn’t it?” I said.

“No, it’s lovely,” she said, her eyes smiling. “You’re lovely too.”

“Thanks, but how long is this going to take?”

“It depends, do you want her to have everything?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Ok, if you can give us two hours with her, we can turn her into Lily Allen.”

“That’s all the world needs,” I laughed.

“Sabrina Carpenter?”

“Fuck no!”

"Well, you toddle off and play with the men in PC World while Leah and I turn Sinéad into a model," she said.

"Thanks, Petra, I appreciate this," I said. "Can I buy you dinner some evening to return the favour?"

"I'd like that very much, Tony. When are you thinking?"

"Oh, that's a hard one. I'm travelling the country for the next while inspecting castle hotels that have pretensions of becoming Five Star properties," I said. "I'm supposed to be in Mayo on Monday for a couple of days, and then I go to Roscommon."

"Oh, that sounds like fun. When will you be back in Dublin?"

"Possibly the week after next."

"Hmm, I'll be in our Cork store that week. Have you any time this weekend?"

"Maybe tomorrow night?" I said. "I'm doing a mate a favour tonight, doing something I hate."

"What's that?"

"He wants me to be his wingman."

"Where?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm a wing girl tonight," she said.

"O ... K, where?"

"You tell me first," she said.

"No, you tell me."

"Scruffy Murphy's."

"Shit! What's your friend's name?"

"Amanda, are you a friend of Peter’s?"

"Friends would be a bit of a stretch; we work together," I said.

"Do we tell them?"

"And spoil the fun?"

"What fun?"

"Before I say anything, I need to ask you something," I said.

"Ok," she said questioningly.

"Is Amanda a good friend of yours, or are you just doing it out of sufferance?"

"Yes, and yes," she said.

"Has she, and I don’t wish to appear shady or creepy here, slept with him yet?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Is it wildly possible that they will do the deed tonight?"

"Well, she likes him a lot, I know that much. I'd say it’s pretty much certain."

I smiled at her, and she shook my arm impatiently.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"Peter has a phobia where animal print fabrics are concerned."

"Really? I thought every man loved that."

"Not our Peter," I said. "Imagine the look on his face if Amanda wore animal print underwear tonight, Petra."

She laughed and squeezed my arm.

"You're bad," she said. "We could double down, and I could wear a leopard print top or something."

"Yes, that'd be brilliant, but we'd have to let on that we've never met before."

"Of course," she said, "but we should probably try and make it look like we're soul mates who've clicked immediately."

"How?" I asked as her brown eyes looked into mine just before she kissed me softly.

"Like that?"

"That's perfect, but I'd like to try it again, just to make sure," I said as Leah returned, holding Sinéad's hand.

"Right," she said, "it's time for you to leave us girls alone, Tony. We'll text you a little before we're finished."

"Do you want my card?" I asked.

"I'll get it before you leave," she said with a smirk, sharing a conspiratorial look with Sinéad, who covered her mouth with her hand.

"My debit card, Leah."

"That too," she said and shooed me away.

I was walking away from them when Sinéad caught up with me at the Chanel counter. She called me and hugged me.

“Are you ok, love?” I asked.

“Yeah, thanks for this, Anthony, you’re the best.”

She looked happy, so I hugged her back.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Enjoy it.”

“I saw you kissing Petra, by the way,” she said with an evil grin.

“She kissed me, Sinéad,” I said. “I couldn’t insult the girl by refusing, could I?”

“You had your hand on her fucking arse!”

“I never noticed.”

“You never stop, do you?” she said, laughing as she turned away.

“I’m going for breakfast. I have my phone if you need anything. Have fun, and just give yourself up to the moment.”

“Do you want me to put in a good word for you with Leah and Petra?”

“Please don’t, Sinéad, the last thing I need is my sister picking up women for me. Now go, they’re waiting for you.”

I left her to her makeover, wondering if she’d ever be the same again, and took myself off to the Gresham Hotel in O’Connell Street. I had recently been tasked with a month-long project that entailed visiting luxury hotels and assembling a project file for each. These properties were mostly three-star but, because of the upsurge in demand from tourists for more luxurious accommodations, would benefit from government tourism grants to upgrade them to potential five-star properties.

Our company, via a contact that James Cadden, my boss, had in the Ministry of Tourism and Bord Fáilte, was to visit twenty of the properties that had applied for the grants. There was €20 million available, and our fees were a percentage of that. I was chosen, or ordered, to take the first five properties; they were scattered all over the country, and they were all Castle properties.

Mostly in the west of Ireland, my list didn’t include any in Dublin, but it had been rumoured by a reliable source, Peter Smith, that our boss was a golfing buddy of the owner of a castle in Clontarf. Conveniently called Clontarf Castle.

“As sure as shit stinks, young master, Clontarf Castle will find its way onto that list very shortly in the future,” he’d said to the opprobrium of Raffles, office manager and Cadden’s general dogsbody, who’d been listening in to our conversation.

“Peter I … “

“Shut it, Raffles,” Peter said. “The adults are talking, now fuck off out of here. You’re pissing me off again.”

I smiled as I strolled along Henry Street, recalling the encounter. Nothing was ever straightforward; there was always a niggling little wrinkle whenever Cadden was involved in something, but this was a nice handy little number for me, so my motto became ‘fuck the begrudgers’ and I moved on.

I’d met with Colm Berry, owner of Berry Hospitality, the previous Wednesday in The Saddle Room restaurant at The Shelbourne Hotel, a five-star property on St. Stephen’s Green that was world famous, exclusive, and eye-wateringly expensive.

He gave me an overview of the requirements, along with a four-inch-thick binder that was the bible we were to use for the project, and we weren’t allowed to deviate from it under any circumstances. For a consultant, he was very naïve, and we gave it two weeks before the budget had to be increased to €30 million.

Part of the suite of materials he gave me was a unique code that got me into the reservations system of every hotel that had Bord Fáilte approval in the country. From this I could access occupancy rates, visitor demographics, ambient foot traffic, restaurant activity and define whether commercial or tourist usage was the primary business in the property.

It also gave me permissible access to reserve vacant rooms for my inspection, thereby enabling me to research the levels of service and efficiency of the property at first hand. I could view the live register of any property and ascertain what, if any, rooms were unoccupied on any given day. I could also, using the same code, book myself into a room for up to three nights, all charges covered by Berry Hospitality.

I was in the learning phase, and I’d already visited Adare Manor to acquaint myself with the process and gain some recognition of just what a five-star property should entail. Adare Manor was an impressive property, and it overwhelmed me. It was like being beaten to death with a rainbow, and I left there more confused than when I'd arrived. I came to a method of operation as I drove back to Dublin, my thoughts imbued with the memory of the beautiful Sammy, a voraciously stunning, dark-haired vixen from Colorado, whom I'd spent several hours with the previous night.

I decided to focus on the details, more than the overall effect, on one's psyche. There was a devastating and ethereal beauty in the shock to the system that a proper five-star hotel, castle or resort has to the uninitiated, and I was one of the unchosen many. For the people who knew, however, a dip in the standard was a bigger shock to the system, and it was those very details that I focused on. When I met Sammy first, it was purely as a point of reference to enquire about how she was enjoying the Manor. I was quite perplexed when she said that it wasn’t better than the first time she'd stayed there.

"Why is that?” I asked.

"Do you want a list?" she laughed.

"Yes," I said.

"Ok, the pens in the room look cheaper this time. The last time they were beautiful; now they're just cheap plastic."

"Maybe they were losing too many of them to souvenir hunters," I offered.

"Yes, but that's what they're there for," she said.

"Is that all? The pens?"

"No. Cheap-assed razors, shaving cream instead of foam, crappy-smelling soap and body wash in the bathroom, the shower stall leaked, shitty coffee in the rooms, I could go on."

"Please do," I said. "This is gold for me."

"They've taken to using dispensers in the shower for shampoo, conditioner and bodywash," she said.

"Bodywash?" I asked, imagining her soaping up her breasts as they stared at me from above the open buttons of her blouse.

"Yes," she smiled, and that was when I ended the interview and began the examination.

So I came up with a system that might work for me. I had someone in Berry's office construct a spreadsheet with all the important detailing descriptions, from clean glass and polished brasses in the lobby to dust along picture frames in the halls and bedrooms, and everything in between.

I'd take this list and forward it to each property a few days before I’d visit, in the hope they'd have enough about them to attend to some of it, at least, before I arrived. I half expected I’d get some pushback from them, but that would remain to be seen. As I took the sandstone steps to the entrance doors of the Gresham, my phone rang, and I saw it was my mother calling.

“City morgue,” I said.

“Anthony! Answer the phone properly,” she said.

“Sorry, that was my weak attempt at levity.”

“Sinéad is delighted with her new dress,” she said. “She looks lovely in it, a proper young lady.”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” I said.

“She sent me a picture that a girl called Leah took.”

“I didn’t get it. Can you forward it to me?”

“I wish I knew how, Anthony,” she said, and I’m sure she was stifling a laugh.

“Text Sinéad and tell her to forward it to me then,” I said, testing her.

“I don’t have any credit.”

“You’re such a liar, it’s the dress that’s up around her arse, isn’t it?”

“She loves it, Anthony, let her enjoy herself.”

“Ok, you’re right,” I said, “I left her to get a makeover. I’m just at the Gresham; I’m going to get something to eat.”

“Fancy,” she said, “but is The Gresham not very expensive, Anthony? There are cheaper places where the food is just as nice, you know.”

“I get it for free with this card that they gave me,” I said. “You can come too if you like; I can bring a guest.”

“Maybe next time,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know about the dress; Sinéad idolises you, Anthony, so just look beyond it.”

“I will, I’m still gonna give her a hard time though, it’s my job.”

“I know. I love you, enjoy your breakfast.”

“I love you, Mam. I’d text that to you, but I don’t know how,” I said.

When I walked into the hotel lobby, I was impressed at the level of care and attention that had been lavished upon it. The lobby is the first thing that visitors see, and it helps create the atmosphere of the visit and convey that all-important first impression to guests and visitors. I was checking out the large brass push-handles on the glass doors when one of the doormen enquired what I was doing.

“Hi, I’m just checking the brasses,” I said, fishing my card out of my pocket and showing it to him.

“Mr. Harris, we were told you might drop in,” he said. “I’m Harry. Do you need to see the General Manager?”

“Thanks, Harry, but I’m just here to feed my face,” I said. “I’m very pleased with the standard of care in the lobby. Please pass my congratulations on to everyone concerned.”

“I’ll do that, thanks, Mr. Harris. If you’d care to follow me, I’ll show you where the dining room is.”

I followed him as instructed and was seated at a table for two off to the side of the room. An hour later, I was feeling like a cannibal that had been marooned on an island having eaten a family of six for breakfast. It was fantastic. My text alert sounded. It was from Sinéad.

Nearly done, 10 mins

Gr8 cu soon

It took me ten minutes to walk back to the shop, and it was nerve-wracking as I returned the doorman's smile with what must have looked like a grimace. I had a quick look around and couldn't see them, so I walked through the cosmetics department, distracted by the female talent that surrounded me. I spotted Petra over by the Creed counter; she was tending to a customer. The Clarins counter was just off to the left behind her, and there was no sign of anyone there. I heard Petra calling me, so I smiled at her and gave a little wave as I headed in her direction.

"I'm here to visit the scene of the crime," I laughed.

"They'll be down in a minute, Tony," she said. "Leah has her upstairs; she wants you to see the whole effect."

"Great," I said, just as they appeared at the top of the escalator.

Leah was smiling as they descended the escalator while she held Sinéad's hand. It was like a scene from Cleopatra. Petra's eyes were glued to me for my reaction, and I smiled as Sinéad waved at me with a cheeky smile and eyes brimming with delight. She looked fantastic; the girls had done a fabulous job. The dress wasn't the one I had been led to believe she had gone for; it was beautiful. She'd chosen a beautiful pink mini dress with a standing collar cape. It hugged her body and outlined a figure that revealed her progression to adulthood. It was a little more revealing than I was comfortable with, but she was stunning. It was paired with a sheer cape that flowed off the shoulders and floated just along her arms to her elbows. A smattering of tiny rhinestones and sequins added to the allure of the dress and made it perfect for a party or an evening at a posh restaurant. I could tell by her face that she loved it and I was delighted.

I took her hand when she stepped off the elevator and held it in the air above her head as I twirled her around. Her hair flopped off her face in a casual Birkin Bob that softened her youthful sarcasm and rebelliousness. Her face had been lightly powdered and tinted, and the camel-toned eye shade held her eyes perfectly. She wore a muted pink lip gloss, and the nail polish was the same pink as her dress; it even included some glitter effect to take the look that little bit further.

She wobbled slightly on black and silver four-inch heels, and I frowned theatrically when I saw her Bambi impersonation, but it wasn't for me to rain on her parade, so I made some approving noises and hugged her instead.

"You look perfect, sis," I whispered in her ear.

"I know," she said with a laugh.

"I preferred the first dress," I said, laughing. "You little witch."

"Whatever do you mean, Anthony?" she said, fluttering her new eyelashes.

"I'll get the two of you for that," I said.

Leah and Petra stood there with sappy smiles on their faces.

"We'll never be able to thank you enough," I said to them both. "But where's the fucking handbag?"

"Can I have a bag, Anthony?" Sinéad asked excitedly.

"If you’re going to do something," I said, "you might as well do it right. You might want to get something for around your neck too; a noose would be appropriate."

"You're the absolute best," she said, "I know the exact one."

She took Leah away quickly and returned with a Michael Kors clutch bag in black and silver, while Petra boned up with a silver cross and chain from the jewellery stand behind. She placed it around Sinéad's neck, and I snapped a picture of all three of them and then a couple of Sinéad on her own.

"Thanks a million, girls," I said, "what do I owe you? Do I need to sit down for this?"

Petra handed me a piece of paper with a number on it, and I handed her my card. She inclined her head to the side and smiled before leaving to empty my bank account. Leah took Sinéad back upstairs to pack everything away and dress in her street clothes as Petra returned with my card and the machine.

"You're very generous, Tony," she said, "I couldn't imagine my brother forking over close to €1,000 for me to go to a party."

"It's worth it to see her happy," I said. "We've had enough shit to deal with over the last few years, just don't tell her it was so much."

"I won't," she said. "You really liked that dress, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," I said. "I don't think there's anything nicer than a girl embracing her femininity and eschewing jeans or trousers in favour of a nice dress."

"Really?" she said, a sparkle in her eyes. "I'll see you at 8:00 tonight then?"

"I'm looking forward to it."

Sinéad wanted a burger on our way to the car, so I waited outside McDonald's while she went in. Town was getting busy as it was close to noon, so I just took it all in and rested against the shop window. I was half asleep when Sinéad roused me, offering me a bite of a half-eaten chicken nugget.

“Do I not at least qualify for a full one?” I asked.

“You don’t like McDonald's. Do you want one?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” I said, “thanks anyway.”

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“I’m just tired; I got in late last night.”

“Who was she?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whoever you were fucking, who was she?”

“No one you’d know,” I said, immediately regretting my slip-up.

“Tony Harris! Tell me, or I’ll tell Mam,” she said.

I faked a laugh and grabbed her around the waist.

“Gotcha!” I said, relieved as she threw a chip at me in frustration.

I climbed into bed when we got home and slept until 6:00. It was the raised voices from downstairs that had woken me. My mother and Sinéad were arguing about something, so I pulled on a T-shirt and shorts and went down to see what was going on. They were in the kitchen, their voices echoing around the painted walls. Sinéad was almost in tears, while my mother looked at her with stony-faced disapproval.

“What’s wrong?” I asked everyone and no one.

“This … ” my mother said, holding up a scrap of pink lace.

“What’s that?” I asked, knowing immediately what it was.

“I thought it was a handkerchief, but it’s too bloody small to be a handkerchief,” she said. “Isn’t it, Sinéad?”

“Leah and Petra wear them too,” she said. “So do Suzanne and Joanne.”

I reached over and took it from my mother’s hand, opening it out and noticing the label.

“No, they don’t,” I said.

“What?” they both said together.

“Suzanne and Joanne certainly do not wear these,” I said. “This is Simone Pérèle; they couldn’t afford it.”

My mother stood with her mouth open while Sinéad looked at me with adoration in her eyes.

“How do you know so much about women’s knickers, Tony Harris?” my mother said.

“You know how he knows, Mam,” Sinéad said with an impish grin.

“I’m exposed to a lot of literature, mother, as you well know,” I said, eying my sister and scrambling a little, “I also overhear women’s conversations. Firstly, this is not ‘women’s knickers’ as you so crudely stated; it’s a finely crafted thong made by a renowned French designer. Is there a bra with it?”

“Yes,” Sinéad said, “I had to have it fitted. Petra helped me with it.”

“Ok, I don’t see the problem here, ladies,” I said. “It’s not cheap; it’s elegant, and it’s as sophisticated as underwear can be.”

“Well, I think it’s … ”

I grabbed her in a bear hug, and she squealed in laughter.

“Let it go, Mam,” I whispered in her ear, “she loves it, just enjoy her happiness.”

I let her go, and she took the thong back from me,

“I actually think I’d like one of these myself,” she said quietly.

“You can fuck off, Mother,” I said, and we all fell around the kitchen in laughter.

The limo that they were using to ferry the family and a few friends to the party arrived at 7:30. It was thirty minutes late, and it meant that I was delayed as we waited patiently for it to arrive. The excitement of the girls was infectious, and Sinéad’s outfit was a huge hit. She grabbed me in a bear hug as she left.

“Thanks, Anthony,” she said in my ear.

“You’re welcome, love,” I said and handed her €100.

“What’s this for?”

“You might need to buy Joanne a birthday drink,” I said.

She was speechless as she hugged my mother before leaping into the limo and driving off.

“I hope she doesn’t break her neck in those shoes,” I said.

“She’ll be fine, Anthony; you did her proud.”

“Right! I’m late now,” I said. “I’ll see you later, Mam.”

“Tell Petra I said hello, and to have you home by ten,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I’ll kill that Sinéad one,” I said and jumped into my van to drive into town.

The traffic was light until I hit Custom House Quay, where it was chock-a-block outside the IFSC just before the Talbot Memorial Bridge. At 8:10 I got a call from Peter.

“Where the fuck are you?” he said.

“I’m watching TV in the living room, where the fuck are you?”

“I’m in Searsons, dickhead!”

“Is it busy?”

“What? Are you for real?”

“Sorry, Peter, of course it’s busy. It’s Saturday night. So how are you?”

“I’m stuck here with two fucking women,” he said. “You were supposed to be here at eight o-fucking clock.”

“Oh shit, I completely forgot,” I said as I pulled up across the road from the pub. “What’s my one like?”

“Punctuality,” he said.

“Is that a euphemism for a timely withdrawal?” I asked as I walked in to stand behind him.

I winked at Petra, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

“Yes, it is, you cunt,” he said as he noticed my reflection in the large mirror behind the bar.

“Sorry, everyone, I got delayed,” I said.

Peter pushed a pint my way and introduced me to the two ladies. Petra blushed as I took her hand and sat beside her, pulling my chair close to hers.

“You look quite beautiful tonight, Petra,” I said.

“You look quite dashing yourself, Tony. Did you have to come far?”

Peter shook his head as I bit my lip.

“No, not too far,” I said, “you?”

“Edenmore,” she said.

“Oh, that’s not far from me,” I said. “Kilmore West.”

Amanda did the usual female thing and asked Petra to accompany her to the toilets. Peter looked at me and raised his eyes to the heavens.

"Why do women do that?" he asked.

"It beats me, Peter; maybe she wants Petra to point it out for her."

"Now that's something I'd be interested in seeing," he said, "so what was the real reason you were late?"

"I had to wait for the limo to come and pick Sinead up," I said. "It was late."

"Did you make her happy?"

"I think so," I said. "It was a traumatic experience though."

"So this Petra one is quite the little fox, isn't she?" he said, leaning over the table.

"She seems ok, do you want me to leave so they can share you?"

"Fuck no," he said, "but I think I'm golden tonight. Would you mind if I thin the herd?"

"You're going to anyway," I said, "so what's the point in asking?"

"You're probably right."

"I don't mind, Peter," I said. "I'll put up with this one for a while, and I'll drop her off in town or something on my way home."

"I knew I could depend on you. Are you in the office next week or are you gallivanting around the country again?"

"I'll be there for an hour on Monday morning, and then I’m off to Mayo.”

"Are you going to Ashford?"

"Yes, just for the night and then down to Roscommon."

"Roscommon? Is that not a bit of a hole?" he asked. "Is five-star accommodation necessary over there? I'd have thought that a bar of soap and a scouring pad in a basin would be luxury in Roscommon."

"I don't know, Peter," I said. "But I'll do some work on it before I get there. I've never even heard of the place."

"Here they are back," he said quickly.

"I wonder if either of them has wet fingers."

I watched as Petra walked back to her seat. She did look fantastic in a revealing pink, fitted minidress. She shimmered on silver heels as she moved through the crowd, the dress hugging her figure and catching the eye of every man and woman in the place. She smiled as she pulled out her seat, her lips freshly touched up and her dark hair brushed straight. She sat beside me, her forearm touching mine.

"I love your dress," I said, touching the sleeve that stopped just below her elbow. "I don’t believe I know this designer."

"Do you not?" she asked while laughing simultaneously.

"I'd imagine it's one of Arnotts stock items, but it’s fantastic."

"It's from the House of CB," she said.

"Yes, I know the brand. She’s an English designer, isn't she? She’s into sustainability in a big way; what's this her name is ... Conna something? Am I right?"

"Yes, Conna Walker," she said. "I'm impressed. This is the Ella ruched mesh fitted minidress."

"May I?" I said, touching my finger to the fabric just to the side of her left breast.

She blushed at my touch but just smiled and watched me with interest.

"It's really soft," I said. "Was it expensive?"

"I think they retail around the €350 mark, but it's on sale at the moment for €180, and we get a forty per cent discount."

"So €118," I said. "That's a steal, isn't it?"

"Between the two of us, Tony, I'll be bringing it back on Monday."

"You'd better keep it clean then," I said as she touched my hand. “What happened to the leopard print?”

“Someone told me he preferred a dress.”

“Is that not a form of objectification?”

“You said …”

“I remember, and I have to put it on record, Petra, I definitely would.”

Peter and Amanda came out of a huddle on the other side of the table, made their excuses and left.

"Well, that was abrupt," Petra said.

"See, that's why the wingman's job is so irrelevant," I said, "but on the plus side, I can return your kiss from this morning now."

"I don't accept returns," she said, touching her nose to mine.

"I’m not a fan of being in debt,” I said, my voice low as I grazed her lips with mine.

She moaned at my touch as I kissed her softly.

“We’re attracting an audience,” she said, touching my face.

“I see nobody but you, Petra,” I said, feathering her top lip with mine.

“Jesus! That’s such a turn on,” she almost groaned.

“I can do better,” I said.

“How?”

“I prefer a practical demonstration, in case you think I’m all talk,” I said.

“Where?”

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Jesus, tell me quick before I die!”

“I’ve a hotel pass, if you’d like.”

“Which hotel?”

“Pick one,” I said with a grin.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Ok, The Shelbourne,” she said triumphantly, her eyes daring me.

I kissed her again, and she gripped my arm as I pulled my phone out, pulled up the hospitality portal and clicked on The Shelbourne’s guest register. There were three rooms available: one double room, one King Room, and a Heritage Suite.

“Is the Heritage Suite too much?” I asked.

“Are you fucking serious, Tony?”

“As a heart attack.”

She sniffed, straightened her hair, and smoothed out her dress before looking me straight in the eyes.

“Yes, it’s probably too much, but I don’t fucking care,” she said, “let’s live a little.”

“One night or two?”

“Two if I can go home and get a change of clothes,” she said.

“Brown Thomas is just around the corner,” I said.

“Arnotts own Brown Thomas so I can get my staff discount.”

I inputted my code and my booking was instantly accepted.

“To arrive in twenty minutes?”

“That’s doable,” she said, still in doubt that I was serious.

I set the arrival time for fifteen minutes with a request for text confirmation in ten. A wheel spun on the screen for less than five seconds before we heard a soft ‘ping’. I showed the confirmation screen to her and her head dropped onto my shoulder.

“That’s amazing, Tony, how … ?”

“I’ll tell you in the van,” I said.

“The VAN?” she screamed in laughter. “I don’t believe this; we’re going to stay in the Shelbourne, and we’re going in a van.”

I had to laugh too.

“It’s one of the vicissitudes of life, Petra,” I said, as she drew a shawl around her bare shoulders and held my arm as we left the pub.

We reached the van and exchanged amused looks before getting in. She bounced up and down on her seat before leaning over to kiss me. I put my arm around her, and she nuzzled against my ear.

“It’s surprisingly nice, Tony,” she said.

“It’s like a magic carpet ride, Petra,” I said with a grin.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you later; we’d better get our skates on.”

I parked the van on St. Stephen’s Green, and we walked the short walk to the hotel, hand in hand. She was quiet on the journey, her hand gently squeezing mine intermittently.

“You’re very quiet, Petra,” I said.

“My head is spinning, Tony, I don’t know what to expect in here.”

“In what way?”

“What if they throw us out? Or call the police?”

“Why would they do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just …”

“Don’t overthink things,” I said. “Just go with the flow. It’s all good.”

It proved to be a simple process. We were welcomed by a smiling doorman who escorted us to an office just off the lobby. The General Manager of the hotel met us at the door and shook both our hands.

“Welcome, Mr. Harris,” he said. “It’s lovely to meet you; we’ve heard great things about you.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I apologise for the abruptness of our visit, and I hope we’re not putting you out.”

“Not at all, we’re delighted you chose us. Everything is ready, and I’ve had our turndown service give your Suite a once-over. There’s a Sprite of Cristal on ice, with a selection of Irish chocolate, courtesy of Grá Chocolatiers, waiting for you in your room. If you need anything at all, room service, Valet parking, emergency items, just use your code and we’ll attend to it. Will you require breakfast in your room?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“If you do, just use your code, and it will be attended to,” he said with a smile.

He handed the key card to a porter, and the porter accompanied us to our room. I don’t think Petra even drew a breath all the while.

We did a brief inspection of the Suite, Petra diving into everything and squealing when she found something that she liked or found exciting. She was especially enamoured by the welcome pack that awaited us on an antique coffee table in front of the TV console.

“Can I?” she said, holding the small bottle of Cristal in the air.

“Knock yourself out,” I said, removing my jacket and hanging it in the wardrobe before sitting down on a two-seater upholstered couch.

She popped the cork and filled two flutes, returning the bottle to the ice bucket quickly.

“To the vicissitudes of life,” she said.

“And wingmen everywhere,” I replied.

“And wing women,”

“Especially the beautiful ones.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting by me and kissing me as we sipped the champagne.

“Are you still nervous?” I asked.

“I’m recovering. Have you seen the fucking bathroom here? It’s like a spa.”

“It’s a Five Star property, Petra; it’s supposed to be like that.

“I know, but it’s all such a shock to the system.”

“How so? Surely you must know about the reputation of this place,” I said.

“Considering that I didn’t even know you existed this time yesterday,” she said. “We had a wonderful morning with you and Sinéad and now this?”

“I have a bone to pick with you, by the way.”

“What did I do now?” she laughed.

“My mother was a bit perturbed, she’ll we say, with the lingerie.”

“Mothers do that.”

“I know, but Sinéad was ‘Petra this and Petra that’.”

“She was excited, Tony, that’s all,” she said. “How did it pan out? Did your mother calm down?”

“Yes, Sinéad told her it was the same brand that you wear,” I said, “that made her more comfortable.”

“Good, but for the record, I don’t wear that brand all the time; I couldn’t afford it,” she said. “I only wear it on special occasions.”

“As everyone does, Petra,” I said, “is tonight one of those special occasions?”

“If I’d known we’d be here, it would have been,” she said with a grin. “But you’ll have to make your own mind up on that, won’t you?”

I kissed her softly on the lips, her eyes open as I took her hand, turned it over and kissed her palm. I slipped it over my shoulder, and she pulled me in for a deeper kiss, exhaling loudly through her nose as our lips locked together. I felt her tongue against my lips as she sought mine, frantically seeking it out as I focused solely on her lips and the feel of her skin under my hands.

I broke the kiss and stood, taking her hand and easing her to her feet, her eyes drifting to my waist, noticing the erection that was causing me huge discomfort as it struggled for freedom. She clung to me as I took her in my arms, our bodies melting together, her groin grinding against mine.

“I’ve wanted you since I met you, Petra,” I whispered.

“You have me, Tony.”

I kissed her naked shoulders, easing the straps of her dress down over her arms as she purred at the touch of my lips. Her breasts slipped free and took my breath away as they sat like two beautiful teardrops, soft to the touch and a perfect fit in my hands.

“Beautiful,” I mused before easing her back onto the large bed and peeling her dress off completely, leaving her wearing only a pink lace thong.

I touched the lace fabric before undressing completely, her eyes firmly fixed on my erect penis. She arched her back and slipped out of the thong,

“I wanted to do that, Petra,” I said.

“Next time,” she breathed just as our lips met again.

I held her chin as we kissed, taming her voracious lip movements, and synchronising hers with my slower, more focused pace. As she held me close, I felt her relax into the depth of the kiss, slowly easing my tongue into her mouth, the taste of champagne an added facet to comprehend. I took her left breast in my hand, caressing it, weighing it, testing its softness as she groaned at the touch of my fingers on her nipple.

I slid downwards, my lips brushing her abdomen and her smooth Mons as I opened her legs and kissed her inner thigh. She sighed as she touched my head and opened herself fully to me, the dusky pink flower of her vulva blossoming like the petals of a stunning Rosa Roseus, glistening in the soft morning dew.

I touched my tongue to her inner labia, tasting her and delighting in her scent. I reached for her breasts and held them in my hands as my lips and tongue gently massaged her vulva, searching for her vagina as her sighs became a continuous moan.

“Tony!” she cried out as my tongue circled her vaginal opening, her hips pushing against me in search of more.

I slipped my tongue inside her opening, the smoothness of her walls a miraculous sensation as it penetrated her fully. I flexed my tongue as I felt her vagina begin to pulse and her stomach muscles tighten, her nipples hardened and extended between my fingers. I brought my hands to her hips and held her as she writhed at my touch, and her breath came in gasps as the heat built inside her.

“I’m gonna come,” she screamed just before a deluge flowed from inside her, covering my face with her musky viscosity. Her hips writhed wildly, as her lungs fought for every heaving breath while I continued to stroke inside her as I became intoxicated with her taste and beauty.

She pulled my face away and brought me to her lips, wildly kissing me with frenzied movements. I felt my penis touch inside her vulva and her hand reaching down to guide me to her vaginal entrance.

“Fuck me, Tony,” she breathed, as I penetrated her easily.

Her vaginal canal was tight, and I eased my thrusts in length and strength as I slowly began to reach my full depth inside her. Her breath caught when I bottomed out; her grip on me was vice-like as she clung to me. Her breathing was ragged, and there was a slight wheeze as I began to move inside her. I felt the warmth of her fluid as it flowed from inside her, the muscles of her vaginal wall beginning to govern purchase on my shaft.

I felt her body tensing as another orgasm built inside her, slowly growing in intensity as we moved ever faster together. I held her bum in the palm of my hand as I thrusted deeper and harder to match her tempo until she crumbled around me in orgasm, crying out in agonised ecstasy as the sensation flowed through her.

“I’m gonna come, Petra,” I heard my voice as a groan.

“Oh please, yes,” she croaked.

“Where?”

“Do not pull out!” she demanded.

A few short thrusts later, I thought my penis had exploded as huge jets of semen flooded her vagina, encouraging a further, lesser climax from her. She kissed me again as our bodies undulated together until my flaccid penis slipped dejectedly from inside her and she held me in place with her knees until our hearts could no longer be heard beating in our ears.

I left the bed and retrieved the remaining champagne. It yielded a little less than a half glass each, and she drank hers in one thirsty gulp. I handed her mine, and she did the same thing.

“What?” she asked with an uncertain grin.

“You’re dry,” I said. “When did you last eat?”

“I had a sandwich at lunchtime.”

“What? Nothing since then?”

“I had a power bar at home.”

I picked up the Room Service menu and handed it to her.

“You need to eat something, love,” I said, “we both do.”

“But look at the prices, Tony,” she said. “A steak is €70 and a fucking pot of coffee is twenty.”

“It’s all covered,” I said. “They actually pay me for being here.”

I called down to reception and ordered our food. Petra watched as I agreed to hold the line for Patrick, the night manager.

“Good evening, Mr. Harris,” he said. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Very much so, thanks,” I said. “But I have one niggling little thing that confuses me.”

“Oh, what is that?”

“Well, I checked the rates for this suite, Patrick, and I can’t understand why there would only be a sprite of Cristal as part of the welcome pack.”

“Oh, that’s a complimentary thing that we include in the pack.”

“And it’s a lovely touch,” I said. “But the rate for this suite is nearly €4,000 per night and a sprite is a little unconventional in my view.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s Cristal,” he said.

“And very nice it was too, Patrick,” I said. “Now I’m no expert, but it appears to me that the minimum complimentary offering should be 375ml or a half bottle. What you call a Sprite is really a split or mini bottle, which is a 175ml quarter bottle.”

“Yes, that’s true. Those splits are a special order from Cristal.”

“I’d suggest you re-evaluate that, Patrick, and either offer a full or a half bottle of a lesser brand such as Moët, for example,” I said, “as they do at Ashford Castle.”

“I agree, but we have a contract with Cristal,” he said.

“We weren’t aware of any contractual limitations on room offerings,” I said. “But that’s a conversation for another time.”

“Would you like me to send you another sprite of Cristal?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” I said. “It was just something that niggled at me. If I could get some spring water, it’d be fantastic.”

“Still or sparkling?”

“Still, please; spring water should be unadulterated,” I said. “While I have you, do you offer a personal shopping service?”

“Yes, what would you like?”

“My partner needs a few things, Patrick. What shops do you use?”

“Every shop on Grafton Street.”

“She just needs a top, and maybe a skirt or trousers and some personal items.”

“I’ll have Irana, our Personal Shopping coordinator, contact you in the morning,” he said.

“Thank you, Patrick,” I said, “I appreciate your help.”

I hung up the phone and noticed Petra’s gaze boring through me.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

“You really are something,” she said.

“A prick?”

“No,” she said, reaching out for my hand. “You’re so considerate; I saw that today, but personal shopping? For me? That’s too much, Tony.”

“No, it’s not nearly enough, Petra,” I said. “I want you to give yourself up to the purported Five Star experience; this is their job.”

“You make me feel so special,” she said. “You made love to me like I was the only girl in the world.“

“Did you enjoy it?” I asked.

“It was beautiful,” she said, kissing me.

A knock at the door interrupted us, and she scrambled out of bed to run into the bathroom as I pulled on a robe and allowed the girl to push the food trolley into the room. She ate like a builder’s labourer, wolfing the food down hungrily. I smiled as I watched her.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Nothing, just typical Edenmore.”

“Do I offend your Kilmore West sensibilities?” she asked with a grin.

“Yes, but I like that.”

“You were talking about a magic carpet ride earlier,” she said.

“Yes. I believe we were talking about the vicissitudes of life and taking the rough with the smooth,” I said.

“Yes, all of that.”

“Let’s get under the covers, and I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

We divested ourselves of clothing, dimmed the lights and crawled under the covers. She snuggled up to me and kissed me excitedly, a huge smile on her face and her eyes huge pools of wonder as she looked deep into mine.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to behave.”

“I will.”

“You’ll need to pay attention to every syllable.”

“Shut up and tell me for fuck’s sake,” she growled impatiently.

“Ok. There’s a painting and decorating contractor, Michael Ellis, who works for us occasionally. He’s a bit of an artist and is in heavy demand for his skills; he goes a little bit mental at times, but he’s a bit of a dreamer, and he believes in myth and magic. He tells outrageous tales of lore and mystery, half of which are believable; the rest, just outright fantasy.”

Petra snuggled in with a smile. “I love bedtime stories,” she whispered.

“He was once doing a redecoration in a house,” I continued, “that had recently had a small fire in the kitchen. There hadn’t been very much actual structural damage caused by the fire; it was mostly cosmetic, but the smoke damage was pervasive and insurmountable, and it destroyed most of the house. In the master bedroom, there was a purported hand-woven Persian carpet that had, allegedly, been woven by the women of a mountain village in the province of Samangan in Afghanistan.

Mick, the painter in question, even though all that he ever knew about carpets was that his wife couldn’t use a vacuum cleaner properly when she cleaned one, and that he drove by an antique dealer's shop in Francis Street on his way to work most mornings, thought he’d recognised it for what it could have been instead of what it was.

The carpet had been rescued and declared as salvage by the firm of loss adjusters that the woman of the house worked for. They held it in storage for a year as they estimated the insurance claim for the fire, eventually, unbeknownst to Mick, procuring a valuation of less than €200 from a renowned expert in the carpet valuation field. He said that the carpet was made in a garage at the rear of a row of houses in Navan and had no obvious cultural, historical, or ethnic value beyond the purpose for which it was sold.

The insurance claim took eight months to agree. Another six months passed for the tender process to complete before the reinstatement works could commence. A contractor was appointed, and their first item was to clear everything out of the house and place it in storage for further evaluation and potential adjustment of the claim, should anything of value be capable of being sold as reimbursement to the insurance company. The storage facility was cold and damp; there was no drying or air quality control present. It was just a cold and draughty warehouse on the Ballymount Road in Walkinstown.

It took twelve months to restore the house to its former glory, and Mick was chosen to undertake the redecoration portion of the restoration works. During the latter stages of the job, and for two weeks after the owners moved back in, Mick was out there touching up paintwork and generally keeping himself warm. In the course of this period he got to know the client's wife, Sylvia, very well. It was more in a social sense than anything sexual.

Sylvia gave him access to her wide circle of friends, which Mick mined for work for the next three years. He performed tasks that he wouldn't even dream of considering back home. He made sure her bins were put out on time; he ran errands for her when she needed bread or milk; he dropped the kids at school on occasion and became acquainted with a few of the mothers when he picked them up after school occasionally too.

One morning he arrived at the site to find Sylvia standing in the garage beside the house. Mick, being a nosey fucker, toddled over to see what she was looking at. On the floor was a cylindrical-shaped object that was about ten feet in length.

"Morning, Sylvia," he said, "what's the story here?"

"This was sent back to us last night," she said, pointing at the tube as if it was a dead rat on the ground in front of her.

"What is it?" Mick asked.

"It's an old carpet that we had in the master suite before the fire," she said. "It had severe smoke and water damage and isn't restorable. I asked them to dispose of it, but it doesn't belong to them, so they just dropped it off here last night."

"Bastards!" he said. "Can I open it and have a look at it?"

"It's of no value, they say, and is fit for nothing more than disposal," she said. "But you're more than welcome to take a look at it as long as you put it back to the way it is now."

"Where did you get it?" he asked.

"It was salvaged from a house in Fitzwilliam Square by an insurance company," she said. "I acquired it from them when the salvage period was over. I think they just wanted it out of the way."

"Is it valuable?"

"Value is in the eye of the beholder, Mick," she said. "I didn't waste my time on it; I just needed it to cover the floorboards in my bedroom at the time."

"How long have you had it?"

"Oh, it must be fifteen years now," she said.

She left him to it, and he opened it carefully. He rolled it open to about four feet and saw that it was originally beige in colour and had a dark green border about eighteen inches wide that ran around the entire perimeter of the rug, about nine inches in from the edges. Within this green border was embroidered a wildlife and nature tapestry with odd geometrical shapes woven into the design. His instinct, given the presence of some sort of horned animal that was a cross between a unicorn, his mother-in-law, and an anteater, Mick assumed that it was Persian or, at the very least, Afghan, given the ubiquity of such a beast in the region at the time, and his mother-in-law, who owned a pedigree Afghan hound, being from Monaghan.

It was badly stained and smelled of charcoal and soot, but somewhere in Mick's head, he saw an opportunity. He offered to dispose of it on Sylvia's behalf; she was thrilled that it would be gone from her garage that evening. Mick spent the next two days travelling the city, visiting various antique dealers, and disagreeing with their valuations under the impression that they were all bastards who were trying to rip him off. The fact that none of them even wanted it in their shops was the biggest lost on him and didn't even register in his mind.

With no idea what to do with it, and not wishing to make himself look like a tool, he decided instead to fit it to the floor of his van. He maintained it would add value to the van and also offer some acoustic and insulation properties too. So he was driving around Dublin in a van that he told everyone had a priceless Persian carpet on the floor. He told everybody he met about it, and how he came upon it. He was forever showing it off to all and sundry until, one day, someone as deluded as himself offered to take it off his hands for €2,000. Mick prevaricated in the hope of getting the price up, but the buyer wasn't for moving. He spent a weekend in deep thought about whether to accept the offer or refuse it, eventually deciding to accept it a few days later.

He called the mark, who was out of town for the week. They arranged to meet at the weekend, on Saturday afternoon at one o'clock in Saint Anne's Park, near the Rose Gardens. Mick was working on a house that morning, redecorating two bedrooms for a lady in the run-up to Christmas at the time. He finished work at noon and drove home to take the carpet out of the van and roll it up nicely. On the drive home, he hit a road bump that rattled everything in the van. When he reached the house, he opened the back doors to find that three buckets of paint had spilt all over the rug."

"No!" Petra said. "What did he do?"

"He went down and bought some more."

“Some more what?”

“Paint.”

"But, but ..."

I laughed at her confusion, holding her tightly so she couldn't assault me as I calmed her with a tender kiss, and we snuggled down under the covers, as I intended to apologise to her in the only way I knew how.