Dark Rose

“Yes, Dominic.” I felt my cheeks growing wet and Dom passed me a tissue, looking vaguely embarrassed as he always did when anyone showed emotion in his presence.

Ellie and Rio did have other plans, a home of their own. They wanted Jinn’s and my opinion so we went with them to view the one they had in mind. It was a shitty little apartment in one of the shittiest places in town and the rent was at least twice what I would have thought reasonable even though I was told it was cheap for Santa Monica. It was the wall-to-wall junkies and winos in the area that decided me. I persuaded the girls to stay where they were in Alex’s old room. Among other things it saved them money and the trouble of moving all the BDSM equipment, Ellie’s ‘fun stuff’. I had sound insulation installed in both bedrooms. Best investment ever. While Charon and I were generally quiet and discreet as far as our love-making went, Ellie and Rio tended to let it all sing out.

* * * * *

Roughly eighteen months later, Alex died suddenly in a local hospital. She had pneumonia and had disregarded the symptoms, brushing them off as a very bad cold. She persisted in this belief until complications set in by which time it was too late to do much for her. She was laid to rest next to her beloved.

If nature were human it would likely be a person with an ironic turn of mind. When several years previously Zabi had offered me the use of her apartment, she told me that she and Alex intended to stay in Italy for the foreseeable future. As I said, irony. She could not possibly have seen just how long their stay would be.

* * * * *

Zabi’s death had saddened me, Alex’s death not only saddened me but shook me up too. My bad dreams had never let up, had, if anything, worsened. Sometimes I wondered how Charon put up with my night fears and I said as much to her.

“Because I love you, you damned fool,” she said.

As I said, Alex’s death shook me, making me realise that you never could tell when your time was due leaving it too late to clear up all those unresolved issues. I knew what I had to do. Truth be told, I’d known for some time but kept on hoping the problem would go away by itself. It obviously wasn’t going to so I went to Dom and told him I need to take some time off to travel to Ireland. Jinn was with him. Just as well, I wouldn’t need to explain all over again to her.

He looked at me in that strange way he has then nodded. “Your demons piling up on you?”

“How did you know? Stupid question—you know everything.”

“Not everything. For instance, I don’t know—” I could see a mini-Dom lecture coming on and so could Jinn for she held up a hand to stop him. He gave a rueful little smile and closed his mouth.

“Back when I first came here,” I said, “both you and Zabi said that sooner or later I needed to face my troubles. You were right. That’s why I need the time, to go back to Ireland and break the spell.”

“I agree,” said Dom. “Can you give me a couple of months? I want to look into establishing a couple of clubs in London. I’ll find some prospective premises and I’d like you to inspect them and report. Apart from that, take as much time as you need with my blessing.”

* * * * *

I told Charon of my intentions. I know, perhaps I should have discussed them with her beforehand but I didn’t want to risk her persuading me not to go. I don’t think she would have done but it was a slight risk. We sat together in the apartment, both solemn and more than a little teary.

Charon clasped my hands. “Is this really necessary, Roisin?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Zabi once told me that I seemed to have inner scars that I had to erase somehow if I ever wanted contentment. And Dom told me I was running away from my past and that rather I should face it.” I shrugged. “Easier said than done. You know about my life and you’ve nursed me often enough through my bad dreams. Dom and Zabi were both right. I need to confront my past head-on, Charon, and I can only do that by going away for a while.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Seven or eight weeks, probably.”

“So it’s like a pilgrimage?”

“Yes. That sounds about right.”

Charon nodded slowly. “Pilgrimage is something we Muslims can understand—you will have heard of the haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. For now… Roisin… I guess you need your own personal haj.” Her face was a mixture of sadness and apprehension and her voice trembled as she said: “Roisin, you will come back to me…?”

As so often, I had picked Dom’s brains for something I wished to say to Charon when the moment was right. Now was that moment. I raised her hand and kissed each finger, saying: “Qulubuna wahida [Our hearts are as one]. I will be back, promise.”

Laughter bubbled through her sadness. “Your accent, Rosie, you’ll be the death of me. I want to make a gesture to chain you to me, to join our hearts for sure. This is something I thought of weeks ago and I was saving it for a special occasion. I suppose this is special so I might as well show you now.” She picked up her portfolio and withdrew a single sheet of cartridge paper, passing it to me. “What do you think of this?”

It was one of Charon’s wonderful flower paintings, two roses, stems entwined, a black rose and another coloured a dark reddish-pink, both damp with dew, both so realistic that they could almost have been laid live on the page.

“They are beautiful.” I pointed to the dark-pink rose. “What’s this one?”

“It’s called a Damask rose. They are believed to have originated in the Middle East, Syria maybe, as long ago as the twelfth century. It was held to be representative of beauty and love. You like the design, then?”

“I love it,” I told Charon.

“Good, then this is our next tattoo. The black rose symbolises you, the Damask rose me. And once it’s on our bodies, I’ll destroy the design so that no-one else can use it.”

So over the course of several weeks we had the tattoo on our torsos, mine applied by Charon and hers by her most able colleague. We each shaved a small channel through the pubic hair above our clefts to make room for the lowest part of the tattooed stems. Once the hair grew back, it would appear that the flowers were rooted in and growing from our pussies. The rest of the stems cleverly looped around our belly-buttons and on to where the flowers settled some inches below our breasts. The artistry complete, our hearts were as one in the sight of whatever God we worshipped.

Dublin

The flight was grand. Dom had insisted that I travel first-class because part of the reason for my journey was company business and the cost could be offset against tax. I could quickly get used to luxury travel and first-class beats the hell out of being stuck next to a crashing bore or a grossly obese person who needed several seats to themselves or, worst of all, a fellow passenger with chronic body odour who shouldn’t be allowed out of their house without first being dipped in antiseptic. At one time or another I’ve had them all. I was booked into The Merchant’s Castle, a five-star hotel in the centre of Dublin, which was owned by one of Dom’s business acquaintances.

Rather than carry out my intentions immediately, I decided to rest a day or two, shake off the jet lag, wander round and get the feel of my home city. I did touristy things like walking along by the Liffey, strolling in Phoenix Park, and visiting the zoo, none of which I had ever done before. It’s a strange thing which I’ve seen in other cities I know: those born and bred there have very often never visited the finest sights or, indeed, know anything about them. I even visited St Michan’s church where some peculiarity of the crypt’s atmosphere preserves corpses, a few dating back to the thirteenth century. My greatest pleasure, though, was to go into Mulligan’s pub and have a pint of draught Guinness (said to be the best in Dublin and I’d not argue with that) with perhaps a smoked salmon sandwich or a plate of Dublin Bay prawns. When I was last in the city I could not have afforded a single prawn, let alone a dozen or more of them. After a couple of days of this I realised that I couldn’t put things off any longer and set out to confront at least part of my past.

Before setting out I changed my clothes. A young woman in an expensive business suit would look an easy target where I was going. For the same reason I elected to take the bus rather than a cab. From the bottom of my case I pulled up an outfit I’d not worn for years, ripped jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket, and large, heavy boots, all in shades of black. I fished out all my long-unused Goth makeup, also black, and gelled my hair into an appropriate style. The hotel’s receptionist and doorman both did a double-take when I exited the lobby, no doubt wondering how this scruff had got past them in the first place.

It was drizzling out and the bus journey from the city centre was long and wearisome, passing through a variety of neighbourhoods ranging from the posh to the eventual grim and downtrodden. The streets became smaller and meaner, seemingly much more so than when I’d been a kid and when I got off the bus I still had the depressing thought of a further ten-fifteen minutes’ walk ahead of me. There was a bit of a breeze and I had to bend my head against the misty drizzle.

At one point I saw a small gang of teenage lads on the other side of the narrow road, none of them much more than fourteen or fifteen. A suspicious-looking cloud hung about them, tobacco or weed, not sure which. As I passed by one of them called: “Get your tits out!”

“Don’t bother!” one of his mates yelled, “You’ve got nothing worth getting out!”

When I was young I’d have been stupid enough to cross over and harangue them but now I’m older and wiser and more tolerant. Anyway, I’d heard of so many cases in LA where public-spirited citizens remonstrated with disruptive teens only to have a knife or gun pulled on them. That tends to make you wary. Besides, Dominic had managed to put a veneer of class on me. However, the uncouth little street girl buried deep inside me managed to struggle her way out at times. I flipped the kids the bird and shouted: “Póg mo thóin! [Kiss my arse!]”

“If only!” another grinned. They all laughed but there was no rancour in it so I laughed with them, giving a little wave.

At last I reached the street where I had been brought up and it was even nastier than I recalled with cracked and broken sidewalks sprouting a variety of weeds and awash with all manner of litter. The house, too, was a sad thing to see. Many of the houses on the street, with their broken and boarded-up windows and litter-filled scraps of front yards, cried out for attention but ours looked far-and-away the worst. As I recalled, the front door had been a dark-greenish colour, now it was filthy to the point of being almost black. The paintwork was blistered and peeling while rot showed through the wooden frame of the front window. I was almost afraid to use the knocker in case the door crumbled beneath its weight. Still…

I had to knock several times before I heard the shuffling of weary footsteps in the hall and a querulous voice repeating: “All right! All right! I’m coming you pisser…” The door opened and I was face-to-face with my mother for the first time in five or six years. She peered at me blearily and then recognition seemed to dawn.

“You!”

“Me,” I acknowledged.

“And what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Mammy,” I said…

She stood back and made a tired gesture as if inviting me in. The place didn’t smell too good (maybe it never had and I had been so used to it I didn’t notice). I followed her through to the kitchen which was a disgusting mess, cluttered with unwashed dishes and pots, some plates having the congealed mess of leftover food sticking to them. The linoleum floor felt greasy under my feet, walls blackened with mould, the gas cooker was encrusted with the dirt of weeks, if not months, and I think I saw a couple of cockroaches scuttle under it. My mother slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and I sat opposite. Among other things, there was a half-full bottle of cheap red wine on the table. Mammy slopped some into a small tumbler then held the bottle up as if in invitation. I shook my head and I thought she looked relieved. So was I. Even if I’d wanted a drink I couldn’t have taken it from one of those glasses—they looked like beakers in a germ warfare lab.

I studied my mother. She had always been attractive despite Daddy’s ill-treatment but now she was as worn as the house, appearing much, much older than her years. She couldn’t be more than fifty if that. My skin colour is a light caramel betokening our mixed heritage. Mammy’s was always a shade or two darker than mine but now she seemed to be an ashen tint as if life was slowly ebbing from her. Maybe it was. “Place needs doing up,” I said, just to fill the silence, “the front door and window look ready to collapse any time now.”

Mammy scowled and took a swig of plonk. “It’s that feckin’ gobshite of a landlord, he won’t do a feckin’ thing in this place. Anyhow, what’re you doing here?”

“Came to see how you’re doing.”

“After all these years?” she snorted.

“I’ve been working overseas, in California,” I told her.

“Taking a bit of a risk coming here, aren’t you? Having murdered your Daddy that way?” The weary way she spoke suggested she knew she was talking shite. Maybe she was just hoping to scare me.

“I didn’t murder Daddy and you know it. The autopsy showed he was a dead man walking, had been for years, and the inquest agreed. ‘Death by natural causes’ the coroner said.” She looked surprised that I knew so I added: “I have friends who find out things. And for once, I was defending myself. My name was never mentioned at the inquest so I guess you went some way to keeping me out of it despite thinking me a killer.” I had to stop and take a deep breath. “Mammy, why didn’t you ever try to stop him beating me like he did? Especially when I’d done nothing wrong.”

I thought I glimpsed a tear and she shook her head. “Oh, I tried when you were very small, just got beaten up for my troubles. In the end I gave in.” She took another slug of the wine. “You want to know what you did wrong? You got born, that’s what you did wrong.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You weren’t his, or so he thought, that’s what you did wrong.” Mammy’s tears were flowing now. “He always was a bit of a brute, slapping me around. Sweet as pie, a real charmer, before we got wed, a devil afterwards. Dinner not ready on time?” Slap! She banged the table with a loud crack. “On the rag when he fancied a poke?” Slap! She banged the table again. “There was something nearly every fucking day to earn me a belting! Then I met a really nice guy and had a short affair. Maybe you’re his kid, I don’t know. Your Daddy suspected—couldn’t prove anything but blamed you as well as me. Everybody’s fault but his own behaviour, the lousy pisser. Pity he didn’t go sooner, maybe we’d have had a life then. I hope he rots in hell!”

That explained a lot although from what Mammy had just said I reckon he would still have been a violent pig even if I’d been his for sure. I know a lot of things wrong in my life were my own fault—I was a bit of a tearaway as a teenager but I never really deserved the level of punishment I got. I took a thick envelope from my pocket and passed it across the table. She looked inside suspiciously. It was stuffed with euros, a lot of euros. “What’s this?”

“Money. What does it look like? It’s to try to get you away from this dump and into somewhere better.”

“There’s a fortune here. How’d you make money like this? Whoring?”

I couldn’t say I was surprised or offended by this assumption. So many girls from round here ended up in homes for unmarried mothers or on the streets. The more attractive ones may have earned plenty of money in the beginning but what with booze and tobacco and drugs their looks soon gave out and the days of wine and roses faded for ever. “No Mammy, I didn’t get it whoring. No man’s ever put his thing in me and no man ever will. I run some businesses, honest ones, and I’m good at what I do.”

A look of shame crossed her face. “Alannah… sorry… I don’t know what to say…”

“I’m not Alannah now, Mammy, changed my name. I’m Roisin. Call me that, please.”

She gave a sad little laugh. “Funny, you choosing that. Roisin’s what I wanted to call you, my own darlin’ little Rose, but he insisted on Alannah after his ould cow of a gran. Didn’t do him any good—the ould miser left all her money to a local convent. I thought that was funny and earned meself another slapping.” She tried to wipe her moist eyes with the back of a hand. “I didn’t mean those things I just said to you, you know, about murder and whoring. Was just mouthing off—it was a shock seeing you. Have you got a feller over there in California?”

“I told you that no man’s going to have me,” I said, “I’ve got a girlfriend. Her name’s Charon.” I waited to see what her reaction would be.

Mammy stared at the table-top for a few minutes then said: “So you’re one of those… what…?”

“The word is lesbian, Mammy. That or gay. I’ve known what I am for years, since I was a kid, but I never said anything for fear of himself.”

“You did right there. Sure an’ the dirty pisser’d’ve kicked the shit out of you.” Mammy raised her head and looked me in the eyes for the first time. “You love her, this girlfriend?”

“We love each other madly.”

“And is she good to you? And you to her? No nastiness, anything like that?”

“Never nastiness, Mammy, only happiness. We’ve got a wonderful relationship.”

“Well now,” sighed Mammy, “Can’t understand this same-sex business meself but I guess you’ve made a right decision then, thinking over the things you saw and suffered in this house. Carry on being good to each other, Roisin—don’t ever repeat my mistakes.”

I think that’s what you might call my Damascene moment. I had returned to Ireland to confront a demon. Instead I had found myself facing a poor, sad wretch who had been treated as badly as I had, probably even more so. Time and again I had witnessed my father maltreating Mammy but the child and teenager I had been was so self-absorbed in my own misery that I never really noticed. Now I understood.

“Can you forgive me, Roisin, for not protecting you more, for being a bad mother?”

I felt a sudden rush of guilt. “Yes, Mammy, I can forgive you if you can forgive a poor reckless daughter who likely brought you a bundle of grief. We both made mistakes—I must have caused you some real heartache at times. ” I turned away briefly so that she couldn’t see the tears prickling in my eyes.

I recovered quickly and said: “So… let’s get some of this stuff sorted out.” It took me a good while but I at least managed to get the filthy crockery and pots cleaned and put away. Mammy stayed at the table, head down. Her occasional shudder suggested she was still weeping a little.

After that we sat in that noisome kitchen for about an hour or two, just talking, I think getting rid of some of our demons. I noticed that for the whole of that time Mammy didn’t touch another drop of the wine, the partly-finished glass sitting away from her right hand. When I’d first arrived I had her pegged for an alcoholic, now I wondered if the problem was something else. A real alkie couldn’t have left that glass and open bottle sitting there untouched for all that time. As I got up to go, she gave me an embarrassed little smile and although I’d said nothing she emptied the wine, both glass and bottle, down the sink. “You don’t have to say anything, Roisin, I know the booze is no answer and most of the time I stay away from it. I was just feeling extra low this morning. Then seeing you… talking with you awhile… well, let’s say I feel a wee bit better now. And I’m glad you’ve found yourself a good life.”

“Okay, Mammy. I’ve got to go to London on business then I’ll be going back to the States but one way or another I’ll keep in touch.” I embraced her and actually kissed her.

* * * * *

I ran into another old acquaintance about ten minutes later, literally. In fact, another of my childhood and teen… what? not part of my angst… not a demon… maybe an ogre or wicked goblin, and one I had not expected to ever see again. It was still drizzling a little, I was on autopilot, head down, thinking things over, and she dashed out of a corner shop. I had an image of colliding with someone much bigger than me and I staggered slightly. I think if anyone was at fault it was her but I mumbled an apology and kept going.

An aggressive voice yelled out: “Hey, you! You don’t just knock someone over and walk away.”

I turned. Me knock her over? She was twice my size and weight. And then I recognised her great flat face with its liverish complexion. Peggy Moran, Big Peggy Moran (although by rights the ‘a’ in her surname should have been replaced by another ‘o’). She’d been the biggest girl, and the biggest bully, and the dimmest bulb, in school. Oh, she was a grand good girl around the nuns (“yes, sister”, “no, sister”, “three bags feckin’ full, sister”, “kiss your arse and hope to go to heaven, sister,”) but to the smaller and younger girls she was a terror. Like most, I tried to stay out of her way, not always succeeding. What with regular thrashings from Daddy and the nuns with occasional beatings from Big Peggy, life wasn’t exactly great. Bowl of cherries? Bowl of shit! And today, just like when we were in school, Peggy was accompanied by her bestie, Nesta Byrne. I said her ‘bestie’ but Nesta was more like Big Peggy’s lap-dog or toady. Her sole function in life was to follow at Peggy’s heel, agreeing with everything the bully said, applauding everything she did. Looked like nothing had changed. And Peggy recognised me the moment I recognised her. She pointed at me with a black-rimmed fingernail.

“I know you. You’re Alannah Bronagh from school.” An ugly look came over her beefy face as if she intended to cause trouble. “Where you been hiding all these years, Bronagh, you little squit? In jail?”

“My name’s Roisin Donavan,” I told her, hoping to stave off the threatening trouble.

“Feck off! You’re Alannah Bronagh, isn’t she, Nessie?”

“Sure, an’ you’re right there, Peggy.” Ever the faithful Little Miss Echo.

“There’s something different about the look of you, Bronagh. I know, it’s them glittery piercings you’ve got there. I think you’ll look a lot better without them. What say I tear them out?” She must have been on something, booze or junk, to start a fight with a near-stranger for no reason and in broad daylight.

I edged away slowly, there was no way I’d turn my back on her. I was just about the right size for her to start a scrap with. She’d always liked her victims very small. Faced with someone like Jinn, Peggy would probably shit her pants. “Turn round and walk away, Peggy,” I said, “I don’t want any trouble. There’s no need for it. We’re adults, not at school any longer.”

She sneered. “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll rip those rings off just to see if your blood’s as yellow as you are.”

“Be careful, Peggy. I’m not the girl I used to be.” I wasn’t too worried about Peggy Moran. Not any more, not after the lessons I’d had…

[Only a few months after I started to learn the business at The Ascension there had been an incident in the club, in the Purgatorio dining room. I heard angry yelling and it sounded as if a waitress was crying. Several of the young waiters seemed to be protesting but their lack of clothing made dealing with incidents awkward. Neither would any other guests interfere—many of them had good reason to guard their anonymity. That’s why Jinn was around most of the time. I couldn’t see her so I went to investigate.

A burly, red-faced man was berating a waitress, Lindi, and making threats to anyone who tried to intervene. The man was wearing a new member’s badge—he wouldn’t be keeping it for long if I had any say in the matter. “I’m Roisin Donavan, the duty manager here, sir, what seems to be the trouble?” Dom was insistent that we remained polite to the clients until they ceased to merit it. Red-face was already over the edge.

“This little bitch is the trouble!” he shouted, “I’ve offered her two hundred dollars to fuck me in a back room and she’s turned me down! Me! Turned down! By a fucking waitress! Sack the bitch!” He was obviously very drunk and equally obviously a nasty drunk. He ripped off his mask revealing mean, piggy-like little eyes.

“Sir, our waitresses are just that, waiting staff. They may work semi-nude but they are not hookers no matter how much you’ve offered to pay them. The club operates a no-touching policy and this is made clear in our welcome pack.”

He turned on me. “Who asked you, you fucking midget? A fucking Paddy bitch trying to tell me what’s what in my own country! Know who I am?” He jerked a thumb against his own chest. “I’m Alvin Carelli, everyone in town knows Alvin Carelli! I’m a very important guy! I’ve paid plenty for membership in this dive so I’ll get what I want!”

“I’m sorry, Mr Carelli, but I for one have never heard of you. And your behaviour is so obnoxious I must ask you to leave now.”

“Never heard of me? Obnoxious? You talk to me like that?” he screamed in my face, the stink of stale Bourbon overpowering, “I’m very rich. I could buy you and every bastard in here outa my small change. I’m a personal friend of the mayor and I’ll get you shut down tomorrow.” He turned to Lindi who flinched. “A thousand bucks!”

I took hold of his elbow, gently, and repeated, “I must ask you to leave now, sir.”

He tore away from me, raising a threatening fist. “Leave? Leave? I’m going to kick your ass, you little—“

He didn’t finish. One arm was wrenched behind his back and his buttoned-up shirt was lifted so high by the collar he was forced to stand on tiptoes. Jinn had arrived. She was wearing her customary skull mask and in Purgatorio’s subdued lighting looked like an escapee from a horror film. The very important Mr Carelli tried to break free so Jinn twisted his collar, almost choking him as his face turned purple. “Take his member’s badge, Roisin.”

“A pleasure.”

“You think you’re tough, mate?” said Jinn, her Aussie accent coming across strongly, “You wouldn’t last five seconds on a Saturday night in any of Sydney’s clubs. Your membership is now revoked and we’ll refund your subscription except for a small sum to compensate the waitress you’ve upset. Don’t try to come back. I’m going to take you out now and introduce you to our doorkeeper, Big Tony. He’s a lot tougher than he looks and he looks like a member of Murder Incorporated. If you managed to get past him—unlikely—I’d be waiting. I’ve castrated more rams than you can count and castrating you wouldn’t be any different. Now move!” She ran Carelli for the exit, his toes scraping the ground, and used his face to open the swing door to the corridor. There was a scattering of applause from some of the other diners.

“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen,” I announced to the room at large, “we try to vet our guests for suitability but as you’ve seen, not always successfully. To make up for the disturbance, I’ll authorise a complimentary bottle of wine for each table and those who wish can take a raincheck.” I signalled one of the waiters to take orders and put an arm round Lindi who was still weeping quietly. “Come on up to the office, sweetheart. It’s the rest of the evening off for you.”

Dom called me in to see him the next morning. “Jinn says you tried to handle the incident calmly and well. That’s good. The free wine for the other tables was a good idea—most guests will think the better of us for that. I’ve been making some calls. Mr Carelli is not as important or well-known as he thinks he is, he’s a minor executive at one of the studios and a drunk. Right now his job’s on the line. ‘His’ riches come from his wife who’s a pharmaceutical company heiress and my informants tell me that the lady is currently consulting one of LA’s top divorce lawyers. Carelli’s apparently well known for his behaviour—his ‘personal friend’ the mayor has been refusing to take his calls for several years now. Don’t know how he got past our vetting process. Anyway, I’ve seen to it that he’s barred from every decent club in the city. From now on, the only nightclubs to admit him will prove very dangerous if he behaves the way he did here. I understand he also threatened you with physical violence. Now, Roisin, can you fight?”

I shrugged. “At my size? I’ve always tried to run away or hide.”

Dom nodded, pressing a button on his desk console. A few minutes later there was a tap on the door and Big Tony came in. “You called, Mr Vitelli?” Big Tony isn’t really all that big as far as height goes, maybe five-eight, five-nine, but he’s almost as wide as he is tall and about as deep. He’s likely as near to a human cube as possible.

“Yes, Tony,” said Dom, “Find someone to take over your desk for an hour or two each morning, starting tomorrow. I want you to take Roisin to the company gym for that time and turn her into a street-fighter. As long as it takes. Don’t hurt her but make her work.”

“Sure thing, Mr Vitelli.” Tony turned to me. “I don’t know how tough you are, Rosie, but you’ll be a lot tougher when I’m through. And then the world’s assholes better watch out.”]

…which is why I wasn’t too worried about Peggy Moran. “Be careful, Peggy. I’m not the girl I used to be.” She nodded then feinted, as if to go away, but turned quickly and rushed me. She might as well telegraphed her intentions. I moved slightly to one side and gave her a short, hard jab to the nose, at the same time turning to kick the back of one knee causing her to collapse. I grabbed an arm and twisted.

Big Peggy screamed. “You’re breaking me feckin’ arm you bitch!”

I put on a little more pressure. “Call me a bitch again and it’ll get worse.”

“Nessie! Do something! Don’t just stand there, Nesta! Do something!”

“Don’t even think about it, Nesta,” I warned.

Nesta hesitated, obviously scared she’d get the same treatment, then her eyes widened at something behind me. She turned and ran. I looked to see what had startled her. It was a big man in the dark-blue uniform of a Garda. He made a little gesture so I released Peggy who stumbled to her feet, trying to staunch her bleeding nose and nurse her painful arm at the same time.

“So it’s yourself causing trouble again, Peggy Moran,” said the policeman.

Pointing at me, big brave Peggy screeched: “Not me! It was her! Arrest her! She assaulted me! Look at me, I’m bleeding!”

The Garda seemed to think for a few seconds and nodded. “Yes, I could arrest her for assault but then we’d all have to go to the court. You’d give evidence first, likely saying she attacked you without reason. And when you’d given your evidence I’d step into the witness box and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. You know what the whole truth would be? I saw you trying to pick a fight with this young lady and her trying hard to avoid it, then you attacking her and getting punched in self-defence. You’d be in serious trouble for telling lies under oath. It’s called perjury, Peggy, and carries a hefty jail sentence. Now is that what you want? If not, away home with you.”

Muttering a string of curses, Peggy Moran scuttled away. I’d love to have heard the next conversation between her and Nesta. Maybe that would be the end of a beautiful friendship.

“The name’s Brendan Miller,” said the Garda, “You know it round here?”

“I’m Roisin Donavan,” I told him, “I lived here, years ago. Just visiting someone. Going to get a bus back to the city now.”

“Don’t blame you for moving out. Where do you live now?”

“California.”

“That’s a grand place so I’ve heard—lucky you,” he said, “I’ll walk with you a way just to be sure you’re safe. Peggy Moran’s a nasty piece of work so she is and a little too fond of the hard stuff. I’d have stopped it sooner if I’d been closer.” He snorted, highly amused. “Glad I didn’t—that was a sweet right jab you handed her. Do her good.”

We were passing a boarded-up building and I stopped to stare. A final demon to face. “The old school’s closed up, then?”

“Yes, one of the places that eventually went down as part of the big scandal. You may have heard of it in the States. Some of them holy nuns running the girls’ schools and the homes could have given Old Nick himself lessons in cruelty. It took the government and the Church a long time to take action against them, too long maybe, but once the Press got its teeth into the story and wouldn’t let go action happened fast. Not just nuns, either, but priests and Christian Brothers too, physical abuse, mental abuse, not to mention sexual abuse. Even a bishop was removed from his post for ignoring all the wrongdoings but I reckon he was just a scapegoat really, saving the Cardinal’s arse. You went here?” I barely heard him. I was drifting back…

* * * * *

In tandem with the dream about killing my father I had another recurring dream, this one about the nuns who taught in the girls’ school I attended. If you were to believe Hollywood films, all nuns are warm, cuddly and sweet-natured while the Mothers Superior are like Ingrid Bergman or Deborah Kerr or Audrey Hepburn. Maybe there are such nuns but not where I came from. Where I came from they were mostly vicious bitches only too handy with the cane, strap or whatever other form of corporal punishment they favoured. I heard those who ran the homes and laundries for ‘fallen women’ were even worse. To my knowledge the sole decent one at school was Sister Agnes but she was only a novice and had little to do with us, mainly teaching the youngest girls.

Every evening when school closed a small procession comprising eight or nine of them could be seen walking in pairs back to their convent, eyes lowered, fingering their rosaries, graciously acknowledging the doffed caps of the men and the little bobbed curtsies of the women, a fine study in pious hypocrisy.

About the second dream—it came from my last day at school. I had always hated skirts and blouses and went to school that day in my full Goth regalia. My last day, they couldn’t do anything to me now. As expected I was summoned to Mother Superior’s office. The confrontation went like this:

[I was ordered to stand in front of her desk. She was a thin-lipped, cold-eyed woman who wore rimless glasses which made her look like an interrogator in a spy film. She even spoke like one most of the time. “So, Alannah Bronagh,” she hissed, “you choose to flout our rules by coming to school looking like a piece of filth from the lower end of the music industry. What have you to say for yourself?”

Mother always used to scare the crap out of me but now I was defiant. “You can’t touch me now, I’m finished with this dump!”

“Now listen, Bronagh, I’m going to speak some wise words which I doubt you’ll heed because you’re too stupid. You’ve been a poor pupil for the five years you’ve been here with not a single thing to redeem you. You’re a dirty little slut and unless you change your ways you’ll end up in the gutter, prostituting yourself to the lowest of men. Decent folk will shun you as a scarlet woman, a harlot. You’ll likely have a flock of brats as disgusting as you who’ll end up being taken into care and you’ll end up in a prison cell. I see no hope for you.”

“And those are your wise words, Mother?” I put as much contempt as I could into that last word.

“They’re mild compared to what I can see for your future, you pathetic little wretch.”

“Then you can stick your wise words up your arse, you feckin’ ould bitch, I’m out of here.”

Mother’s face whitened with fury and she grabbed the cane hanging from the side of her desk. I snatched it from her and broke it over my knee. “Not this time, bitch!” I threw the pieces at her, slammed out of her office and down the corridor. She was calling after me: “Alannah Bronagh! You get back here!”

“Fuck off!”

Two nuns were stationed by the school’s main entrance. “Stop that girl!” Mother yelled to them. They moved to obey but I tore away from them, finding a strength I didn’t know I had. Adrenaline, I guess. With one final “Fuck off!” I was out of the building and into the street and the fresh air. Not that it was all that fresh, not in that district, but compared with the stuffy, boiled-cabbage atmosphere of the school it was champagne. Later that day I went to a patch of waste ground and burned the skirts and blouses I detested.

The incident was reported to my parents. This was one occasion when I didn’t get the anticipated thrashing from Daddy. He just commented: “Some of them nuns can be evil cows, so they can.”]

And my recurring dream? In the dream I don’t escape because my feet have turned to lead and I seem to be running through thick melted tar. I’m dragged back to Mother Superior’s office where all the nuns are gathered with canes and I’m held down while they beat me and beat me and beat… There have been a number of occasions when Charon has had to hold me and comfort me when I wake up yelling in anguish.

* * ** *

“…it took the government and the Church a long time to take action against them,” Garda Miller was saying, “too long maybe, but once the Press got its teeth into the story and wouldn’t let go action happened fast. Not just nuns, either, but priests and Christian Brothers too, physical abuse, mental abuse, not to mention sexual abuse. Even a bishop was removed from his post for ignoring all the wrongdoings but I reckon he was just a scapegoat really, saving the Cardinal’s arse. You went here?”

I shook myself from my memories. “To my sorrow,” I said, “got out of it as soon as I could. What happened to Mother Superior and the others?”

“Ah, they were all dispersed to different convents, places where in theory they can’t do any more harm. Supposed to spend their lives in prayer and contemplation to atone for their sins.”

Call me cynical but I’d believe that when I saw it. Aloud I said: “There was one decent nun here, a Sister Agnes, but she was young.”

“Ah yes, now there’s an interesting tale,” Miller told me, “Sister Agnes was so upset by the goings on here that she reported the place to the Church authorities several times. They ignored her concerns, in fact they declared her a vexatious appellant and packed her off to a convent in the middle of nowhere. You might say a punishment posting and a pretty rough one at that. After the scandal broke they hastily brought her back before the Press could get to her and ‘redeemed’ her as it were. She moved to a less restrictive order and now she heads a team running a shelter and home in the city for abused women and children. They say she’s brilliant in the job.”

“Do you know the address, Mr Miller? I’d like to see her if I can.”

The Garda took out his cell-phone. “Give me your number and I’ll text it to you.”

* * * * *

Some nuns had certainly changed, Sister Agnes’s new order falling well into the modern world. Rather than the full habit and wimple of old she wore a white-collared grey dress, falling to about mid-calf, and a simple headdress. She looked at me then back at the note on her desk. “Ms Roisin Donavan—you asked for an appointment to see me.” Her eyes behind her dark-rimmed glasses were still kindly but her expression serious. “I don’t know the name and yet you look familiar. Trying to remember the name I knew you as.”

I made to speak but she held up a hand to silence me. I looked respectable enough. My Goth gear had been tucked away, perhaps for always, and for the meeting with Sister Agnes I dressed more formally in charcoal trousers and waistcoat with a plain white shirt. I still had my piercings but without the Goth clothing they were less obtrusive.

She was muttering to herself. “Something starting with ‘A’… Alma… no… that’s not it… I know… Alannah… Alannah… Brogan?”

“Bronagh,” I said, “but Alannah Bronagh doesn’t exist now. Changed my name—I’m Roisin Donavan as it says on that note.”

“I suppose you have your reasons,” she replied. Her lips turned up in a little smile. “I hope you’ve given up your habit of attacking nuns.”

“It wasn’t so much a habit,” I told her, “More like a one-off. I try not to do it any more.”

“I believe your father died some years ago,” she said, “My condolences. They said he was a good Catholic man.” My face must have frozen for she said: “What?”

I stood and began to undo my trousers. “Don’t be alarmed Sister, I’m not a flasher, I just want you to see something. I promise my underwear is quite respectable.” I lowered the garment so she could see the old scars down the backs of my thighs and calves.

“Holy Mother of God!” she said, obviously shocked.

“That’s your good Catholic man for you, a brute!” I snarled, “Several times a week with his belt-buckle. Never had the chance to heal properly because the next belting was only a day or two away. I wasn’t allowed to go to the doctor because he might have called in the Gardai.”

“You couldn’t have taken that quietly. Didn’t the neighbours hear you yelling or crying?”

“Sister Agnes, you worked in that area,” I said, “so you should have an inkling what it’s like. People heard screams but they didn’t hear them if you know what I mean.” She nodded. “It was pretty common round there,” I continued, “I spent most of my younger days with bandaged legs. The school was told I had severe eczema.”

When I had re-dressed, Sister Agnes asked: “So why did you ask to see me, Roisin?”

I passed her the cheque I had written earlier and she stared at the amount. “This is very generous, Roisin. Can you afford it?”

“Don’t worry about that, I’m on the management team of a very successful business conglomerate in the US. I can afford it.”

“May I ask the nature of these businesses?”

I didn’t think a full description of The Ascension and its fellow clubs was appropriate for a nun, even a modern nun like Agnes, so I said simply: “Catering and entertainment,” which was a kind of truth.

Sister Agnes held up the cheque. “I don’t want to sound suspicious, Roisin, but do you want anything in exchange?”

“Nothing outside of your daily work,” I said, “I’d ask you to keep an eye on my mother, though.” I explained the circumstances, adding: “When I first saw her the other day, I thought maybe she was drink-dependent but now I believe it may be depression. I’ll leave you my cell-phone number and my address for when I return to the States. I’ll meet any expenses including medical fees. And I’ll be grateful to you, Sister Agnes.”

When I left Dublin for my next destination I felt a huge burden being lifted from my soul.

[To get ahead of myself a little, a few months following my return to the States I received two letters in the same envelope, a long one from Sister Agnes, the other, shorter, from my mother. Sister Agnes told me that they had rescued Mammy from the squalor she lived in and that I was right—she was suffering from depression. One of Agnes’s fellow nuns was a registered clinical psychologist and between counselling and the correct balance of medication Mammy was slowly recovering. Then came the clincher. Mammy was so impressed with what the shelter was doing that she asked to be taken on as a lay sister. As she said, she’d spent years in the bad place that most of the refugee women were fleeing from so who better to understand and help.

The letter from Mammy, addressing me as darling little Rose, simply said that she’d donated the money I gave her to the shelter, that despite past appearances she did love me, and that living and working at the shelter was proving to be her salvation. She was more content than she had ever been.]

Tuscany

Italy had not been part of my plans but as I was in Europe there was something I had to do. I had no demons from there, only pleasant memories of working at the Vitelli farms in the Chianti region of Tuscany. Ellie and I had some wonderful times there. As I had no specific skills I just did shit jobs. Ellie had grown up on a horse farm in New Zealand so she worked the Vitelli stables. I’ve mentioned Ellie’s Italian was fluent while mine was at the ‘barely-get-by’ level. And as related, our present fortunes were down to Ellie’s taste for running round at night wearing only a set of handcuffs or some other item of BDSM equipment. Came the night she ran into Zabi and Alex and our fortunes changed. We owed them an enormous debt of gratitude, especially Zabi who, with her brother, had seen hidden depths in this poorly-educated little Irish girl and turned her into something worthwhile.

The Chianti region is beautiful with vistas of gently undulating land, dotted here and there with clumps of tall cypress trees and the shadows of hills and mountains on the horizon. Much of the land is taken up with olive groves and vineyards, another branch of business that the Vitelli family had considerable interests in. The whole landscape was like a living Renaissance painting. I had hired a car with a driver who could speak reasonable English so I had little trouble explaining what I wanted. My destination was very close to the Vitelli farm and as we drew near I began to recognise various landmarks.

The driver pulled up outside massive wrought-iron gates which were kept open during the day and pointed. “Up there, signorina, half-kilometre or so. Take all the time you need. I will wait here.” He tipped his cap over his eyes and settled back as if to have a snooze.

The cemetery was a lovely place, like a well-kept park, with neatly-tended lawns and a number of the ubiquitous cypress trees. As far as I could tell, there was no-one else around. Their resting place, when I found it, was in a beautiful and elegant spot. The graves were side-by-side and a low marble wall, six or seven inches in height, enclosed them in one pebble-filled plot. There were perhaps a dozen or so ceramic jars and planters filled with bright flowers lining the walls and the actual graves while the headstone, too, was marble and wide enough to encompass both resting places. The background was plain with an embossed central plaque shaped like a pair of hearts. Another layer atop the hearts showed two hands clasped together. There was a small oval photo, continental style, of each woman with their names—Zabina Vitelli and Alexandria Rowe—carved underneath, near to the monument’s base, in both Italian and English, the words: ‘Il loro amore durerà per sempre – Their love will last forever’.

I couldn’t help myself. Without warning the plaintive notes of an old Irish lament as played on the pipes echoed through my mind and my emotions gained the upper hand. I began to weep deeply, uncontrollably. I fell to my knees and did something I’d not done for very many years. I crossed myself and began to pray for the souls of these two wonderful friends. My prayers were not formal ones, only a stream of consciousness babble. I didn’t think God would mind, even though I’d neglected Her for years—I thought She would recognise sincerity when She heard it.

I don’t know how long I knelt there with my head bowed, sobbing. I only know that I felt my knees beginning to get sore and my thighs to stiffen. Unexpectedly, a deep voice spoke to me. “Mi scusi, signorina, erano suoi amici?” I knew the word ‘amici’ and I guessed I was being asked if these were my friends.

“Si signore,” I nodded and looked up. I knew him immediately. It was Zabina’s uncle and my erstwhile employer, Benito Vitelli. He recognised me at the same moment and switched to heavily-accented but fluent English. “I know you—Signorina Rose, isn’t it? Give me your hand, young lady, and let me help you up. I apologise if I startled you. I was not expecting anyone to be here.”

Once on my feet, legs rather shaky, I gestured towards the double grave. “I am in Europe… on business… I had to come and say goodbye.”

“And caused yourself some heartache, I see.” The old man nodded. “No bad thing, the tears… they can be cleansing. Now, do you have plans for this evening?”

“Just returning to my albergo.”

“Nonsense. You have just had a very emotional experience and alone in a hotel is not a good way to deal with it. You are coming home with me, dine with us and stay the night.”

“But my fresh clothing is at the hotel and I have a driver waiting.”

“So sleep in your underwear,” Benito laughed, “As for fresh clothing tomorrow, who cares? A little dirt never hurt anyone. I’ll have a word with Paolo, the driver. He can come back in the morning. I’m part-owner of the car-hire firm he works for. [Jesus! Was there anything the Vitellis didn’t have a finger in?]

“Then thank you, Signore Vitelli, I’ll be pleased to accept.”

“Buono.” He took out a cell-phone and spoke in rapid Italian. I caught my name a couple of times. “I have just told my wife we have a guest tonight. We were not expecting company so it will be a simple meal.”

“A simple Italian meal is worth a feast elsewhere,” I smiled.

We walked for about fifteen minutes until we reached the Vitelli house which was lovely to see. Its roof comprised red terracotta tiles, there was a wide veranda shaded by striped awning and off to one side I could see a large pool shimmering in the afternoon sun. Of course, I had seen the house before but as hired help I had never been inside. Signora Vitelli was waiting on the veranda to greet me. She ignored my outstretched hand and instead gathered me into a warm embrace.

“Thank you for coming to see our loved ones,” she said, “Benito tells me you wept for them.”

“It’s thanks to Zabina that my life is so much better,” I replied, “I owed her so much and had no chance to repay her. I needed to say goodbye.” I could feel my eyes moistening again.

“It is good that they have a friend to weep for them,” said the old woman, “But no more tears now, child. They are resting and at peace.”

Then something clicked. When I had worked here, Signora Vitelli’s English had been about the same standard as my Italian. Without thinking, I blurted out: “Your English—”

She beamed. “Is better, no? I learn more for Alex and she learn more Italian for me. We both did good I think. Now come in and we’ll have something cooling to drink.”

The meal that evening was simple—and wonderful. The main dish was spaghetti smothered in tomato and basil sauce, all sprinkled with grated parmesan cheese, accompanied by chunks of fresh-baked crusty bread with dishes of olive oil for dipping. We finished with home-grown peaches and figs, the whole washed down with wine from the Vitelli vineyards. While we ate they asked me about the businesses in the States and other things.

“And your friend Ellie? She is well?” Benito asked, “We liked her and she was so good with the horses.”

Donna grinned and patted my hand. “And does she still enjoy running around with no clothes?”

I almost choked on my wine. “You knew?”

Both burst out laughing. “Oh yes, we knew.”

Half-way though the evening Benito’s phone rang and there followed a long conversation in Italian. Towards the end he switched to English. “Si, she is here. A moment—” He passed the phone to me. “Dominic,” he said.

I wondered if he was angry with me, expecting me to be in London—it was never easy to tell Dom’s mood from his detached tone of voice. “A little detour, Roisin?”

“Yes.” I tried to match his cool. “I had to come and say goodbye to Zabi and Alex. If it wasn’t for them… well… They are in a lovely place, Dom.” He would have known that, of course, but I had to make my feelings clear. Donna Vitelli held out her hand and I passed the phone to her. She spoke in English, presumably for my benefit.

“Dominic, I forbid you to be annoyed with Rose. She had good intentions, kind intentions. She is family now. Capisce?” She returned the phone.

There was a rare dry chuckle from Dom. “You seem to have made quite a hit with my Zia Donna,” he said, “I am not angry with you Roisin, I want to say thank you for your kindness. It was thoughtful.”

“Well, I am family now, Dom,” I told him.

“Yes, you are family now.” Another of those dry chuckles. “So you’d better start work on your Italian. While you’re at it, before going on take a couple of days in Florence. Visit the Uffizi Gallery and other spots. See some of the Renaissance beauties and enjoy them.”

That night I slept wonderfully well and when I woke in the morning, I realised something. Since spending time with my mother and with Sister Agnes, and now with the Vitellis, I had not had one bad dream.

London

What can I say about my suite in London’s Savoy hotel? Sumptuous, I guess. There was a large sitting-room with a soft, comfortable sofa, two matching armchairs, a small dining-table and a number of smaller coffee tables. And, of course, a television about the size of a cinema screen. In the bedroom, the carpet was as deep as winter snow on a Colorado mountainside and the king-sized bed luxurious. Add to this an en-suite bathroom… and what a bathroom… It was tiled in pale-green with everything you’d need for personal hygiene and comfort, including a huge shower-stall, but it was the bath that I fell in love with. Roughly twice the size of any normal bath, it was partly sunk into the floor and had a small flight of three steps to enter by. If only my Charon was here to share this with me. I’d always fancied a sunken bath after seeing one in some epic film set in Ancient Rome.

I looked around and marvelled at life. Little Alannah Bronagh from a Dublin back-street settled into a suite like this. Not knowing London, when Dom told me I was booked into the Savoy I assumed it was some kind of upmarket B&B. Some ‘upmarket’! Some B&B! I should have known. He’d booked me into a five-star hotel in Dublin, why not the same in London. When the black-cab had deposited me at the front entrance, I thought the driver had made a mistake. While he was assuring me I was in the right place a top-hatted doorman opened the back door, politely handed me out and picked up my luggage. Having paid the cabbie, including a good tip, I followed the doorman to reception. There came the next surprise.

There were several receptionists, men and women, each as immaculately dressed as Dominic would be. She who attended me checked my details and said: “Yes, Ms Donavan, your suite is ready. I’ll call for someone to take you there.”

“Suite? Must be some mistake. I should be booked into a single room for a few nights while I’m here on business.”

The woman checked again. “No mistake, Ms Donavan, it clearly shows that a suite has been booked under your name.” She hailed a young man, also well-dressed but with a striped waistcoat instead of a suit jacket. It looked like a kind of uniform. This one led the way to my suite.

“My name’s Simon, Ms Donavan,” he told me, “and I will be your butler for as long as you are here. Just use the bell by the door if you need assistance. I can unpack your case if you wish or arrange for a maid to do it.”

Although I was sure the staff here would be very discreet, I didn’t want a stranger stumbling across my Goth gear. “I’ll manage thanks, Simon.”

When he had left, I slumped onto the suite’s very comfortable sofa feeling a kind of mild astonishment. Butler? Maid? I wondered what kind of world I’d stumbled into. I’d got into the good life in California but this was something else again.

* * * * *

My contact in London was a woman called Eileen Barter, said to be one of the city’s top commercial estate agents. She came to The Savoy that evening to say hello and to make arrangements for our tour of potential premises. I had a message to meet her in the lounge bar which was pretty well filled by pre-theatre groups when I got there. I think she was well-known because the barman pointed her out with no hesitation when I asked.

“Ms Barter? I’m Roisin Donavan.”

“Call me Eileen.” She stood to greet me and while not quite as tall as Ellie or Jinn, she was heading that way. She held out her hand which was cool with a firm grip when I took it. I noticed her nails were short and coated with a clear varnish.

“You’ve got a choice with me,” I said, smiling, “I answer to Rose or Rosie as well as Roisin.” I suppose Eileen Barter could be described as… I don’t know… perhaps an ‘ice’ blonde, having the sort of looks that filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock was alleged to have been obsessed by. She was dressed simply but elegantly in a dark-grey cashmere sweater and well-tailored trousers, probably as costly as those I had in California. I suppose being a top commercial estate agent in London paid very well. I noticed that she wore no jewellery other than simple stud earrings, a white gold wedding band on her third finger and a small gold signet ring on a little finger.

” I hope you like red wine. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us a bottle,” Eileen told me. I thanked her although I’d have preferred draught Guinness. Thinking about it, I suppose The Savoy is not a draught Guinness kind of place although they might have run to bottles. Still, I was gracious and accepted the wine which, to be fair, was delicious.

We spent the evening discussing the half-dozen or so premises Dom that had selected for inspection, Eileen telling me that they were scattered over a large area of London. It was likely that four or five days would be taken up with our visits followed by time necessary for me to write my reports. Dom had given me a comprehensive list of points to watch out for and had arranged for a professional building surveyor to accompany us. Inspections finished, I spent a couple of days compiling my report and e-mailed it to Dom. The whole project had gone smoothly and I was able to wrap everything up fairly quickly.

For the evening after we finished all necessary work, Eileen made the kind of invitation I couldn’t refuse. She had tickets for Mama Mia! at a West End theatre followed by supper at her hotel. The show was great but throughout the performance she seemed to find odd excuses to touch my hand lightly, even linking our fingers once or twice very briefly. Her fingers were soft and with each contact I felt a little erotic thrill, my pussy clenching. It was a good thing that I would be going home shortly. Charon and I made love at least once most days and after my time away from Santa Monica I was missing her loving touch deeply.

Eileen wasn’t staying at The Savoy but a nearby and equally posh and expensive hotel. Their French restaurant was said to be the best in London although I’d have to accept the word of others on that. Eileen’s home was in a village about thirty miles from London and she had found it more convenient to stay in London while we worked together. When we had eaten, she said: “I’ve ordered a bottle of champagne on ice to be delivered to my room if you’d like to join me, Rose. We can toast the success of your little mission.” As I had nothing better to do than return to The Savoy and watch some trash on TV, I accepted her invitation.

A waiter wheeling a drinks trolley reached Eileen’s room just about the time we did. He uncorked the wine and poured a tasting sample for her which she approved. That little ceremony—which I’ve always found rather pretentious and amusing—completed, he half-filled two flutes and handed them to us. “Will that be all, Ms Barter?”