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poking. Just her and a little warm jar full of magic from a nice Dublinman with a name. Nothing frozen, nothing anonymous.
    There, now, she had got a good grip on the plunger. She would just lay her head back and take a few relaxing breaths …
    The knock came so loud that her hand clenched.
    ‘No thank you,’ she called in the direction of the door.
    No answer. She took one huge breath and pressed the plunger.
    Afterwards, she could never remember hearing the door opening. All she knew was that the assistant porter was standing there staring, in his ludicrous striped jacket, like something out of Feydeau. And she was on her feet, with her skirt caught up around her hips. ‘Get out,’ she bawled. She tugged at the cloth and heard a seam rip. There was wetness all down her legs.
    The boy started to say something about turning down the sheets.
    ‘Get out of my room!’
    The door crashed shut behind him.
    Afterwards, when she had mopped herself up, Sarah scrubbed at the carpet with a damp facecloth. The mark was milky, unmistakable against the square of red wool. They’d think she and Padraic had done it right here on the floor.
    She wanted to go down the corridor and find that porter. She longed to spit at another human being for the first time in her life. ‘Look, boyo,’ she would scream in his ear, ‘if I can make myself pregnant, I’m sure I can turn down my own sheets.’
    But she hadn’t, had she? All she’d done was stained the carpet.
    The funny thing was, now he’d started, the dirty thoughts wouldn’t stop coming. They raced merrily through his head. All the way down in the lift Padraic watched the other passenger in the mirrored wall. She was fifteen years too old for the red dress and black leather, but still, not bad at all. A hooker, or just somebody’s bit on the side? This hotel was a stranger place than it looked from the outside; behind all that fresh paint you’d never know what was going on. He shook his head to clear it as the lift glided to a stop. He let the woman get out first.
    The Irish Bar was stuffed with people, singing rebel songs Padraic hadn’t heard in years; it seemed to be some sort of wake. After two whiskeys he felt superb. Relief and alcohol danced through his body together, while his hormones played ‘It Had to Be You’.
    Tonight had demanded his all, and his all was what he had given. With a bit of luck, one lonely frustrated woman’s life would be transformed, and a little bit of his DNA would grow up next door to the Pacific Ocean. With a light tan and rollerblades …
    There was his cousin, consulting a clipboard and talking to the barman. He shouldn’t have got so het up earlier; she was only taking an interest. He’d been in a bit of a state, he could admit that now. When he’d finished his third whiskey, Padraic gave a little wave, but Máire didn’t seem to see. He squeezed his way over and waited for a break in the conversation, then put his hand on her arm.
    ‘Hello again,’ she said.
    ‘It’s not what you think,’ he announced satirically.
    ‘Right.’ She seemed to be speaking to her clipboard.
    ‘No, really. I mean, yes, I’m here to meet a woman, obviously, but it’s about a hundred and eighty degrees opposite to what you’re obviously thinking.’
    Máire looked up, and her eyes were hard. ‘Listen, Padraic, it’s none of my business.’
    ‘But the thing is, Carmel knows I’m here,’ he assured her, tugging at her sleeve. ‘Old school friend. Carmel set the whole thing up, in fact.’
    His cousin looked slightly revolted, and he was just about to explain, when he remembered that he had promised both Carmel and Sarah never to tell a soul about their little arrangement. So he had to let go of Máire’s sleeve. She was out the door like a shot.
    Knees against the bar, he idled over his next drink, planning how to describe the evening to his wife.
Oh, we got the business over with in the first ten minutes – nothing to it.
But he