Whose stupid idea was it to build a hotel next to a church? Oliver pressed the sides of the plump pillow against his ears in an attempt to drown out the clang of the nearby ringing bells. He cracked his eyes open, but there was nothing to focus on through the sleep-gummed slits. His head hurt for starters. Residing there was the old familiar pain that congratulated him on yet another successful night of excess. Oliver groaned and tried to sit up. He wedged a pillow behind himself so he could lean back and take stock of his unfamiliar surroundings in the gloom of the room. Soft snores emanated from the other side of the cavernous king-sized bed. The top of a young man’s head covered with thick, black hair was all that was visible, poking out from the mound hidden beneath the sheets. Oliver couldn’t remember the boy’s name. It was probably Antonio or Leonardo. It didn’t matter. They were all the same once the lights were turned off.

He used the corner of the Egyptian cotton sheet to wipe away the thin line of drool that clung to the side of his mouth. A glass of water would help right now. As would some paracetamol—or something stronger. Reaching out, Oliver flicked a wall switch next to the bed. A soft golden pool of light illuminated the bedside table. There, next to his wallet and watch, was a half-full water glass and a piece of hotel stationery upon which was sitting a small pile of white powder. Oliver grinned. The previous night’s escapades came flooding back. First of all there had been early evening drinks at a gallery he’d hired for a select, invited few. He revelled in the theatrics of a grand unveiling and had viewed the open greed on his clients’ faces with satisfaction and not a small measure of contempt. The fine cut of their tailored suits and evening gowns was spoilt by the bulge of their fat cheque books as they clamoured and bickered amongst themselves, so eager were they to snap up his most recently acquired pieces. From there he’d joined his old university friend Tommaso for dinner at an obscenely expensive restaurant where they’d caught up with each other and boasted about how well they were each doing. After a long boozy meal peppered with good-natured teasing and reminiscing, Tommaso had insisted on giving Oliver a lift back to the hotel in his chauffeur-driven Bentley. It was late, and Oliver had planned on going straight to bed, but as he had sauntered past the dining room, he’d caught the eye of the handsome young waiter that he’d flirted with during dinner the night before. It wasn’t busy. Most of the diners had eaten and gone. A few couples were left, languishing over their desserts and coffees. Oliver had reached inside his linen jacket pocket and found what he was looking for. He’d subtly beckoned the youth over, whilst unscrewing the lid from his fountain pen. On the back of one of the embossed business cards he always carried, Oliver wrote down his room number and handed it over to the waiter who, in one fluid movement, discreetly hid it from view somewhere inside his figure-hugging uniform. Back up in his suite, Oliver had showered and then phoned for room service. A couple of bottles would suffice. The champagne was more for show, whilst the vodka was purely to help lower any inhibitions, and quickly. Patience was not one of Oliver’s virtues. The knock on his door had sounded soon after.

Oliver picked up the water glass and took a sip. He grimaced. The vodka and tonic had lost its fizz. Probably because it was pretty much neat vodka. Ah hell, why not? He should be celebrating. All his new pieces had sold last night. Oliver downed the contents of the glass in one swallow and turned his attention to the small pile of powder. He sniffed experimentally and sighed. Dried encrusted snot plugged both nostrils. They’d taken a lot of coke last night. Oliver sucked on his forefinger, then buried it in the powder. He opened his mouth and rubbed his finger along his gums. Almost immediately they turned numb. The dealer had promised Oliver it was high-grade stuff. Mind you, it had cost enough, but then again you only live once. Last night it hadn’t taken long for him to coax the young waiter out of his uniform. Oliver had rewarded the boy with a couple of small spoonsful of coke that he had held up under each nostril and instructed him to sniff. After pushing the completely naked youth back onto the bed, Oliver had sniffed his first line of the night after tapping out a fat white line of powder along the length of the boy’s engorged penis. Underneath the sheets, something similar was awake. The memory of last night’s antics was turning him on. Oliver reached down and gripped his hardening cock. With his other hand, he reached across the bed and shook the slumbering youth, who groaned and muttered something unintelligible into the pillow. Oliver chuckled and yanked the sheet down, exposing their naked bodies. The waiter was lying on his stomach. One of his arms rested by his side whilst the other was folded beneath his head. Oliver ran his hand down the boy’s tanned back, his fingers gliding over the hairless skin. A soft muffled moan of appreciation emanated from the pillow. Oliver shuffled further down and arranged himself so that he was kneeling between the boy’s feet at the bottom of the bed. Regarding the prostrate form in front of him, Oliver couldn’t bring to mind another more splendid sight. He grabbed the boy’s ankles and slowly parted his legs.

“When in Rome…” Oliver murmured aloud, before leaning forward and burying his tongue deep between the twin mounds of the young waiter’s pert buttocks.

* * * *

“Fuck!” cursed Oliver, slamming the door of the empty fridge closed. He turned and scowled as, across the kitchen, plumes of steam erupted from the spout of the kettle. After turning off the gas on the oven hob, Oliver pointedly ignored the cafetiere waiting on the countertop and the aroma of fresh coffee grounds in the air. He stalked from the room in search of his phone. In his bedroom, Oliver checked the pockets of the jacket he’d been wearing last night, then crouched down to rummage through the suitcase propped open on top of the chaise longue that languished under the bedroom window.

“I can’t see a bloody thing!” he snarled, and reached up to yank apart the heavy red velvet curtains. The brass rings jangled on the curtain pole. Oliver squinted as weak early-morning sunlight seeped through the wide chink in the curtain and washed over him as he hunkered down on the floor in his black silk dressing gown. He rifled through dirty clothes and pilfered hotel toiletries, but there was no sign of the phone. Oliver unzipped the inside pocket of the suitcase only to find an art brochure and a couple of his spare business cards inside. He ignored them and stood up.

“Where the fuck is it?” Oliver was loath to admit that he had no one to blame but himself. He lost his mobile phone on a routine basis, and much preferred telephones connected to a socket in the wall. At least you knew where they were. Still, it was all about appearances. Having the latest phone was as important as the car he drove and the suits that he wore. After all, the millennium was approaching, although it was still only 1994, so there were a few years to go yet. Oliver surveyed the room with impatience. His flight back from Italy had been delayed last night and the taxi had dropped him off outside his flat at one in the morning. He’d let himself in and stumbled into the bedroom already half asleep. He hadn’t even paused to clean his teeth. Why he’d woken up so early this morning was a mystery to him. Oliver moved around to stand in front of a large antique gilt-framed mirror fixed to the wall opposite the bed. Its height nearly matched the room, and the width was wide enough to reflect the many pleasurable acts that Oliver had performed on the king-sized bed along with countless willing participants. He had acquired it at auction in Lyon where the contents of a French chateau had been put up for sale. The mirror dated back to the mid-eighteenth century, and it always amused Oliver, whenever he regarded his reflection in it, just how many people before him had gazed at their own image, a momentary portrait, displayed on its flat surface. Although ostentatious in its design, and out of keeping with the other tasteful bedroom furniture, the mirror was Oliver’s one concession to his line of work and the bespoke pieces he sold. His eyes narrowed. Reflected behind him, poking out from the shadowy recesses under the bed, he spied something black and stubby. It was the short antenna that graced the top of his phone. Oliver turned and snatched up the phone in triumph.

“Found you!”

He pressed a button and the small screen lit up. After scrolling through the address book, Oliver selected a number and raised the phone to his ear. Turning back to the mirror, he smirked at his reflection, which responded in kind—the two of them sharing a private joke. The call connected and after a few rings it was answered.

“Hello?” said a confused-sounding voice, furred with sleep.

“Conrad, remind me why I employ you again?” asked Oliver, in a bright, conversational tone.

“I’m sorry, what? Mr Duke? Is that you? It’s seven in the morning. Has something happened?”

“Yes, Conrad. There’s no milk in my fridge for morning coffee and for some inexplicable reason, none of my freshly pressed shirts have been picked up from the dry cleaners and put back where they belong in my dressing room.”

For a long moment there was silence on the other end of the phone. “But it’s Sunday, my day off,” said Conrad, dully.

Oliver sighed and picked at a loose silk thread on the sleeve of his dressing gown.

“Conrad, if a pint of milk does not appear on my doorstep within the next thirty minutes, you will find that come Monday morning, every day henceforth will become a day off, as you will no longer have a job.”

He hung up before Conrad could reply and tossed the phone onto the bed. Oliver stepped closer to the mirror and loosened the dressing gown cord tied around his waist. The black silk fabric fell open and he appraised his tanned body with the same critical eye that he used when evaluating potential objects for show in his galleries. When naked with other men, Oliver was self-confident enough to assume that they would all think that he was younger than his actual age. Forty-nine might not sound old to some, but with the dreaded fifty-year milestone looming on the horizon, it made him look more closely for the inevitable cracks and signs of wear and tear that gleefully make their presence known. The mop of tousled brown curls that crowned his head could not be tamed. He’d given up trying to arrange it into any semblance of a hairstyle many years ago. Although unruly, he liked to imagine that his hair gave him a somewhat roguish quality. At least the few threads of grey that nested there weren’t too visible yet, unlike his chest hair, which he now shaved weekly to remove any trace of the whitish grey thicket that kept sprouting at an alarming pace. Still, he was trim, and possessed a tall athletic frame. Oliver ignored the slight paunch of his stomach, which was the result of too much fine dining whilst entertaining clients, and leaned in to stare into his own eyes. Glacial was a word a few people had used to describe them. Oliver took that as a compliment. His piercing blue eyes were, to him, his most striking feature, which he always used to his advantage. He stepped back and removed his dressing gown. Turning sideways, he admired the curve of his muscular buttocks and the way his thick penis hung down over his balls. Oliver smiled at the recollection of waking the previous morning in bed with the young waiter. His cock twitched in response, always eager to play. Automatically, he reached down to stroke it but stopped short. Now was not the time. He needed a shower. Reluctantly, he turned away from the mirror and sauntered off towards his en suite bathroom.