I togged up in one of the Doveston’s suits. During my few brief months of being very rich I’d managed to put on considerable weight. My own suits no longer fitted. The Doveston’s did.

I chose a white Annani number, Thai silk with a Gaia-logopatterned lining. A Hawaian shirt and a pair of open-toed sandals completed the dashing ensemble. I grinned at myself in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You are one handsome son of a bitch,’ I said.

At half past seven of the evening clock, there came a rapping at my chamber door.

‘Come,’ I called, striking a dignified pose.

The chamber door opened and in came Norman.

‘Holy shit!’ I said.

Norman did a little twirl. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

I didn’t know quite what to think. Norman’s suit was simply stunning. It fitted in all the right places, but it did much more than this. It made Norman seem at least six inches taller, broader at the shoulders and a good deal slimmer at the waist. The suit was of blue, or it seemed to be blue; at certain angles it wasn’t. At certain angles it came and it went and sometimes parts of it weren’t there at all.

But stunning as it was (and it was), there was something about it I just didn’t like. Something about it that frankly upset me. Something about it I actively hated.

Norman must have seen the look upon my face. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ll turn it down a bit.’ He pulled something resembling a TV remote control from his pocket and pressed a button or two. ‘Like it a bit better now?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘I do.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to get around that particular problem,’ said Norman. ‘The suit is designed to make me irresistible to women. But the trouble is that it has the reverse effect on men. It makes me seem utterly obnoxious.’

‘But it’s an incredible suit, though. It makes you look taller and slimmer and broader at the shoulders. How does it do that?’

‘Taller...’ Norman lifted a trouser bottom to expose a platform shoe. ‘Broader is the shoulder pads and as to slimmer, I just painted my belly and arse out with invisible paint.’

‘It’s all so simple when it’s explained. So how do I look?’

‘Well... um... er... we’d better be going downstairs now. The guests will soon be arriving.’

‘You look a prat in that trilby,’ I said.

The staff were already lined up in the great hall to greet the guests. I inspected the staff, saying things like, ‘You look very smart,’ and ‘Do up that button,’ and ‘Stand up straight,’ and things like that.

The staff responded with polite smiles and whispered words behind the hands. I’ve no idea what these words were, but I’m sure that they were all complimentary.

Now, one of the major problems with holding a big celebrity bash is how to get the celebrities inside. Allow me to explain. You see, no real celebrity wants to be the first to arrive. It’s not fitting to their status. It isn’t cool. It makes them seem over—eager. It’s just not done.

For many years this problem seemed insurmountable. At some really big celebrity bashes, no-one actually came inside the party at all. The celebs just sat about in the car park in their chaffeur-driven cars, patiently waiting for someone else to go in first. And eventually, when morning came, they went home.

This led, inevitably, to some ingenious host coming up with the idea of employing specially trained actors and actresses to play the parts of first guests. They would arrive right on time, climb from their limos, wave to the crowds and go in, thus encouraging the skulking celebs to do likewise.

It was a brilliant idea.

The trouble was that some of these specially trained actors and actresses began to become so famous for always being first at parties that they started getting all stuck up and saying that other actors and actresses should be employed to go in before them. And this was done and then the next bunch began demanding the same thing and so on and so forth and suchlike.

The result being that at some celebrity bashes there were no real celebrities at all, just bogus celebrities employed to arrive first and others employed to arrive before them, et cetera.

And if you’ve ever watched any of those big awards ceremonies on the TV, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

To avoid any such problems arising at his bash, the Doveston had engaged the services of a certain Colin Delaney Hughes.

Colin was a famous criminal and, as everybody knows, celebrities just love criminals. They love to be in the company of criminals. They love to wine and dine and dance at their nightclubs. Holiday with them at their Spanish villas and island retreats. Get involved in scandals with them when they need publicity to promote their latest movie or album.

Celebrities love criminals.

And criminals love celebrities.

So it all works out rather well.

Colin was retired now, but had been a particularly violent and merciless criminal in his day. Sawing people’s faces off, gunning down the innocent, running drugs and generally getting up to mischief As such, his autobiography had been eagerly snapped up by publishers and had become an international bestseller.

It had taken a big wodge of the folding stuff and two kilos of heroin to secure Colin’s services as first arriving guest. But being the professional he was, he turned up sharp on the dot of eight, an Essex babe on either arm and a great big smile on his face.

I greeted him warmly and shook him by the hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ I said.

And then I introduced him to Norman.

‘Who d’you think you’re looking at, you bastard?’ said Colin.

And after Colin, in they came. The coaches pulled up outside the door and a steady stream of top-notch celebs filtered in, smiling and waving and loveying about and generally behaving as if they owned the place.

‘What a pack of wankers,’ I said to Norman.

‘Bollocks,’ the shopkeeper replied. ‘You’ve buddied up with enough famous folk over the years. You’re just bitter because this isn’t really your party and you’re afraid someone’s going to murder you.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ I said.

‘I rarely am. Here, look, there’s Big-horny-beaver.’

‘Who?’

‘Sigourney Weaver. Watch while I go over and chat her up.’

Norman tottered off into the crowd. I shook more hands and offered more greetings.

There was an interesting pattern to the arrivals. Each giggling gaggle of the glittering glamorous would be followed by its negative counterpart. Grim-faced evening-suited company-chairman types, with well-dressed worn-down women on their arms. Among these, I felt, were the folk I had to fear.

I had already shaken hands with old silly-bollocks and what’s-his-face, the other one. And the two fellows from the Colombian drugs cartel. The bald-headed woman who usually wore the wig had yet to arrive. As had the bloke who runs all those companies.

And if I just say the word jumpers’ to you, you’ll know the one I mean.

The great hall was filling up nicely now and everyone was rabbiting away. The catering staff were taking care of business: offering around bowls of snuff, trays of those canapé things that I’ll never understand, drinks and more drinks and more drinks.

It occurred to me that no-one so far had thought to bring a bottle.

‘I’ve brought a bottle,’ said someone.

I glanced up to meet the golden smile of Professor Merlin.

‘Professor,’ I said. ‘You look wonderful.’

And he did look wonderful. He hadn’t aged by a day.

He cut a most fantastic figure. Powdered face and purple periwig; diamond ear-studs in his lobes and pearls upon the tips of his waxed moustachios. A velvet frock-coat in a whiter shade of pale. Silken trews and buckled shoes. His slender fingers weighed heavily with wonderful rings and his turquoise eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Hello, young Edwin,’ he said.