'That's right,' Lisa said, with a darkness that puzzled him. 'And I could save myself 1.10 each way.'

'Is that how much? I wouldn't know because I'm usually in the car myself...'

'Which is 2.20 a day.'

'I suppose it must be...'

'11 a week. Taken over the course of a lifetime, it comes to quite a lot.' At Jack struggling to maintain an expression of polite interest, Lisa broke through to lightness. Laughing, she told him about her experience with stingy Joanne. Then she told him about the other terrible places she'd viewed. About the man in Lansdown Park who had given his pet snake the freedom of the living-room, the house in Ballsbridge so untidy it looked as if it had just been burgled.

'Well, you can move in here straight away,' Jack offered.

He stood up and began the awkward jingling of change in his pockets that Lisa recognized of old. It was what men did as they tried to pluck up the courage to ask her out for a drink. She could see the struggle in his eyes and his body was coiled as if he was about to launch into something.

Get on with it, she urged silently.

Then his eyes cleared and all tension seemed to fall away. 'I'll drop you back to your hotel now,' he said.

Lisa understood. She sensed that he was attracted to her and she also sensed his reservations. Not only did they work together, but he was involved with someone else. No matter. She'd work her mojo on him and overcome his objections. She'd enjoy it making Jack fall for her would take her mind off all her grief.

'Thank you for finding me somewhere to live.' She smiled sweetly at Jack.

'It's a pleasure,' Jack replied. 'And don't hesitate to ask for whatever you need. I'll do everything I can to make your move to Ireland easier.'

'Thanks.' She flicked him another flirty little smile.

'You're far too busy and too important to Colleen Colleen to waste your time viewing flats.' to waste your time viewing flats.'

Oh.

Curled on a chair, Lisa lit a fag and stared out of the hotel window on to Harcourt Street. She was bothered by mild guilt. So mild it was barely there, but the fact that it existed at all was worthy of comment. It was that bloody Ashling. She'd been so pathetically surprised when Lisa had nicked her idea.

Well, tough, that's the way it goes. That's why Lisa was an editor and Ashling a dogsbody. And Lisa had been terrified, absolutely craven when Jack had told her the advertising situation. Fear always made her treacherous and ruthless.

At the moment the initial bowel-clenching terror had somewhat abated. Her brand of pushy optimism meant she was encapsulated in a bubble of hope where it seemed reasonably possible to generate all the advertising that was needed. Nevertheless, the fact was that Lisa's ass was the one on the line. If the magazine bombed, Ashling's life wasn't over and Lisa's was, simple as that. OK, everyone thought she was a bitch, but they had no conception of the pressure she was under.

With a long sigh, Lisa exhaled a plume of smoke the memory of Ashling's shocked face needled her, made her feel mildly shitty.

She'd always been able to control her emotions before. It had been easy to subjugate them to the greater good, that of the job. She'd better regain her grip.

16.

Daily, invitations to press launches arrived in the post everything from new lines in eye-shadow to openings of shops and Lisa and Mercedes ruthlessly shared them out between them. Lisa, as editor, got first refusal. But Mercedes, as fashion and beauty editor, had to be allowed to go to a good few too. Ashling, Cinderella-like, stayed behind to mind the shop and Trix was way too far down the feeding chain ever to stand a chance of going.

'What happens at a publicity do?' Trix asked Lisa.

'You stand around with a bunch of other journalists and a few celebrities,' Lisa said. 'You talk to anyone important, you listen to the presentation.'

'Tell me about this one you're going to today.'

A shop called Morocco was opening its first Irish branch. Lisa couldn't have cared less, it had been open for years in London, but the Irish franchise holder was treating it as a big deal. Tara Palmer Tompkinson was flying over from London for the launch, which was being held in the Royalton-inspired splendour of the Fitzwilliam hotel.

'Will they have food?' Trix asked.

'There's usually something. Canapes. Champagne.'

In fact, Lisa dearly hoped there would be food because she'd started a new eating plan instead of the Seven Dwarves diet she'd moved on to the Publicity diet. She could eat and drink what she liked, but only at publicity events but only at publicity events. Lisa knew the importance of being thin, but she refused to be a traditional diet slave. Instead she incorporated unusual limitations and rewards into her relationship with food, always keeping the challenge fresh and interesting.

'Champagne!' Excitement made Trix Don-Corleone-hoarse.

'That's if they're not a low-rent outfit, and if they are they don't get a plug in the mag. Then you get your goody bag and leave.'

'A goody goody bag!' Trix lit up at the mention of something free. Something that she didn't have to go to the trouble of stealing. 'What kind of goody bag?' bag!' Trix lit up at the mention of something free. Something that she didn't have to go to the trouble of stealing. 'What kind of goody bag?'

'Depends.' Lisa pouted jadedly. 'With a cosmetic company you usually get a selection of the new season's make-up.'

Trix squeaked with delight.

'With a shop like this, perhaps a bag '

'A bag!' She hadn't had a free bag in years years, not since they'd started electronically tagging them.

'Or a top.'

'Oh my God!' Trix jigged in excitement. 'You're so lucky!'

After a long, thoughtful pause, Trix suggested over-innocently, 'You know, you should really take Ashling along with you.' The pecking order was such that there was no chance Trix would ever be allowed to go until Ashling was. 'She's your deputy editor. She should know what the drill is if you ever get sick.'

'But...' Mercedes' smooth olive face was anxious at the suggestion of someone else muscling in on such sacred ground. There were only so many free lipsticks to go round.

Mercedes' palpable alarm coupled with the residue of guilt around Ashling made Lisa's decision easy. 'Good idea, Trix. OK, Ashling, you can ride shotgun with me this afternoon. That is,' she added disingenuously, 'if you'd like to come.'

Ashling had always been bad at holding a grudge. Especially when there was free stuff involved. 'Would I like to come?' She disappointed herself by exclaiming, 'I'd love love to come.' to come.'

Lisa had lunch at the Clarence with a bestselling author whom she was trying to persuade to write a regular column. It was a success. Not only did the woman agree to do the column for a knock-down fee in exchange for regular plugs for her books, but Lisa escaped the lunch almost unscathed. Despite swirling her food energetically around her plate, all she ate was half a cherry tomato and a forkful of corn-fed chicken.

She returned to work triumphant and was trawling through her mail when Ashling showed up beside her desk, with her bag and jacket.

'Lisa,' Ashling said anxiously. 'It's two-thirty and the invite is for three. Should we go?'

Lisa laughed in sardonic surprise. 'Rule number one never be on time. Everyone knows that! You're too important.'

'Am I?'

'Pretend.' Lisa returned to her pile of press releases. But after a while she found herself looking up and saw that Ashling's avid eyes were fastened on her.

'For crying out loud!' Lisa exclaimed, bitterly regretting ever inviting Ashling.

'Sorry. I'm just afraid everything will be gone.'

'What everything?'

'The canapes, the goody bags.'

'I'm not leaving until three, and don't ask me again.'

At three-fifteen, Lisa reached under her desk for her Miu Miu tote, and said to a quivering Ashling, 'Come on, then!'

The taxi journey through the traffic-thronged streets took so long that even Lisa began to worry that all the canapes and goody bags would be gone.

'What now?' she demanded irritably, as a policeman thrust his meaty paw at them, indicating that they should stop.

'Ducks,' the driver said shortly.

As Lisa wondered if 'ducks' was a Dublin swearword along the lines of 'feck', Ashling exclaimed, 'Oh, look, ducks!'

You what! Lisa wondered, then before her startled eyes a mother duck strutted across the road, trailing six ducklings in a line behind her. Two policemen were holding up both directions of traffic to guarantee a safe passage to the duck family. She could hardly believe it! Lisa wondered, then before her startled eyes a mother duck strutted across the road, trailing six ducklings in a line behind her. Two policemen were holding up both directions of traffic to guarantee a safe passage to the duck family. She could hardly believe it!

'Happens every year.' Ashling's eyes were alight. 'The ducks hatch on the canal, then when they're big enough, they come down to the lake on Stephen's Green.'

'Hundreds of them. Shags up the traffic entirely. Annoy the shite outta you,' the taxi-driver said fondly.

This fucking city... Lisa sighed.

As Lisa and Ashling alighted outside the Fitzwilliam hotel, the day was chilly and blustery, the mini-heatwave of the previous week but a distant memory.

'One leg-wax doesn't make a summer,' Ashling thought sadly, back to wearing trousers again after a long summer skirt had enjoyed a too-brief airing the day before. Then she forgot the weather and ecstatically elbowed Lisa. 'Look! It's your woman, what's-her-name? Tara Palmtree Yokiemedoodle.'

And indeed it was was Tara Palmtree Yokiemedoodle, parading up and down on the pavement outside the hotel, surrounded by a throng of frantically clicking photographers. Tara Palmtree Yokiemedoodle, parading up and down on the pavement outside the hotel, surrounded by a throng of frantically clicking photographers.

'Givvus a bit of leg there, good girl, Tara,' they urged.

Ashling headed for the road, to walk around the ring of photographers, but Lisa marched determinedly into the thick of them.

'Oi, who's she?' Ashling heard.

Then Lisa gushed, 'Taaaaraaaaa, darling, long time no see,' wrestled Tara into a reluctant air-snog, then swivelled them both to face the cameras. The photographers froze from their incessant clicking, then took in the golden, caramel-haired woman, cheek-to-cheek with Tara, and commenced their clicking with renewed fervour.

'Lisa Edwards, editor-in-chief, Colleen Colleen magazine,' Lisa moved amongst the photographers, informing them. 'Lisa Edwards. Lisa Edwards. I'm an old friend of Tara's.' magazine,' Lisa moved amongst the photographers, informing them. 'Lisa Edwards. Lisa Edwards. I'm an old friend of Tara's.'

'How do you know Tara Palmtree?' Ashling asked, in awe, when Lisa returned to her on the sidelines, where she'd been completely ignored by the photographers.

'I don't.' Lisa surprised her with a grin. 'But rule number two never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.'

Lisa swept into the hotel, Ashling trotting behind her. Two handsome young men came forward, greeted them and relieved Ashling of her jacket. But Lisa airily refused to relinquish hers.

'May I remind you of rule number three,' Lisa muttered tetchily, en route en route to the reception room. 'We to the reception room. 'We never never leave our jacket. You want to give the impression that you're very busy, just popping in for a few minutes, that you've a far more interesting life going on out there.' leave our jacket. You want to give the impression that you're very busy, just popping in for a few minutes, that you've a far more interesting life going on out there.'

'Sorry,' Ashling said humbly. 'I didn't realize.'

Into the party room where a see-through-skinny woman dressed head-to-toe in Morocco's Summer collection established who they were and made them sign a visitors' book.

Lisa scribbled a perfunctory few words, then handed the pen to Ashling who beamed with delight.

'Me too?' she squeaked.

Lisa pursed her lips and shook her head in warning. Calm down! Calm down!

'Sorry,' Ashling whispered, but couldn't help taking great care as she wrote neatly, 'Ashling Kennedy, Assistant Editor, Colleen Colleen magazine.' magazine.'

Lisa ran a French-manicured nail down the list of names. 'Rule number four, as you know,' she advised, 'look at the book. See who's here.'

'So we know who to meet.' Ashling understood.

Lisa looked at her as if she was mad. 'No! So we know who to avoid!'

'And who should we avoid?'

With contempt, Lisa surveyed the room, full of liggers from rival magazines. 'Just about everyone.'

But Ashling should know all this and it had just become clear to Lisa that she hadn't even a grasp of the basics. In high alarm, she whispered, 'Don't tell me you've never been to a publicity bash before? What about when you were with Woman's Place?' Woman's Place?'

'We didn't get many invites,' Ashling apologized. 'Certainly nothing as glamorous as this. I suppose our readership was too old. And when we did did get invited to the launch of a new colostomy bag or sheltered-housing project or whatever, Sally Healy was nearly always the one who got to go.' get invited to the launch of a new colostomy bag or sheltered-housing project or whatever, Sally Healy was nearly always the one who got to go.'

What Ashling didn't add was that Sally Healy was a round, mumsy type, who was friendly to everyone. She had none of Lisa's hard, lacquered rivalry or strange, aggressive rules.

'See him over there ' Awestruck, Ashling indicated a tall, Ken-doll-type man. 'He's Marty Hunter, a television presenter.'

'Deja vu,' Lisa snorted. 'He was at the Bailey's bash yesterday and the MaxMara one on Monday.' vu,' Lisa snorted. 'He was at the Bailey's bash yesterday and the MaxMara one on Monday.'

This plunged Ashling into a distressed silence. She'd had high hopes for this do. She'd wanted to shepherd and mind Lisa and prove to her that she needed her. And she'd anticipated that she'd win some much-coveted respect from Lisa by her indispensable insider knowledge on famous Irish people knowledge that Lisa, as an English woman, couldn't possibly hope to possess. But Lisa was miles ahead of her, already had a handle on the celebrity situation and seemed irritated by Ashling's amateurish attempts to help.

A roaming waitress stopped and thrust a tray at them. The food was Moroccan-themed: couscous, Merguez sausages, lamb canapes. The drink, surprisingly, was vodka. Not very Moroccan, but Lisa didn't care. She ate what she could, but couldn't go berserk, because she was constantly talking to people, Ashling trailing in her wake. Energetically, charmingly, Lisa worked the room like a pro although it delivered few surprises.

'Same old, same old,' she sighed to Ashling. 'The Irish Liggerati most of these sad losers would show up at the opening of a can of beans. Which brings me smoothly to rule five: use the fact that you still have your jacket as an excuse to escape. When someone becomes that soupcon too too boring, you can say you have to go to the cloakroom.' boring, you can say you have to go to the cloakroom.'

Wandering around the room were a few doe-eyed models, their unformed, unripe bodies dressed by Morocco. Now and again a PR girl shunted one of them in front of Ashling and Lisa, who were expected to ooh and aah about the clothes. Ashling, hot with embarrassment, did her best, but Lisa barely looked.

'It could be worse,' she confided, after another adolescent jerked and twisted in front of them, then departed. 'At least it's not swimwear. That happened at a sit-down dinner in London trying to eat my meal while six girls stuck their bums and boobs into my plate. Ugh.'

Then she told Ashling what Ashling was beginning to realize anyway. 'Rule number what are we up to now? six? there's no such thing as a free anything. Come to something like this and you have to endure the hard sell. Oh no, there's that creepy bloke from the Sunday Times Sunday Times, let's move over here.'