She'd been working at Chic Chic, and Oliver was a fashion photographer. On the Way Up. He'd bounce gracefully into the office, his little dreads flying, usually carrying an enormous kit-bag, his bulging shoulder dwarfing it. Even when he was late for an appointment with the editor in fact, especially when he'd always stop for a chat with Lisa.

'How was New York?' she asked, in one conversation.

'Rubbish. I hate it.'

'Oh, really?' Everyone else seemed to love it, but Oliver never bought into the received wisdom.

'And did you photo any supermodels while you were there?'

'Oh, yes. Lots.'

'Yeah? Dish the dirt then, what's Naomi like?'

'Great sense of humour.'

'And Kate?'

'Oh, Kate is very special.'

Though Lisa was disappointed that he didn't share insider stories of tantrums and heroin taking, the fact that he was impressed by no one impressed her very much.

Even before you saw him, you always knew when he was in the office. He was perpetually surrounded by commotion complaining that they'd screwed up his expenses, protesting that they'd printed his beloved shots on too-cheap paper, arguing and laughing energetically. His voice was deep and would have been chocolatey-seductive, except he was too vibrant. When he laughed in public, people always turned to look. If they weren't already looking, that is. The beauty of his big hard body coupled so incongruously with his rippling grace was bamboozling. When he used to come into the office, Lisa would study him discreetly. 'Black' was the wrong word, she used to think. It was far more complex and subtle than that. Everything gleamed gleamed his skin, his teeth, his hair. Not to mention sweat on the editor's brow. What sort of fuss was he going to kick up today? his skin, his teeth, his hair. Not to mention sweat on the editor's brow. What sort of fuss was he going to kick up today?

Though he was still making a name for himself, he was honest, opinionated and difficult. He never crawled to anyone and when people pissed him off he let them know. It was this confidence, as much as his beauty, that made Lisa decide she wanted him. That his star was very much in the ascendant didn't hurt either, of course.

Since she'd first started going out with boys, Lisa had always dated strategically. She just wasn't the type of girl who went out with an insurance clerk. Not that it ever felt quite that cold-blooded. She never made herself go out with a well-connected man whom she didn't like whom she didn't like. Hardly ever, anyway. But she had to admit there were men whom she'd fancied that she knew she'd never take seriously: a charmingly grave court clerk by the name of Frederick; Dave, the sweetest sweetest plumber; and the most unsuitable of all a sparky petty criminal called Baz. (At least that was the name he told Lisa, but there was no guarantee it was his real one.) plumber; and the most unsuitable of all a sparky petty criminal called Baz. (At least that was the name he told Lisa, but there was no guarantee it was his real one.) Occasionally she allowed herself a little treat, and had a quick fling with one of these gorgeous no-hopers, but never made the mistake of thinking there was any future in them. They were human Milky Ways the man you can eat between meals without ruining your appetite.

Her real real relationships were with a different calibre of men. A dynamic magazine executive it was this romance which led to her getting her first job on relationships were with a different calibre of men. A dynamic magazine executive it was this romance which led to her getting her first job on Sweet Sixteen Sweet Sixteen. An Angry Young Man novelist, who ditched her rather nastily, and whose novels she subsequently ensured got vitriolic reviews (which made him even angrier than he already was). A controversial music journalist, whom she was mad about until he discovered acid jazz and grew a goatee.

Oliver straddled the two categories of men. He was beautiful enough to belong in the first, but talented and stylish enough to hold his own in the second.

With every visit that Oliver made to Chic Chic, the connection with Lisa intensified. She knew he liked and respected her, that their attraction was much, much more than physical. In those far-off days, not everyone she worked with hated her, but the more she became Oliver's favourite, the more she became Most Loathed Colleague.

Especially after she began doing special favours for him. When she tracked down four missing transparencies, Oliver had good-humouredly blasted the rest of Chic Chic. 'Listen up, you lot of useless tossers, this lady here is a genius. Why can't the rest of you be like her?'

At that, a disgusted glance shot around the office like an electric current. Lisa may well have found the missing transparencies, but she'd done bugger all else for the previous two days.

Lisa had been vaguely aware that Oliver had had a girlfriend, but it came as no surprise when the news broke that he was once again single. She knew she was next in line. Though they flirted like mad with each other, they were never coy. Their solidarity was so obvious, it would have been disingenuous to deny it.

So obvious was it that Flicka Dupont (assistant features editor), Edwina Harris (fashion junior) and Marina Booth (health and beauty editor) hatched a plot to cut her out of her share of a basket of free John Frieda shampoos, on the basis that she was getting enough perks.

The expected day finally dawned when Oliver showed up at Chic Chic, made straight for Lisa and said, 'Babes, can I take you for a drink on Friday night?'

She hesitated, about to play hard to get, then thought better of it. With a shaky laugh she exhaled, 'OK.'

'You were going to make me suffer, weren't you?' he exclaimed.

'Uh-huh,' she nodded solemnly.

They both screamed with laughter so loud that, three desks away, Flicka Dupont muttered, 'Please!' and had to twiddle her finger in her ear to dislodge the ringing.

Flicka later sniffed to Edwina, 'I don't envy her.'

'Gosh, neither do I!'

'He's a loose cannon.'

'A pain in the bum,' Edwina agreed.

They plunged into silence.

'I'd quite like to have sex with him though,' Flicka eventually admitted.

'Would you really?' Edwina had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer.

On the appointed Friday night, Oliver and Lisa went for a drink. Then he took her for dinner, where they had such fun that afterwards they went to a club and danced for hours. At three a.m. they went to his flat and had breathless, long-awaited sex, before snatching a few hours' sleep. The following morning they awoke in each other's arms. They spent the rest of the day in bed, talking, dozing and intermittently savaging each other with passion.

That evening, sated, they voluptuously rose from their lovers' nest and Oliver took Lisa to a fairly crappy French restaurant, its only virtue that it was walking distance. Lit by red candles stuck in wine bottles, they fed each other tasteless mussels and tough coq au vin.

'It's the most delicious food I've ever tasted.' Lisa licked her fingers and gazed across the table at him.

On the way home, they got swept up into an Armenian wedding that was being held in the local church hall. 'Come, come,' an expansive man invited, as they drifted past. 'Celebrate my son's happiness.'

'But...' Lisa protested. This was no way for a style warrior such as herself to spend Saturday night! What if someone she knew saw her?

But Oliver said easily, 'Why not? Come on, Lees, might be fun.'

Drinks were pressed into their hands, and they sat in a bubble of dream-like ease as all around, young and old in embroidered, flouncy peasant clothes, danced strange polka-like jigs to shrill, speedy bazouki-style music. An old woman with a headscarf and a thick accent pinched Lisa's cheek affectionately, smiled from Oliver to her and said, 'In laff. So in laff.'

'Does she mean I am or you are?' Lisa asked anxiously, belatedly realizing that she might be wearing her heart on her sleeve too much.

'You, lady.' The old woman gave a gappy smile.

'Naff off,' Lisa muttered.

Instantly Oliver exploded into laughter, his beautiful lips stretched around his rows of strong, white teeth. 'Touchy!' he teased. 'Must be because you do do love me.' love me.'

'Or maybe you love me,' she replied huffily.

'I never said I didn't,' he replied.

And though it wasn't the kind of thing she normally went around feeling, there, in the unexpectedness of that surreal, beautiful wedding party, Lisa felt as though they'd been touched by the hand of God.

On Sunday morning, they'd awoken coiled around each other. Oliver bundled her into his car and belted up the motorway to Alton Towers, where they spent the day daring each other to go on ever more dangerous roller coasters. Even though she was terrified, she went on the Nemesis ride because she didn't want to show fear with him. And when she went a bit green and staggery he laughed and said, 'Too much for you, babes?' To which she replied that she had an inner-ear disorder. Oliver challenged and interested her more than any man had ever done. He was like herself, only more so.

Then they went home for pizza and bed. Their first date lasted sixty hours and ended when he dropped her off at work on the Monday morning.

By their third excursion they were officially in love.

On their fourth, Oliver decided to take her down to Purley to meet his mum and dad. Lisa thought it was a fantastically good sign, but, as it happened, it was almost the undoing of them. The unravelling began when they'd been in the car about half an hour and Oliver remarked, 'I'm not sure Dad will be home from work yet.'

'What does he do?' Lisa had never thought to ask before, it hadn't seemed important.

'He's a doctor.'

A doctor! ' What kind of doctor?' ' What kind of doctor?' A doctor of road-hygiene in other words, a street sweeper? A doctor of road-hygiene in other words, a street sweeper?

'Just a GP.'

The shock rendered her speechless. Here, she'd been affectionately thinking of Oliver as a bit of rough, and it turned out that he'd been middle-class all along and she'd she'd been the bit of rough. There was no way now that she could take him to meet her parents. been the bit of rough. There was no way now that she could take him to meet her parents.

For the rest of the drive, she hoped and prayed that, despite the dad being a doctor, they might be poor. But when Oliver drove up to a big, square house, the fake-Tudor lead-paned windows, the Laura Ashley Austrian blinds and the plethora of knick-knacks on the visible window-sills declared that they weren't exactly strapped for cash.

Before they'd set off, she'd expected Oliver's mum to be a big-thighed, good-natured woman in Minnie Mouse shoes who drank Red Stripe at breakfast and laughed in a high-pitched, 'Heee! Heee! Heee!' Instead, as she answered the door, she looked like the queen. A few shades darker, but with the helmet curls and Marks & Spencer's prim duds, all present and correct.

'Pleased to meet you, dear.' The accent was pure Home Counties and Lisa felt her self-esteem wither even further.

'Hello, Mrs Livingstone.'

'Call me Rita. Do come through. Daddy's late at the surgery, but he should be here soon.'

They were led into the well-appointed sitting-room and when Lisa saw that the soft furnishings had had their plastic covering removed, it was the final blow.

'Tea?' Rita suggested brightly, stroking the golden labrador which had laid his head in her lap. 'Lapsang Suchong or Earl Grey?'

'Don't mind,' Lisa muttered. What was wrong with PG Tips?

'This wasn't what I'd expected,' Lisa couldn't stop herself from whispering when she and Oliver were alone.

'What did did you expect? Dat we be eatin' rice'n'peas, drinkin' rum,' Oliver slipped into a perfect Caribbean accent, 'an' dancin' to steel drums on de porch?' you expect? Dat we be eatin' rice'n'peas, drinkin' rum,' Oliver slipped into a perfect Caribbean accent, 'an' dancin' to steel drums on de porch?'

Exactly! It's the only reason I came.

'I don't think so, my dear.' He changed swiftly to BBC wartime speak. 'For we are Brrrritish!'

'The correct name for us, so I'm told,' Rita had reappeared with a tray containing a plate of unsweet, no-fun, handmade biscuits, 'is "Bounties". Or "Choc-ices".'

'Wh why?' Lisa was confused.

'Brown on the outside, white on the inside.' She flashed a sudden, melon grin. 'That's what my family call us. And you can't win because the white neighbours hate us too! Next-door told me that the value of their house went down by ten grand when we moved in.'

Unexpectedly, totally at odds with her M&S appearance, she gave a high-pitched laugh. 'Heee! Heee! Heee!' And Lisa felt the chip on her shoulder dissolve like the sugar she didn't take in her tea. Well, so long as the neighbours hated them, that was all right then, wasn't it? They weren't half as scary now.

On their fifth date Oliver and Lisa talked about moving in together. They explored the notion further on the sixth. Their seventh date consisted of driving a van from Battersea to West Hampstead and back again, as they ferried Lisa's considerable wardrobe from her flat to his. 'You're going to have to lose some of this kit, babes,' he said in alarm. 'Or else we're going to have to buy a bigger place.'

Perhaps, Lisa subsequently realized, even then there were signs that all was not as it should have been. But, at the time, she was blind to them. Nothing had ever felt so right. She felt that he truly saw and accepted her, with all her ambition, energy, vision and fear. She reckoned they were two of a kind. Young, keen, ambitious, succeeding against the odds.

Around then, the concept of a soul-mate was a very fashionable one, recently imported from LA. Lisa was now the proud possessor of one.

Shortly after they got together, Lisa moved to Femme Femme as deputy editor. This coincided with Oliver becoming a red-hot property. Even though he wasn't always popular on a personal level some people found him just that little bit as deputy editor. This coincided with Oliver becoming a red-hot property. Even though he wasn't always popular on a personal level some people found him just that little bit too too difficult all the glossies were suddenly scrambling and competing against each other to use him. Oliver shared himself out equally between them all, until Lily Headly-Smythe promised to use one of his photos for the Christmas cover of difficult all the glossies were suddenly scrambling and competing against each other to use him. Oliver shared himself out equally between them all, until Lily Headly-Smythe promised to use one of his photos for the Christmas cover of Panache Panache, then changed her mind.

'She broke her word. I'll never work for Panache Panache or Lily Headly-Smythe again,' Oliver declared. or Lily Headly-Smythe again,' Oliver declared.

'Until next time,' Lisa laughed.

'No.' His face was serious. 'Never.'

And he didn't, not even when Lily sent him an Irish Wolf-hound pup by way of an apology. Lisa was full of admiration. He was so strong-willed, so idealistic.

But that was before his intractability was turned on her. She didn't like it so much then.

21.

Ashling wasn't having such a fantastic Sunday either.

She'd woken up bubbling with anticipation concerning Marcus Valentine. Curious and expectant, she felt gloriously ready for a date, a bout of flirting, a dose of flattery. Very definitely something something...

The morning was spent mooning around, encapsulated in warmth, her positive faculties on full alert. But as the day faded without a phone call, her inner smile curdled into irritability. To pass the time and expend excess energy she did a bit of cleaning.

Not that Marcus had said when when he'd ring. Her disenchantment wasn't so much rejection as the feeling of missing a good opportunity. Because even though she couldn't say for sure that she fancied him, she suspected that she might. Certainly, she was willing to give it her best shot. Emotionally, she was all dressed up with nowhere to go and it wasn't nice. he'd ring. Her disenchantment wasn't so much rejection as the feeling of missing a good opportunity. Because even though she couldn't say for sure that she fancied him, she suspected that she might. Certainly, she was willing to give it her best shot. Emotionally, she was all dressed up with nowhere to go and it wasn't nice.

Look at me, she thought, scrubbing the bath with frustrated force. I've been here before. Waiting for a man to ring I've been here before. Waiting for a man to ring. Too late, she realized how much she'd enjoyed that brief pocket where she was no longer cut-up about one man and before she'd become hung-up on another. Serves me right for being shallow enough to fall for a man-on-a-stage Serves me right for being shallow enough to fall for a man-on-a-stage.

How she regretted not having bellez'ed him when she'd had her chance. And it was too late now because she couldn't find the note. She had no memory of actually throwing it out she'd have remembered because she would have thought she was being cruel. But a rummage through pockets and bedside drawers yielded nothing, except guilt-triggering receipts and a flyer for a computer sale.

Back to the cleaning. But after wiping out the inside of the microwave, she needed a boost, so decided to try to get a sneak preview of her future. Her angel divination cards didn't promise anything, so to hurry along Marcus's call, Ashling rather sheepishly unearthed her Wish Kit. Which hadn't seen the light of day since the last days of Phelim. She was aware that this did not bode well.

The kit consisted of six candles, each emblazoned with a word Love, Friendship, Luck, Money, Peace and Success and six corresponding boxes of matches. The Friendship, Money and Success candles hadn't even had their wicks lit, the Peace and Luck candles were burnt down slightly, but it was the Love candle that had seen the most action. It was the black fruit-gum of the packet. Reverentially, with the last Love match, Ashling lit the candle, which burned away merrily for about ten minutes until it ran out of wax, then flickered and died.

Ah, shite, Ashling thought, that better not be a Sign that better not be a Sign.

Early evening Ted showed up, suffering from the trough that comes after a great high. Despite having met lots of girls, he wasn't taken with any of them.

'What about that fantastic one you were talking to when I left? Did you sleep with her?'

'No.'

'Ted! You can't say that. Even if you didn't ride her, you have to say you did to protect her honour.'

But Ted wasn't amused. 'She said I smelt funny. Like her granny.'

'Can't people be very mad?'