'No, actually.' Ted was annoyed. 'She was right. I did did smell like her granny.' smell like her granny.'

As Ashling wondered aloud how Ted knew what the girl's granny smelt like, Ted overrode her accusingly. 'And do you know what I reckon it was?'

'What?'

'That fecking gear you rubbed on me before we went out.'

'Oh, the lavender oil.' Sometimes Ashling felt horribly unappreciated.

'That's a granny smell, isn't it?' Ted wouldn't let it go.

'I thought stale urine was more customary.' Feeling hard-done-by made Ashling uncharacteristically sharp.

'Ah, she wasn't right for me anyway,' Ted conceded grumpily. 'They're all too young and silly, and they like me for the wrong reasons... Your friend Clodagh,' he asked, suddenly. 'Still married, is she?'

'Of course she is.'

'Is something wrong with you?' Ted had realized that he wasn't the only one down in the mouth.

Ashling considered, and decided not to moan about Marcus not ringing. He hadn't broken any promises and could ring at any stage. So instead she said lightly, 'Sunday-evening blues.' She'd often discussed with Ted, Joy, Dylan anyone who had a job, in fact the thunderclap of dread that clangs inside at around five o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. When it hits like a ton of bricks that you've to go to work on Monday morning. Even though there's still some hours of the weekend left to run, it's to all intents and purposes over as soon as you get that deathknell despair.

Ted looked at his watch and seemed happy with that explanation. 'Ten past five. Right on the button.'

'I've got cabin fever. Let's go out.' Ashling had just remembered one of the basic rules of male-female engagement. Of course Marcus hadn't rung she'd been waiting by the phone! All she had to do was leave her flat and he'd be burning up the phone lines.

Before they left she grabbed a couple of books for Boo. She'd been caught humiliatingly on the hop the previous night when she hadn't a novel in her handbag to give to him in place of the mushroom encyclopaedia. But as she shoved Trainspotting Trainspotting into her bag, she went into a loop. Would he be offended if she gave him a book about heroin addiction? Would he think she was implying something? into her bag, she went into a loop. Would he be offended if she gave him a book about heroin addiction? Would he think she was implying something?

Best to be on the safe side. Back it came out of the bag. Instead she brought Fever Pitch Fever Pitch and some science-fiction crap that Phelim had given her two birthdays ago and that she'd never read. A boy's book. But, on the street, there was no sign of Boo. and some science-fiction crap that Phelim had given her two birthdays ago and that she'd never read. A boy's book. But, on the street, there was no sign of Boo.

Ted and Ashling went to the Long Hall for a couple of rather subdued drinks, followed by a low-key pizza at Milano's, then home again. As Ashling let herself back in, the first thing she did was look for the red flashing light on her answering machine. And there it was! She'd been so poised for disappointment that she thought she was conjuring it up. She stood and watched, as the light blinked on and off. Little red circle, no little red circle, little red circle, no little red circle... It was a message, all right. As she pressed the 'play' button, an awful thought afflicted her. If this is from Cormac saying that hell be delivering a lorry-load of shrubs on Wednesday, I'll scream If this is from Cormac saying that hell be delivering a lorry-load of shrubs on Wednesday, I'll scream.

But the message was from neither the mystery gardening supplier nor from Marcus Valentine. It was from Ashling's father.

Oh God, what's happened?

His voice was preceded by silence overlain with crackles, static scrapes and adenoidal breathing. Then he said to someone in the room with him, 'Will I talk now?'

The other person Ashling's mother, presumably said something that Ashling couldn't hear, then Mike Kennedy said, 'There were a few short ones, and a long one. God, I hate these yokes... Ashling, Dad here. I feel like a terrible eejit talking to a machine. We were just thinking we hadn't heard from you in a while. Are you all right? We're grand here. Janet rang us last week, she had to get rid of the cat, he kept head-butting her while she was asleep. And we'd a letter from Owen, he thinks he's discovered a new tribe. Not brand brand new, of course. Just new to him. I suppose you're busy with your new job, but don't forget us, will you? Hahaha. Ah, bye so.' new, of course. Just new to him. I suppose you're busy with your new job, but don't forget us, will you? Hahaha. Ah, bye so.'

More crackles and breathing. Then, 'What'll I do now? Just hang up? I don't have to press a button or anything?'

Abruptly the connection was severed.

Ashling stewed in guilt and resentment, Marcus Valentine completely forgotten. She could feel the pressure for a visit to Cork coming on. At the very least she'd have to call them. Especially if her younger sister Janet managed to circumvent the eight-hour time difference to ring from California, and her brother Owen could get a letter to them from the Amazon Basin.

She flicked a glance at the photo she kept on top of her telly. It had been there so long that she was usually blind to it. But the emotions stirred up by the phone call made her take it and stare at it, as if looking for clues.

It hit home, as it always did, that Mike Kennedy had been a good-looking man. Bold and tall, he laughed out at the camera, all early-seventies sideburns and hair curling on his patterned shirt collar. It was funny because on the one hand he was her dad. But on the other, he looked like the kind of bad man you'd see at a party and be drawn to, but whom your self-preservation would warn you well away from.

Mike had his arm around Janet, aged four. She was bent at the waist and had her fist shoved between her legs she'd wanted to go to the toilet, the camera had always had that effect on her. Leaning against Mike, holding the three-year-old Owen in her pucci-swirled polyestered arms, was Monica. She was smiling happily, looking unfeasibly young, her hair smooth and set, her mascara Priscilla Presley glam. And stage centre, wedged between the two adults, her six-year-old's eyes crossed comically, was Ashling.

Lucifer, Before the Fall, she always thought when she inspected this picture. They looked like such a perfect little family. But she often wondered if, even then, the rot had already set in.

Replacing the photo, she came back to the present. It had been about three weeks since the last time she'd rung her mum and dad. It wasn't that she'd forgotten to since she thought about it a lot, but could nearly always think of excuses not to.

However, she was never really at peace with her lack of communication. She was aware that Clodagh rang her own mother daily. Although Brian and Maureen Nugent were very different from Mike and Monica Kennedy. Maybe if Brian and Maureen had been her parents she'd be better at keeping in touch.

22.

Monday morning. Traditionally, the bleakest of all mornings. (Except following a bank holiday, when Tuesday morning gets a go.) Nevertheless, it perked Lisa up no end. The thought of going into the office made her feel in control at least she'd be doing something to help herself. Then she tried to have a shower and the water was stone cold.

But she temporarily shelved the notion of collaring Jack about the timer on her boiler when Mrs Morley let slip that he'd been working over the weekend, sorting out irate electricians and hard-done-by cameramen. He looked exhausted and black of mood.

Ashling, grey and late, was also finding the day hard. Even more so when Jack Devine stuck his head out of his office and said, curtly, 'Miss Fix-it?'

'Mr Devine?'

'A word?'

Alarmed, she stood up far too quickly and had to wait for her blood supply to catch up and restore her sight.

'Either you're in big trouble or else you're riding him,' Trix whispered gleefully. 'What's going on?'

Ashling was in no mood for Trix and her antics. She hadn't a clue why Jack Devine wanted to speak to her in private. With a presentiment of doom, she crossed to his office.

'Close the door,' he ordered.

I'm going to be sacked going to be sacked. She was in the horrors.

The door clicked behind her and instantly the room shrank and darkened. Jack, with his dark hair, dark eyes, dark-blue suit and dark mood, tended to do that. To make matters worse, he wasn't behind his desk, he was balanced on the front and there was very little space between the two of them. He made her so uncomfortable uncomfortable.

'I wanted to give you this, without the rest of them seeing.' She found herself leaning away from him, although there was nowhere to go. He thrust a plastic bag at her, which she accepted dumbly. Hazily, she noticed that it was a bit big for a letter of notice.

She just held it in her hands, and with an impatient laugh Jack said, 'Look inside.'

Crumpling plastic, Ashling peered into the pearly light of the bag. To her surprise it contained a carton of two hundred Marlboro, with a red rosette stuck crookedly on the cellophane.

'Because I kept bumming your cigarettes,' Jack dead-eyed her. 'I'm, er, sorry,' he added. He didn't sound it.

'It's beautiful,' she mumbled, stunned by the reprieve and the rosette.

For the first time since she'd met him, Jack Devine laughed properly. An honest-to-God, head-thrown-back, belly laugh. 'Beautiful?' he exclaimed, alight with mirth. 'Sailing boats are beautiful, eight-foot waves are beautiful. But cigarettes beautiful? Actually, maybe you're right.'

'I thought you were going to sack me,' Ashling blurted.

His face twisted with surprise. 'Sack you?... But Little Miss Fix-it,' he said, his voice suddenly soft, his eyes playful, 'who else would keep us in plasters, Anadins, umbrellas, safety pins, what's the thing for shock remedy something...?'

'Rescue remedy.' She could do with some right now. She needed to get out. Just so she could breathe again.

'What are you so scared of?' he asked, even more softly. It seemed to her that his bulk moved closer.

'Nothing!' she squealed like a bus's brakes.

With his arms folded, he considered her. Something in the way his mouth kinked up at the corners made her feel girlish and silly, like he was mocking her. Then, in an instant, he seemed to lose interest. 'Go on,' he sighed, moving back behind his desk. 'Off you go... But don't tell any of the others,' he nodded at the bag. 'Else they'll all be wanting one.'

Ashling went back to her desk, her legs belonging to someone else. Hold the front page. Jack Devine in Not-Such-a-Miserable-Bastard-As-He'd-Originally-Seemed shock. But the oddest thing of all was that Ashling kind of thought that she preferred him the other way. Though later that day, it was business as usual.

Mercedes lurched into the office, and everyone nearly fell off their chairs when they saw that she was uncharacteristically displaying emotion. A lot of it. As per Lisa's instructions she'd gone to try and interview mad Frieda Kiely. And even though Mercedes had spent the weekend in Donegal shooting a twelve-page spread of Frieda's clothes, Frieda kept her waiting an hour and a half, then professed to have never heard of her or Colleen Colleen.

'Who are you?' she'd demanded. 'Colleen? What the hell's that? What What the hell's that? What is is that?' that?'

'She's a maniac. A mad bitch,' Mercedes hissed, then fell into another fit of humiliated convulsions. 'A mad fucking BITCH!'

'A premenstrual psycho hoor from hell.' Kelvin was very keen to get on the right side of Mercedes.

'A schizoid slapper,' Trix threw in.

'And a right skinnymalinks,' said Boring Bernard, who had no idea what she looked like but who liked a good bitch as much as the next mummy's boy. 'There'd be more meat on a tinker's stick after a good row.'

Trix looked at him scornfully. 'That's a compliment, you gobshite. You haven't a clue!'

Insult after insult was heaped upon Frieda Kiely, except from Ashling who had heard somewhere that she really was was mad. Apparently she was mildly schizophrenic and disinclined to take her medication. mad. Apparently she was mildly schizophrenic and disinclined to take her medication.

'But,' Ashling interrupted, feeling someone should defend her, 'don't you think before we give out about her, we should walk a mile in her shoes?'

'That's right,' said Jack, who'd emerged to see what all the commotion was. 'Then we'd be a mile away from her and we'd have her shoes. Sounds good to me.' He shot Ashling a jeering smile, then barked, 'For God's sake, Ashling, act your age, not the speed limit.'

Lisa was amused. 'What is is the speed limit in this country?' the speed limit in this country?'

'Seventy,' Jack said, slamming back into his office.

Ashling hated Jack again. Things were back to normal.

Even though Marcus Valentine didn't have her work number, Ashling's whole being gulped when, at ten to four, Trix handed her the phone and said, 'A man for you.'

Ashling took the receiver, waited a moment to compose herself, then cooed, 'Heeeyyy.'

'Ashling?' It was Dylan and he sounded puzzled. 'Have you a cold?'

'No.' In disappointment she reverted to her normal voice. 'I thought you were someone else.'

'How about that drink this evening? I can come into town at whatever time suits you.'

'Sure.' It would keep her from her phone vigil at home. 'Call into the office around six.'

Then, very quickly, she rang home to see if there were any messages. It was only fifteen minutes since the last time she'd checked, but you never know.

Or maybe you do, because no one had phoned.

At quarter past six, Dylan caused a mild stir when, blond hair flopping into his eyes, he showed up in a well-cut linen suit and an immaculate white shirt. As he stood at Ashling's desk, there seemed to be something wrong with him, a lopsidedness as if his shoulder was dislocated.

'Are you OK?' Ashling got up, walked around him and found that the reason his whole body was twisted was that he was trying to conceal an HMV bag behind his back.

'Dylan, I won't tell that you've been buying CDs.'

'Sorry,' he shrugged sheepishly. 'This is what comes of working in the wilds of Sandyford. Whenever I come into town, I go berserk in music shops. The guilt kinda gets to me.'

'Your secret is safe with me.'

'New jacket?' Dylan asked, as Ashling switched off things.

'Actually, yes.'

'Let me see.'

Insisting that she stood still, he ran a glance along her shoulders, nodded and said, 'Yeah.' Ashling tried, in vain, to suck in her waist, as he skimmed a look down the side-seams, nodded and said, 'Yeah' again, even more approvingly, then looked up. 'Suits you,' he finished with a smile. 'Really suits you.'

'You're nothing but a rogue.' Ashling's pleasure had mounted while the examination continued. Dylan was always outrageously lavish with compliments. Yet despite knowing that he flung them around like snuff at a wake, it was hard not to half-believe him, harder still not to glow with delight. 'You're dangerous dangerous,' she radiated.

'Come on.' She turned to go and saw that Jack Devine was nearby, moodily flicking through a file on Bernard's desk. She smiled a nervous goodbye and for an alarming second thought he was going to ignore her. Then he exhaled heavily and said, 'Goodnight, Ashling.'

Lisa had been in the ladies' refreshing her make-up in honour of that evening's outing with a famous Irish chef whom she hoped to convince to do regular cookery features. As she hurried back into the office to get her jacket, she rounded the door too quickly and smacked into a blond man she hadn't seen before. She bumped her shoulder against his chest, and felt, briefly, the heat coming through his thin shirt.

'Sorry.' He placed his big hands on her shoulders. 'Are you all right?'

'I think so.' As she straightened herself up, they took a long, keen look at each other. Then she saw Ashling at his side. Was he her boyfriend? No, surely not.

'Who was that? that?' Dylan asked, when the lift doors had closed behind them.

'You're a happily married man,' Ashling reminded him.

'I only asked.'

'Her name is Lisa Edwards, she's my boss.' But Ashling was reminded of the conversation she'd had with Clodagh about all the conferences Dylan attended. Is he faithful to her? Is he faithful to her? Quickly she asked, 'Where'll we go for this drink?' Quickly she asked, 'Where'll we go for this drink?'

He took her to the Shelbourne, which was thronged with post-work revellers.

'We'll have to stand,' said Ashling. 'We'll never get a seat.'

'Never say never,' Dylan twinkled. 'Hold on.'