'Thank you.'

'What size are your shoes?'

'Six.'

A huddled conference followed that. How big was a six? Too big for them, they reluctantly decided.

Letting herself in, she flung her bag on the floor, flicked on the kettle and checked her answering machine. No messages, which wasn't really surprising because almost no one knew her number. It didn't stop her feeling like a failure, though.

She kicked off her lovely shoes, flung her dress on a chair and was changing into drawstring pants and a shortie T-shirt when the doorbell rang. Probably one of the little girls to ask if they could have her handbag when she didn't want it any more.

With a sigh she flung open the door, and there, standing on her step, bending his tall bulk to fit the doorway, was Jack.

'Oh,' she said, stupid with surprise.

It was the first time she'd seen him out of his suit. His long, collarless shirt was open to mid-chest. Not by design, but because the buttons were missing. His khakis looked as if they'd done service in two world wars, and had a flap torn across the right knee, exposing a smooth kneecap and a three-inch square area of hairy shin. His hair looked even messier than usual, as did his face Jack was a man who needed to shave twice a day.

Leaning against the doorframe, he displayed a device in the palm of his hand, like a policeman flashing ID. 'I have a timer for your boiler.'

It sounded vaguely suggestive.

'Sorry it wasn't sooner.' Then he hesitated. 'Is now a good time?'

'Come in,' Lisa invited. 'Come in.'

She was taken aback because in London, no one ever just called around to her flat. She'd never made an arrangement to see anyone without first opening her Psion or Filofax and playing the I'm-busier-and-more-important-than-you game. It was an elaborate ritual, governed by strict rules. At least five different dates must be offered and rejected before an actual one can be agreed on.

'Next Tuesday? Can't, I'll be in Milan.'

Which is the cue for the other party to respond, 'And I can never do Wednesdays because that's my reiki night.'

An acceptable reply to that is, 'And Thursdays are out for me because my Alexander Technique tutor comes.'

The ante is upped by the second party coming back with, 'The weekend after that is out of the question. Cottage in the Lake District with friends.'

To which the smart money responds, 'The whole of the following week is gone for me. LA, on business.'

Once a date has been finally fixed, it is still acceptable indeed expected for you to cancel on the day, pleading jet-lag, a client dinner or having to go to Geneva to make seventy people redundant.

Like Gucci sunglasses and Prada handbags, Time Poverty was a status symbol. The less time you had the more important you were. Jack obviously didn't know.

He looked around in admiration. 'You've been here how many? three, four days and already the place looks nicer. Look at that ' He pointed to a glass bowl overloaded with white tulips. 'And that.' A vase of dried flowers had caught his attention.

Good job he couldn't see the cups under her bed that were in the early stages of growing mould, Lisa thought. Her homes were always a triumph of style over hygiene. She must try and sort out a cleaner...

'Can I get you a drink?' she offered.

'Any beer?'

'Um, no, but I've some white wine.'

She experienced ridiculous pleasure when he accepted a glass.

'I'll just get my stuff from the car,' he said, ducking out and returning shortly afterwards carrying a blue metallic container.

Oh God, he had a toolbox! She had to sit on her hands to keep herself from touching him, from ripping off the last few buttons on his shirt, exposing his broad chest, which was just was just the correct degree of hairiness, sweeping her hands up the smooth skin of his back... the correct degree of hairiness, sweeping her hands up the smooth skin of his back...

'D'you mind if I open the back door?' He interrupted the clinch that was taking place in her head.

'Um, no, go ahead.' She watched him cross the room and shoot the bolt that hadn't been touched since the last time he'd been here. A fragrant breeze crept into the kitchen, bringing the dense, evening-time scent of foliage and the whistles and cheeps of birds winding down after the day. Nice. If you liked that kind of thing.

'Have you sat in your garden yet?' Jack asked.

No. 'Yes.'

'It's so peaceful out there, you'd hardly know you were in a city,' he nodded through the doorway.

'I know.' Tell me about it! Tell me about it!

'Here goes.' He eyed the boiler. 'This looks like a straightforward enough job, but you never know.'

Then he rolled up his sleeves, revealing the sinews of his lovely wrists, and set to work. Lisa sat in the kitchen, hugging one knee, enjoying, too much, the presence of an attractive man in her home. No matter what, she decided, they were not not going to talk about the advertising situation. There would be no downers, this was a tailor-made opportunity to flirt. going to talk about the advertising situation. There would be no downers, this was a tailor-made opportunity to flirt.

'So tell me all about you,' she ordered with confident coquetry, to his back.

'What do you want to know?' He was none too civil as he banged and bashed metal against metal. Then he swung around, and exclaimed in mild outrage, 'Lisa, come on! That kind of question would wipe anyone's mind blank.'

'Well, tell me how you've ended up being Managing Director of a commercial television station, a radio station and several successful magazines at the age of thirty-two.' OK, so she was talking it up a bit, but she was in the business of flattery.

'It's a job,' Jack said shortly, as if he suspected she was taking the piss. 'I was sacked from my previous job, I had a living to earn.'

Sacked? She didn't like the sound of that. 'Why were you sacked?'

'I proposed a radical notion, which involved paying staff what they were worth and giving them a voice in management. In return they were going to make concessions on demarcation and overtime, but the board decided that I was too much of a leftie and out I went.'

'A leftie? leftie?' Lefties weren't much fun, were they? They made you go on marches and they had awful cars. Trabants. Ladas. That's if they had a car at all. But Jack had a Beemer.

'In my younger, more idealistic days,' he hit the pipe an almighty belt with a spanner, 'I might have been called a socialist.'

'But you're not one now?' Lisa said, in alarm.

'No,' he chuckled grimly. 'Don't sound so worried. I threw in the towel when I saw that most workers are happy doing the lotto or buying shares in privatized state bodies, and their economic well-being is something they're happy to take care of themselves.'

'Too right. All you have to do is work hard enough,' Lisa soothed. That, after all, was what she had done. She was working-class well, she would have been if her dad had actually worked worked and it hadn't been to her disadvantage. and it hadn't been to her disadvantage.

Jack turned and gave her a complex smile. Wry and sad.

'Give me a quick career history,' Lisa asked.

Jack turned back to the boiler and reeled off with no obvious enthusiasm, 'Left college with an MA in communications, did the obligatory Irish stint abroad two years in a New York media group, four in San Francisco at a cable network returned to Ireland just in time for the economic miracle, worked for a newspaper group, got the boot like I said. Then two years ago old Calvin Carter gives me the gig here.'

'And how do you unwind?' Lisa enjoyed the sight of Jack's shirt stretched tight across his back muscles as he toiled. 'Like,' she gave a mischievous smile, which was unfortunately wasted on him, 'do you play golf?'

'That's the last time I come to fix your boiler,' he muttered.

'I didn't think you were a golf man, somehow,' she giggled. 'So what do do you do?' you do?'

'Lisa, don't ask ask me these questions. I know ' Over his shoulder he flashed a fleeting half-smile, 'I fix boilers. I call around to random houses unannounced and insist on fixing people's boilers. Sometimes when they're not even broken.' He fell silent to concentrate on methodically winding a screw, then said, 'What else? I hang out with my girlfriend. I go sailing.' me these questions. I know ' Over his shoulder he flashed a fleeting half-smile, 'I fix boilers. I call around to random houses unannounced and insist on fixing people's boilers. Sometimes when they're not even broken.' He fell silent to concentrate on methodically winding a screw, then said, 'What else? I hang out with my girlfriend. I go sailing.'

'In a yacht?' Lisa asked eagerly, ignoring the mention of Mai.

'No, not really. Not at all, actually. It's a one-man craft, not much bigger than a surfboard. Ah, let's see. I play Sim City half the night, does that count?'

'What's that a computer game? 'Course it counts. Anything else?'

'I d'know. We go to the pub, or out to eat, and we talk a lot about going to the movies but and I really don't understand this we never end up going.'

Lisa wasn't pleased with the 'we' in that sentence. She presumed it referred to Jack and Mai and she didn't know what they did instead of going to the movies, but she could take a guess.

'I see some friends from my college days, I watch a fair bit of telly but hey, just doing my job!'

'Oh yeah,' Lisa scorned playfully. Then she realized something. 'That's what you enjoy most, isn't it? Working on the television station?'

'Ye' Then she watched Jack's back tense up as he remembered who he was talking to. 'Er, I enjoy the magazines too. You wouldn't believe the amount of work Channel 9 generates for me...'

'So you could have done without Colleen Colleen and all that extra work?' Lisa teased. and all that extra work?' Lisa teased.

Jack tactfully deflected her question. 'Thing is, Channel 9 is currently very gratifying. After two years of real graft and struggle, finally the staff are well paid, corporate sponsors are pleased and consumers are getting intelligent programming. And we're nearly on the point of attracting investment so we can commission even more quality programming.'

'Top,' Lisa said vaguely. She'd heard enough about Channel 9 for now. 'What else do you do?'

'Aahhhhh,' Jack thought out loud. 'I see my parents most weekends. Just pop in for an hour here and there. They're not as young as they used to be so time with them seems that much more precious. You know what I mean?'

With desperate haste Lisa changed the subject. 'Do you ever go to restaurant openings? Or first nights? That kind of thing?'

'Nope,' Jack said shortly. 'I hate them. I was born without the shmooze gene, although I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that.'

'How so?' Lisa dissembled.

'Ah, come on, I'm a narky bollocks.'

'You've never been to me,' Lisa said, which wasn't to say that she hadn't noticed his tantrums.

'I don't mean to be,' he said with vague wistfulness. 'It just... sort of... happens, and I'm always sorry afterwards.'

'So your bark is worse than your bite?'

He swung around. 'Done!' he said, putting down his spanner. Then he added softly, 'Not always. Sometimes my bite is very bad.'

Before she could take him up on that provocative statement, he was clattering spanners and screwdrivers back into his toolbox. 'It's on a twenty-four-hour clock, should be no bother to set, hot water any time you like. See you tomorrow and sorry for arriving unannounced.'

'No proble'

Suddenly he was gone, the house seemed too empty, and Lisa was alone very alone with her thoughts.

Oliver had cared about clothes, about parties, about art and music and clubs and knowing the right people. Jack was a badly dressed closet-socialist who sailed on a surfboard and who had no social life to speak of. But he was also big and sexy and dangerous and smelt nice, and hey, you can't have everything.

24.

You're a great girl, Ashling, you're a great girl, Ashling. Dylan's farewell to Ashling carouselled in her head, as she walked home from the Shelbourne. And only stopped when she popped into Cafe Moka for something to eat.

When she finally reached home, Boo was sitting outside.

'Where've you been?' Ashling asked. 'I haven't seen you in a couple of days.'

He threw his look heavenwards. 'Women!' he exclaimed, good-naturedly. 'Always trying to keep tabs on you.' His eyes were bright in his unshaven face. 'I felt like a change of scene.' He waved a grubby hand in a playfully louche gesture. 'A beautiful shop doorway in Henry Street beckoned, so I laid my hat there for a couple of nights.'

'So you sleep around,' Ashling said. 'Typical man.'

'It meant nothing,' Boo said earnestly. 'It was just a physical thing.'

'Last night I had books for you.' Ashling was annoyed at being caught, once more, on the hop.

Until she remembered that she had a review copy of a Patricia Cornwell in her bag. No one at the office had wanted it so Ashling had taken it for Joy.

'Would you be into this?' Awkwardly she tugged it from her bag. Boo's eyes blazed with so much interest that she felt slightly sick. She had so much, he had nothing except an orange blanket.

'Deadly,' he breathed. 'I'll mind it, make sure nothing happens to it.'

'You can keep it.'

'How come?'

'I got it, er, free. At work.'

'Cool job,' he congratulated. 'Thanks, Ashling, I appreciate this.'

'It's nothing,' she said, stiffly. Upset by the unfairness of the world, angry with herself for having so much power, guilty because she did so little.

As she stuck her key in the door, he called, 'What did you think of Marcus Valentine?'

'I don't know.' For a moment she was about to launch into a long explanation of how she hadn't fancied him, then she'd seen him on the stage and couldn't help changing her mind, how she was dying for him to ring her and hoped that there might be a message waiting for her and... hold on a minute.