He turned his dark eyes on to her. 'No,' he said, narkily. 'It might keep me awake.'

Well get lost in that case, Ashling thought, all sympathy gone.

'Ashling, take a look,' Gerry invited. Ashling rushed to his screen and was full of admiration for how he'd laid out the article. A four-page spread, which looked colourful, funny, engaging and interesting. The text was broken up into strips and sidebars, and the entire piece was dominated by the erotic photo of the dancing couple, the woman's long hair sweeping the floor.

He printed it all off and Ashling took it to Lisa, as though it was a sacred offering. Without speaking, Lisa surveyed the pages. Even the expression on her face gave nothing away. The silence endured for so long that Ashling's excitement started to dampen and turn into worry. Had she got it all wrong? Perhaps this wasn't what Lisa had wanted at all.

'Spelling mistake here.' Lisa's voice was toneless. 'Typo here. And another one. And another one.' When she got to the end she shoved the sheets away and said, 'Fine.'

'Fine?' Ashling asked, still waiting for an acknowledgement of how much work and worry had gone into it.

'Yes, fine,' Lisa said, impatiently. 'Tidy it up, then run it.'

Ashling glared. She was so disappointed she couldn't help it. She wasn't to know that this constituted very high praise from Lisa. When employees of Femme Femme were subjected to her screaming 'Get this piece of shit off my desk and completely rewrite it,' they used to take it as a tribute. were subjected to her screaming 'Get this piece of shit off my desk and completely rewrite it,' they used to take it as a tribute.

Then Lisa changed the subject totally when she remembered something. Over-casually, she asked, 'Hey, who was that man you were with last night?'

'What man?' Ashling knew exactly who she was talking about, but was exacting a tiny, petty revenge.

'Blond bloke, you left with him.'

'Oh, Dylan.' Then Ashling said nothing more. She was enjoying this.

'And who is he?' Lisa eventually had to ask.

'An old friend.'

'Single?'

'He's married to my best friend. So you like my article?' Ashling said stubbornly.

'I said it's fine.' Lisa was irritable. Then her next words rubbed salt into the wound. 'I think we'll make it a regular feature. Knock together another piece about meeting men for the October issue. What did you suggest at the first meeting we had? Going to a dating agency? Horse-riding? Surfing the net?'

She remembered everything everything, Ashling thought, impossibly burdened by the thought of having to make this monumental effort next month and every month. And never getting fecking well praised for it!

'Or you could do something on the chances of meeting men at a comedy gig,' Lisa said, with an artful smile.

Ashling shrugged uncomfortably.

'Has he called you yet?' Lisa asked suddenly.

Ashling shook her head, embarrassed at what a loser she was. Had he rung Lisa? Probably, the gloaty cow. After some seconds without speech the curiosity got too much. 'Has he called you?'

To her surprise, Lisa also shook her head.

'Prick!' Ashling said energetically, cruising on relief.

'Prick!' Lisa agreed, with an unexpected giggle.

All at once it seemed very funny that he'd rung neither of them.

'Men!' The burdensome anticipation Ashling had carried since Saturday dissolved into giddy laughter.

'Men!' Lisa agreed, frothy with merriment.

At that moment, both of them were drawn to look at Kelvin, who was standing mid-floor, idly scratching his balls and staring into space. He looked so like a man man that when their eyes swivelled back to each other, they jack-knifed into convulsions. that when their eyes swivelled back to each other, they jack-knifed into convulsions.

Spasms of mirth issued from Lisa's core. Which so uplifted and liberated her that she realized it was a long time since she'd really laughed. A proper belly-laugh where nothing else mattered.

'What?' Kelvin demanded edgily. 'What's so funny?'

That was enough to start them again. Their mutual suspicion was washed clean by the high tide of hilarity, and they were for the moment, at least warm with unity.

Her mouth still dolphin-wide with the remnants of glee, Lisa on impulse said to Ashling, 'I've got an invite to a make-up demo this afternoon. D'you want to come?'

'Why not?' Ashling said lightly. Grateful, but no longer pitifully so.

The make-up presentation was by Source, who were the current big thing, favoured by supermodels and It girls. Reassuringly expensive, all their products were organic, the packaging was bio-degradable, recyclable or reusable, and they made a big song and dance because they ploughed some of their profits back into replanting trees, patching up the ozone layer et cetera et cetera. (The actual amount was 0.003 per cent of the post-tax profit, after the shareholders had received their dividend. In practice the sum amounted to a couple of hundred quid, but even if people knew, they wouldn't care. They'd bought wholesale into the notion of 'Source responsible beauty'.) The Morrison hotel was the site of the demonstration, just far enough away from the office for Lisa to insist on getting a taxi. It would have been quicker if they'd walked because the traffic was so bad, but she didn't care. In London she'd never walked anywhere and she considered it a slur on her status to be expected to here.

One of the function rooms of the hotel had been converted into an old-fashioned pharmacy for the day. The Source girls wore white doctors' coats and were positioned behind miniature apothecary desks (made of MDF, tampered with to look like aged teak). All around were glass-stoppered bottles, medicine droppers and prescription jars.

'Pretentious nonsense,' Lisa laughed scornfully into Ashling's ear. 'And when they speak about the new season's products, they behave as if they've just discovered a cure for cancer. But first a drink!... Wheatgrass juice!' Lisa exclaimed, when the waiter deconstructed the contents of his tray for her. 'Pants! What else have you?'

She beckoned another waiter, whose tray was covered with silver canisters, each with a tube like a bendy opaque straw. 'Oxygen?' Lisa said, in disgust. 'Don't be daft. Bring me a glass of champagne.'

'Make it two,' Ashling said nervously. The mere sight of the green, lumpy wheatgrass juice was making her feel sick, and to the best of her knowledge, she could get oxygen any time she liked. They had three glasses of champagne each, much to the envy of the other liggers, who were timidly sipping their free wheatgrass juice and trying not to barf. Only Dan 'I'll try anything once' Heigel from the Sunday Independent Sunday Independent had sampled the oxygen and became so lightheaded that he had to lie down in the lobby, where tourists were stepping over him and smiling indulgently, thinking he was the quintessential example of a mouldy drunk Irishman. had sampled the oxygen and became so lightheaded that he had to lie down in the lobby, where tourists were stepping over him and smiling indulgently, thinking he was the quintessential example of a mouldy drunk Irishman.

'Come on,' Lisa eventually said to Ashling. 'We ought to go for our lecture, then we can claim our free gift.'

Lisa was right, Ashling noted. Caro, who demonstrated the cosmetics for them, was remarkably earnest and humour-free about the products.

'This season's look is shimmery,' she said, lovingly stroking some eye-shadow on to the back of her hand.

'That was last season's look too,' Lisa challenged.

'Oh no. Last season's was shimmering.' This was said without a trace of irony.

Lisa poked a sharp elbow into Ashling and they shared a shudder of silent mirth. It was nice to have someone to have a laugh with at these things, Lisa realized.

'We've broken new ground this season by producing a lip-gloss for the browbone, we're very excited about it... any inconsistency in texture is because, unlike other cosmetic houses, we refuse to corrupt our products with animal fats. A small price to pay...'

Finally, the worthy demonstration came to an end, and Caro clinked together a selection of the new season's cosmetics. All the products were in thick brown glass containers, like old-fashioned medicine bottles, and were packaged into a replica of a doctor's case.

She handed it to Lisa, who was obviously in charge. But when Ashling and Lisa didn't move off, Caro said anxiously, 'Only one gift per publication. Our philosophy at Source is to discourage excess.'

Lisa and Ashling exchanged a moment's aghast rivalry.

'I knew that,' Lisa said lightly, gliding carelessly from the room, her grip claw-tight around the goody bag. Possession was nine-tenths of the law, leastways it was last time she'd checked. Out into the hall she went, and across the lobby, not breaking stride as she stepped over the still prone Dan Heigel.

'Nice knickers,' he murmured.

'Why d'ya have to wear trousers?' he asked as, a second later, Ashling hopped over him.

When Lisa judged that they were far enough away from the hotel, she slowed down. Ashling caught up and gave the freebie an anxious look.

'It depends on what's in it,' Lisa said, tight-lipped. She'd just remembered why she liked to work alone. When you don't, you might have to share make-up, praise, stuff. Opening the doctor's case, she said, 'You can have the eye-shadow. Hey, it's shimmery!'

But it was also a funny sludge colour that neither of them would wear.

'And you can have the lip-gloss for the browbone too. I'll keep the neck-cream and the eye-liner.'

'And the lipstick?' Ashling asked, a knot of longing in her stomach. The lipstick was the real prize, a wonderful muted brown, with a perfect matt finish.

'I get the lipstick,' Lisa said. 'After all, I'm the boss.'

Don't we know it? Ashling thought, resentfully. Ashling thought, resentfully.

26.

On Tuesday night Ashling went to her salsa class. As before, the women outnumbered the men by about ten to one. Ashling had to dance with another woman, who asked her if she came here often.

'It's the first class,' Ashling pointed out.

'Oh right, I forgot. Anyway, isn't it nice to have a hobby?'

After the class, pink-cheeked and glowing, Ashling belted home to check her answering machine, but the moment she opened the door, she saw the long, unblinking baleful stare of the red light. Ah well, there was still Wednesday night. All wasn't lost.

As she rooted in the kitchen cupboards, looking for something to eat, she fretted, wondering if perhaps Marcus had lost her phone number. But no. He'd shoved it deep in his pocket and said he'd keep it close to his heart. Besides, it was the second time she'd given it to him, which lessened the chances of him mislaying it.

She surveyed the spoils: half a bag of tortilla chips, slightly soft; a carton of black olives; four Hobnobs, also slightly soft; a dented can of pineapple; eight slices of stale bread. A poor turnout, she'd have to go to the supermarket tomorrow.

She was dying for something hot, so she shoved two slices of stale bread into the toaster. As she waited she experienced a burst of impotent frustration with Marcus. For knocking a hole in her life and opening the way to let anticipation come creeping in. She'd been fine before he'd started pestering her.

Why was he pestering her, anyway? Now that she'd seen him on stage her entire opinion had changed. Instead of being a man that she wouldn't go near, Marcus Valentine was a desirable commodity and she wasn't sure if she was worthy of him.

Halfway through a slice of toast, the phone rang, rocketing her adrenalin levels. Brushing buttery crumbs from her face, she crossed the room and snatched it up. 'Hello?' All breathless expectation. Which instantly died away. 'Oh Clodagh, hi.'

'Are you at home?' Clodagh asked.

'Um, what do you think?'

'Sorry. What I mean is, can I come over?'

Oh no. Ashling's mood bottomed out. Bad stuff ahead. Immediately she wrote off her plans to ring her parents she had only so much endurance. 'Come on round,' she assured Clodagh. 'I'm in for the evening.'

'I'm just popping over to Ashling's for an hour,' Clodagh called to Dylan, who was watching telly in the half-papered front-room.

'Are you?' he asked, in surprise. This was a break from the norm, Clodagh rarely went out in the evenings. And never without him. But before he could question her further, she was already slamming the door and reversing the Nissan Micra out into the road.

'I need to talk to you,' Clodagh announced, as Ashling let her into the flat.

'So I gather,' Ashling said, dismally.

'And I need you to do me a favour.'

'I'll do my best'

'Hey, do you know there's a homeless man sitting in your doorway?' Clodagh abruptly changed tack. 'He said hello hello to me.' to me.'

'That's probably Boo,' Ashling said, idly. 'Young, brown hair, smiley?'

'Yes, but...' Clodagh faltered. 'Do you know know him?' him?'

'Not intimately, but... well, we have the odd chat in passing.'

'But he's probably a drug addict! He might mug you with a syringe that's what they do, you know. Or break into your flat.'

'He's not a drug addict.'

'How do you know?'

'He told me.'

'And you believed him?'

'You can tell.' Ashling was suddenly irritable. 'If someone is drunk or stoned you can tell just by talking to them.'

'So how come he's homeless then?'

'I wouldn't know,' Ashling admitted. It had seemed rude to ask. 'But he's very nice. Normal, actually. And I wouldn't blame him if he did drink or take drugs being homeless looks horrible.'

Clodagh pushed her lower lip out mutinously. 'I don't know where you get these people from. But just be careful, will you? Anyway, I need to talk to you. I've made a decision.'

'What is it?' Going on anti-depressants? Leaving Dylan? Going on anti-depressants? Leaving Dylan?

'The time has come,' Clodagh lowered herself down on to the couch. Getting herself comfortable she repeated, 'The time has come...'

'For what? what?' Nerves made Ashling snap.

'... for me to go back to work,' Clodagh finished.

This wasn't what Ashling had been expecting. She'd been braced for something a lot uglier. 'What? You? Go back to work?'