'Why not?' Clodagh was defensive.

'Er, exactly. Why not? But what triggered this?'

'Ah, I've been thinking about it for a while. It probably isn't healthy to pour all my energies into my children.' Privately Clodagh reckoned that that was where the terrible, itchy-uncomfortable feelings of dissatisfaction were coming from. 'I need to get out of the house more. Have adult conversations.'

'And that's all you wanted to talk to me about?' Ashling needed to check.

'What else would there be?' Clodagh sounded surprised.

'Nothing.' Ashling could have smacked Dylan, getting her worked up into a state of high anxiety, when it was clear that all that was wrong with Clodagh was boredom. 'So what kind of job were you thinking of?'

'Don't know yet,' Clodagh admitted. 'Don't really mind. Anything... Although,' she added ruefully, 'whatever it is, it'll be hard to go back to taking orders from other people. People who aren't my children, that is.'

As Ashling rearranged her mood to fit in with this unexpected turn of events, Clodagh fell into a reverie. She was always reading books where housewives started their own business. Where they turned their great baking skills into a cake industry. Or set up a health club for women. Or channelled their pottery hobby into a thriving enterprise, employing, oh, at least seven or eight people. They made it sound so easy. Banks lent them money, sisters-in-law minded children, neighbours converted the garage into an HQ, everyone rallied round. When the cafe flooded, the world and its granny mucked in to clear up: customers, postmen, innocent passers-by and someone the heroine had had a bad argument with. (This usually signalled the end of the disagreement.) And these fictional enterprising women invariably bagged a man into the bargain.

But you have a man, Clodagh reminded herself.

Yes, but....

So could she set up her own business? What could she do?

Nothing, if she was honest. She sincerely doubted that anyone would pay to eat something she'd cooked. In fact, with Craig and Molly she almost had to pay them them to eat their meals. She couldn't see people shelling out good money to come to her restaurant and eat Petit Filous and microwaved Pot Noodles even if she did offer a free food-cooling service by blowing on everything before she served it. to eat their meals. She couldn't see people shelling out good money to come to her restaurant and eat Petit Filous and microwaved Pot Noodles even if she did offer a free food-cooling service by blowing on everything before she served it. And And allowed the customers to rub their leftovers into their hair. allowed the customers to rub their leftovers into their hair.

As for handicrafts she'd rather give birth than do pottery. Nor had she any idea how to go about setting up a health club.

No, it seemed as if a more conventional route to earning a living was on the cards for Clodagh. Which is where Ashling came in.

'So I wondered if you'd type my CV for me?' Clodagh asked. 'And listen, I don't want Dylan to know about this. Not yet, anyway, his pride might be hurt. If he wasn't the sole breadwinner, do you know what I mean?'

Ashling wasn't entirely convinced, but she decided to let it go. 'OK. What hobbies will I put you down for? Hang-gliding? S&M?'

'White-water rafting,' Clodagh giggled. 'And human sacrifices.'

'And you're sure you feel OK?' Ashling still needed to have it underlined.

'I do now. But to be honest, I'd been very down for a while, it was really starting to get to me.'

Maybe Dylan wasn't being a total drama queen, after all, Ashling decided. Perhaps he'd had some reason to worry.

'But now I know what to do,' Clodagh said cheerfully, 'everything's going to be all right... Hey.' She suddenly remembered something. 'Dylan tells me you're babysitting for us on Saturday night.'

So Operation Cheer-Up-Clodagh was still going ahead?

'We're going to L'Oeuf,' Clodagh shivered in delight. 'It's ages since I've been out.'

'Listen, what if Ted babysat with me?' Hopefully Clodagh would blow that idea out of the water.

'Ted? The small dark one?' Clodagh considered. 'OK, why not? He looks harmless.'

27.

Ashling got in early to type up Clodagh's CV, then got Gerry to arrange it, all fancy. As she waited for him to print it out, she was shocked to find herself doodling 'Ashling Valentine'. Grow up! Grow up! Better do some work. Instead she did something even more unpleasant. She rang her parents. Her father answered. Better do some work. Instead she did something even more unpleasant. She rang her parents. Her father answered.

'Dad, it's Ashling.'

'Ah, hello!' He sounded overjoyed to hear from her. 'How are things?'

'Oh, good, good. And you're all well?'

'Never better. So when are we going to see you? Any chance of you coming down for a weekend?'

'Not just yet.' She shrivelled with guilt. 'You see, I sometimes work weekends at the moment.'

'That's a pity, mind you don't overdo it. But the job's going well, is it?'

'Very well.'

'Hold on, your mother wants a quick word.'

'Listen, Dad, I can't really talk, I'm at work. I'll ring some evening. I'm glad you're all good.'

Then she hung up, feeling a little bit better, a little bit worse. Relieved that she'd rung and wouldn't have to do it again for a couple of weeks, guilty because she couldn't give them what they really wanted. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Lisa was late.

'Where were you?' Trix asked. 'Everyone's been looking for you.'

'You're my PA,' Lisa said, impatiently. 'You're supposed to know. Look in my appointment book.'

'Oh, your appointment book appointment book,' Trix said. 'Of course.' She turned to the appropriate page and read out, '"Interviewing mad Frieda Kiely." That's where she was, lads.'

'That's right,' Lisa announced, loud enough for everyone particularly Mercedes to hear. 'I visited Frieda Kiely at her atelier atelier this morning. She's a sweetie. An absolute sweetie.' this morning. She's a sweetie. An absolute sweetie.'

Actually, she'd been a nightmare. A grotesque nightmare. Unpleasant, crazily hyper and so far up her own bum there was a chance she might never reappear. Which would be no bad thing, Lisa thought.

When Lisa had arrived, Frieda had been stretched on a chaise longue, dressed in one of her own over-the-top frocks, her long grey hair tumbling to her waist. She was half-lying on bundles of fabric and tucking into a McDonald's breakfast. Though Lisa had confirmed the interview with Frieda's assistant that very morning, Frieda insisted there was no such arrangement.

'But your assistant...'

'My assistant,' Frieda overrode her in bellowing tones, 'is a useless moron. I shall sack her. Julie, Elaine, whatever your name is YOU'RE FIRED!... But as you're here,' Frieda conceded. She was in the mood for a little fun.

'Can you tell me about yourself?' Lisa tried to grasp the reins of the interview. 'Where were you born?'

'Planet Zog, darling,' Frieda drawled.

Lisa eyed her. She was inclined to believe her. 'If you'd prefer to talk about the clothes '

'Clothes!' Frieda spat. 'They're not clothes!'

Weren't they? But if they weren't clothes, then what were they? Lisa wondered. But if they weren't clothes, then what were they? Lisa wondered.

'Works of art, you moron!'

Lisa did not respond well to being called a moron. She was finding this very, very hard. But she had to think of the good of Colleen Colleen.

'Perhaps ' She swallowed away rage. 'Perhaps you can tell me why you're so successful.'

'Why? Why?' Frieda's eyes popped with disgust. 'Because I'm a bloody genius, that's why. I hear voices in my head.'

'Perhaps you should see a doctor.' Lisa couldn't stop herself.

'I'm talking about my spirit guides, you idiot! They tell me what to create.'

A ratty Yorkshire terrier wearing a miniature stovepipe hat scampered into the room, yapping with horribly shrill barks.

'Ooooh, come to Mommy.' Frieda gathered the dog to her enormous bosom, dragging him across squares of tweed and an egg McMuffin. 'This is Schiaperelli. My muse. Without him, my genius would simply disappear.'

Lisa began to hope that a horrible accident would befall the dog. This sentiment increased when Schiaperelli effected introductions by clamping his sharp teeth around Lisa's hand.

Frieda Kiely was appalled. 'Ooooh, did the nasty journalist put her dirty hand in your mouth?' She glared at Lisa. 'If Schiaperelli becomes ill, I shall sue you. You and that rag of a newspaper you represent.'

'It's not a newspaper. It's Colleen Colleen magazine. We did a shoot in Donegal of your ' magazine. We did a shoot in Donegal of your '

But Frieda wasn't listening. Instead she heaved herself up on to her elbow and roared through the door at her assistant. 'Girl! Someone in this building smells of turnip! Find out who it is and get rid of them. I've told you before I won't stand for it.'

The assistant appeared from the outer office and said calmly, 'You're imagining things, no one smells of turnip.'

'I can smell it. You're fired!' Frieda shrieked.

Lisa stared at her hand. The little bastard had left his teethmarks on her skin. She'd had enough. There was no way they could run a piece on this madwoman.

In the outer office, the assistant who was actually called Flora rubbed Lisa's wound with arnica ointment that was obviously there for that very purpose.

'How many times a day does she sack you?' Lisa asked.

'Countless. She can be difficult,' Flora soothed. 'But that's because she's a genius.'

'She's an insane bitch.'

Flora cocked her head to one side and considered. 'Yes,' she mused, 'that too.'

Lisa caught a taxi to the office. Under no circumstances would she give Mercedes the satisfaction of knowing she was right, that Frieda Kiely was was a maniac. a maniac.

'Frieda was a charming woman,' Lisa told the staff of Colleen Colleen. 'We really bonded.'

She watched Mercedes for her reaction, but her dark eyes gave nothing away.

Half an hour later, Jack came out of his office, marched straight over to Lisa and said, 'London rang.'

She turned her expertly made-up grey eyes on him, her throat too full of anxiety to permit speech. Jesus Christ, what a morning!

Jack stalled for impact, before slowly saying, with dramatic effect, 'L'Oreal... have placed... a four-page ad... every issue... for the first... six... months!'

He took a moment to let the news hit home. And then he smiled, happiness flooding across his generally troubled face. His curly mouth kinked upwards, displaying his cheeky chipped tooth, and his eyes were bright and delighted.

'What kind of discount?' Lisa's numb lips mumbled.

'No discount. They're paying full ratecard. Because we're worth it, ha ha.'

Lisa remained still, watching his face with a kind of wonder. It was only now that they were back on track that she let herself feel the full extent of the terror that had been present for the past week. Jack didn't need to tell her that L'Oreal's vote of confidence would probably be enough to convince other cosmetic houses to buy space.

'Good,' she managed.

Why did he have to tell her in front of everyone? If they'd been closeted in his office she could have flung herself into his arms and given him a hug.

'Good?' He widened his eyes playfully.

'We should celebrate.' Lisa began to gather herself and let the relief in. 'Have lunch.'

Her happiness levels continued to rise when Jack agreed, 'We should.'

They locked eyes and exchanged a moment of dizzy euphoria.

'I'll book a table. Trix,' Lisa called, joyously, 'cancel my lunch-time hair appointment!'

It was nearly like the old days.

'While you're here, Jack, take a look at this.' Lisa waved something at him.

From three desks away, Ashling who'd been following everything with interest anyway anyway saw that Lisa was showing Jack her salsa article. saw that Lisa was showing Jack her salsa article.

'Told you I'd knock this magazine into something fabulous,' Lisa laughed up at him.

'You certainly did,' he agreed, skimming over the piece, nodding with approval. 'This is excellent stuff.'

Impotently, Ashling watched. Somehow Lisa had appropriated all the credit for her her work. It wasn't fair. But what was she going to do about it? Nothing. Too scared of confrontation. All at once she heard herself call, 'Glad you like it!' Her voice was shaking. She was trying to come across as casual, but she knew she sounded stilted and strange. work. It wasn't fair. But what was she going to do about it? Nothing. Too scared of confrontation. All at once she heard herself call, 'Glad you like it!' Her voice was shaking. She was trying to come across as casual, but she knew she sounded stilted and strange.

Surprised, Jack jerked his head towards Ashling.

'I wrote the piece,' she said, apologetically. 'I'm glad you like it,' she added, without conviction.

'And Gerry typeset it,' Lisa scolded. 'And I came up with the concept. You're going to have to learn about team-work, Ashling.' Lisa directed her rebuke to Ashling directly at Jack.