'Do you want me to check on Craig... ?' Ashling asked anxiously. 'I have plasters.'

'So do I.' Clodagh gave her an exasperated look. 'Tell me about your job. Please Please.'

'OK.' Ashling gave one last regretful look at the garden. 'It's a glossy magazine. Much more glamorous than Woman's Place Woman's Place.'

When she got to the part about Jack Devine arguing furiously, then being bitten by the Asian girl, Clodagh finally perked up.

'Go on,' she urged, her eyes sparkling. 'Tell us! Nothing, but nothing puts me in better humour than overhearing people having a right old ding-dong. One day last week, I was coming out of the gym and there was a man and a woman in a parked car and they were roaring roaring at each other. I mean, roaring! Even with the windows up I could hear them. Put me in great form for the rest of the day.' at each other. I mean, roaring! Even with the windows up I could hear them. Put me in great form for the rest of the day.'

'I hate that,' Ashling admitted. 'It's so upsetting.'

'But why? Oh, I suppose with your, um, background... But for most people it's nice. They feel they're not the only ones having a hard time.'

'Who's having a hard time?' Anxiety bruised Ashling's face.

Clodagh looked uncomfortable. 'No one. But I really envy you!' She suddenly exploded. 'Single, starting a new job, all that excitement.'

Ashling was speechless. To her, Clodagh's life was the Holy Grail. The good-looking, devoted husband with the thriving business; the tasteful, Edwardian red-brick house in the chi-chi village of Donnybrook. Nothing to do all day long except microwave Barney pasta, make plans to redecorate already perfect rooms and wait for Dylan to come home.

'And I bet you were out clubbing last night,' Clodagh almost accused.

'Yes, but... Only the Sugarclub and I was home by two. Alone,' Alone,' she said with heavy emphasis. 'Clodagh, you've everything. Two gorgeous children, a gorgeous husband...' she said with heavy emphasis. 'Clodagh, you've everything. Two gorgeous children, a gorgeous husband...'

Is he gorgeous? Surprised, Clodagh realized that this wasn't something which had occurred to her lately. Doubtfully she admitted that for a man in his mid-thirties Dylan's body wasn't bad his midriff hadn't melted into a soft cone-shaped fold of pint-drinking flab like so many of his contemporaries' had. He still took an interest in clothes more than she did these days, if she was honest. And he went to a proper hairdresser's, and not the local oul' fella barber, who sent everyone out looking like their dad. Surprised, Clodagh realized that this wasn't something which had occurred to her lately. Doubtfully she admitted that for a man in his mid-thirties Dylan's body wasn't bad his midriff hadn't melted into a soft cone-shaped fold of pint-drinking flab like so many of his contemporaries' had. He still took an interest in clothes more than she did these days, if she was honest. And he went to a proper hairdresser's, and not the local oul' fella barber, who sent everyone out looking like their dad.

Ashling continued to protest. '... and you and you look fantastic! Two children and you've a better figure than me and I've had no children, nor am I ever likely to, if my luck with men doesn't turn soon. Ha ha ha.' look fantastic! Two children and you've a better figure than me and I've had no children, nor am I ever likely to, if my luck with men doesn't turn soon. Ha ha ha.'

Ashling was keen for Clodagh to smile, but all she said was, 'Everything feels old. Especially with Dylan.'

Ashling desperately summoned some advice. 'You just need to recapture the magic. Try and remember what it was like when you first met.'

Where was she getting this stuff from? Oh yeah, she'd written it herself in Woman's Place Woman's Place, to a woman who was going mad because her husband had retired and was forever under her feet.

'I can't even remember where I met him,' Clodagh admitted. 'Oh no, of course I do. You brought him to Lochlan Hegarty's twenty-first, remember? God, it seems like a lifetime ago.'

'You have to work at keeping things fresh,' Ashling quoted. 'Go out for romantic meals, maybe even go away for the weekend. I'll babysit any time you like.' She experienced a surge of alarm at this rash promise.

'I wanted wanted to get married.' Clodagh seemed to be talking to herself. 'Dylan and I seemed right for each other.' to get married.' Clodagh seemed to be talking to herself. 'Dylan and I seemed right for each other.'

'That's putting it mildly.' Ashling remembered the frisson frisson that had passed through the party when Clodagh and Dylan first clapped eyes on each other. Dylan was the most good-looking man in the group that he hung around with, Clodagh was undeniably the best-looking girl in her gang and people always gravitate towards their equals. When Dylan and Clodagh exchanged that fatal eye-meet, Ashling was actually on a date with Dylan her first and, as it transpired, her last. With that one look she was toast. Not that she held it against either of them. They were meant to be together, she might as well be a good sport about it. that had passed through the party when Clodagh and Dylan first clapped eyes on each other. Dylan was the most good-looking man in the group that he hung around with, Clodagh was undeniably the best-looking girl in her gang and people always gravitate towards their equals. When Dylan and Clodagh exchanged that fatal eye-meet, Ashling was actually on a date with Dylan her first and, as it transpired, her last. With that one look she was toast. Not that she held it against either of them. They were meant to be together, she might as well be a good sport about it.

Clodagh gave a tired chuckle. 'Everything is fine, really. Or at least it will be when I've changed the colour scheme in the front-room.'

'More decorating!' It seemed no time since Clodagh had got her new kitchen in. In fact, it didn't seem much longer than that since she'd done her front-room.

In the afternoon, on the way home from Clodagh's, Ashling ducked into Tesco to buy food. She flung packet after packet of microwaveable popcorn into the basket, then went to pay.

The woman ahead of her in the queue had such a laquered, stylish look about her that Ashling found herself leaning back, all the better to admire her. Like Ashling, she wore sweatpants, trainers and a little cardigan, but unlike Ashling, everything looked touchable and lustrous. The way things are before they're washed for the first time and lose their sheen of perfect newness.

Her trainers were pink Nike ones that Ashling had seen in a magazine, but that you couldn't get in Ireland yet. Her pink, parachute-silk rucksack matched the pink gel in the heel of the trainers. And her hair was lovely shiny and swingy, thick and glossy in the way that you could never achieve yourself.

In fascination Ashling checked out the contents of the woman's basket. Seven cans of strawberry Slimfast, seven baking potatoes, seven apples and four... five... six... seven seven individually wrapped little squares of chocolate from the pick'n'mix. She hadn't even put the chocolate into a bag, she looked as if she was treating them as seven individual purchases. individually wrapped little squares of chocolate from the pick'n'mix. She hadn't even put the chocolate into a bag, she looked as if she was treating them as seven individual purchases.

Some irresistible instinct told Ashling that this paltry basketful constituted the woman's weekly shop. Either that or she was providing a safe house for Grumpy, Sneezy, Dopey, Happy and whatever the other three were called.

5.

It was pouring with rain when Lisa's plane landed at Dublin airport early on Saturday afternoon. When she'd taken off from London, she'd foolishly assumed that she couldn't possibly feel worse, but one look at the rain-soaked view of Dublin made her see the error of her ways.

Dermot, her taxi-driver to the city-centre, only added to her grief. He was chatty and amiable and Lisa didn't want chatty and amiable. She thought with longing of the psychotic, uzi-carrying madman who might have been driving her taxi, if only she was in New York.

'Have you family here?' Dermot asked.

'No.'

'A boyfriend, so?'

'No.'

When she wouldn't talk about herself, he talked instead. 'I love driving,' he confided.

'Whoop-de-doo,' Lisa said nastily.

'Do you know what I do on my day off?'

Lisa ignored him.

'I go for a drive! That's what I do. And not just down to Wicklow, either, but a long one. Up to Belfast, over to Galway, or across to Limerick. One day I made it as far as Letterkenny, that's in Donegal, you know... I love love my job.' my job.'

On and on he went, as they inched through the wet, greasy streets. When they got to the hotel in Harcourt Street, he helped her with her several bags and wished her a pleasant stay in Ireland.

Malone's Aparthotel was a strange new breed of hostelry it had no bar, or restaurant, or room service or anything anything really, except for thirty rooms, each with small kitchen areas attached. Lisa was booked in for a fortnight and hopefully by then she'd have found somewhere to live. really, except for thirty rooms, each with small kitchen areas attached. Lisa was booked in for a fortnight and hopefully by then she'd have found somewhere to live.

In a daze, she hung up a couple of things, looked out at the grey view of the busy road, then flung herself out on to the damp streets, to inspect the city that now constituted home.

Now that she was actually here, the shock hit her with unprecedented force. How had her life gone so horribly wrong? She should be strolling along Fifth Avenue right now, and not in this drenched village village.

The guide-book said that it would only take half a day to walk around Dublin and see all its important sights as if that was a good thing! Sure enough, less than two hours was enough to check out the high spots read shopping both north and south of the river Liffey. It was worse than she'd expected: nobody stocked La Prairie products, Stephane Kelian shoes, Vivienne Westwood or Ozwald Boeteng.

'It's total pants! A one-horse town,' she thought, in mild hysteria, 'and the horse is wearing last-season's Hilfiger.'

She wanted to go home. She longed for London so badly, then through the mist she saw something that made her heart lift a Marks & Spencers!

Normally she never went near them: the clothes were too dowdy, the food too tempting, but today she flung herself through the entrance like a pursued dissident seeking asylum in a foreign embassy. She resisted the urge to lie, panting, against the inside of the door. But only because the door was automatic. Then she immersed herself in the food department because it had no windows and didn't interfere with her fantasies.

I'm in the High Street Kensington branch, she pretended to herself. In a moment I'm going to leave and drop into Urban Outfitters In a moment I'm going to leave and drop into Urban Outfitters.

She idled in front of the fresh fruit. No, I've changed my mind No, I've changed my mind, she decided. I'm in the Marble Arch branch As soon as I've finished here I'm going to South Molton Street.

It gave her a peculiar comfort to know that the melon salads in front of her were part of the diaspora of melon salads in all the London branches. She pressed slightly on a taut cellophane lid and felt a sense of belonging faint but real.

When she was restored to calmness she went to an ordinary supermarket and bought her weekly shopping. A routine would keep her sane well, it had certainly helped in the past. Home she traipsed, the hood of her cardigan up to protect her hair from the rain that had started to fall again. She unpacked the seven cans of Slimfast and placed them neatly in the cupboard, the potatoes and apples went in the little fridge and the seven pieces of chocolate went into a drawer. Now what? Saturday night. All alone in a strange city. Nothing to do but to stay in and watch... It was then that she noticed that there was no telly in the room.

It was such a big blow she cried a flashflood of hot, spurty tears. What was she going to do now? now? She'd already read this month's She'd already read this month's Elle, Red, New Woman, Company, Cosmo, Marie-Claire, Vogue, Tatler Elle, Red, New Woman, Company, Cosmo, Marie-Claire, Vogue, Tatler, and the Irish magazines that she'd be competing against. She could read a book, she supposed. If she had one. Or a newspaper, except newspapers were so boring and depressing... At least she had clothes to hang up. So while the streets below filled with young people en route en route to a night on the piss, Lisa smoked and shook dresses and skirts and jackets on to hangers, smoothed cardigans and tops into drawers, arranged boots and shoes into a perfect military parade, hung handbags... The phone rang, startling her from her soothing rhythm. to a night on the piss, Lisa smoked and shook dresses and skirts and jackets on to hangers, smoothed cardigans and tops into drawers, arranged boots and shoes into a perfect military parade, hung handbags... The phone rang, startling her from her soothing rhythm.

'Hello?' And then she was sorry she'd answered. 'Oliver!' Oh, bugger Oh, bugger. 'Where did you... how did you get this number?'

'Your mum.'

Interfering old cow.

'When were you going to tell me, Lisa?'

Never, actually.

'Soon. When I'd got my own place.'

'What have you done with our flat?'

'Got tenants in. Don't worry, you'll get your share of the rent.'

'And why Dublin? I thought you wanted to go to New York.'

'This seemed like a smarter career move.'

'Jesus, you're hard. Well, I hope you're happy,' he said, in a manner that meant he hoped the very opposite. 'I hope it's all been worth it.'

Then he hung up.

She looked down on the Dublin street and started to shake. Had it been worth it? Well, she'd just better make damn sure it would be. She'd make Colleen Colleen the biggest success in magazine publishing. the biggest success in magazine publishing.

She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, then went to light it again because she thought it had gone out. It hadn't, but it wasn't calming the pain. She needed something something. The chocolate called to her from the drawer, but she resisted it. Just because she felt she was in hell was no excuse to go over fifteen hundred calories a day.

In the end she gave in. She coiled in an armchair, slowly removed the paper and ran her teeth along the side of the chocolate, shaving away tiny curl after tiny curl, until it was all gone.

It took an hour.

6.

There was a clink of bottles at Ashling's door, announcing Joy's arrival.

'Ted's on his way, leave the door on the latch.' Joy clattered a bottle of white wine on to Ashling's tiny kitchen counter.

Ashling braced herself. She was not disappointed.

'Phil Collins,' Joy said, with an evil glint in her eye, 'Michael Bolton or Michael Jackson, and you must must sleep with one of them.' sleep with one of them.'

Ashling winced. 'Well, definitely not Phil Collins, and definitely not Michael Jackson and definitely definitely not Michael Bolton.' not Michael Bolton.'

'You must choose one.' Joy busied herself with the corkscrew.

'Christ.' Ashling's face was a twist of revulsion. 'Phil Collins, I suppose, I haven't picked him in a while. Right, your turn. Benny Hill, Tom Jones or... let me see, who's truly revolting? Paul Daniels.'

'Full sex or just...'

'Full sex,' Ashling said firmly.

'Tom Jones, then,' Joy sighed, handing Ashling a glass of wine. 'Now, show me what you're wearing.'

It was Saturday evening and Ted was doing the 'try-out' slot at a comedy gig. It was his first time doing his act for anyone other than friends and family, and Ashling and Joy were going along to hold his hand, then crash the party afterwards.

Joy whose surname was, memorably, Ryder lived in the flat below Ashling's. She was short, rounded, curly-haired and dangerous on account of her prodigious appetite for drink, drugs and men, coupled with her mission to turn Ashling into her partner in crime.

'Come into my bedroom,' Ashling invited and they both edged in. 'I'm going to wear these cream cargo pants and this little top.' Ashling turned from the wardrobe too quickly and stood on Joy's foot, then Joy leapt up and banged her elbow on the portable telly.

'Ouch! Doesn't the crampedness of these shoe-boxes ever get to you?' Joy sighed, rubbing her elbow.

Ashling shook her head. 'I love living in town and you can't have everything.'

Quickly, Ashling changed into her going-out clothes.

'I'd look like a Diddyman in that get-up.' Joy admired her, wistfully. 'It's a terrible thing to be pear-shaped!'

'But at least you have a waist. Now, I thought I'd do something with my hair...'

Ashling had bought several coloured butterfly clips after she'd seen what a lovely job Trix had done with them. But when she stuck them into the front of her own hair, sweeping two strands off her face, the effect wasn't quite the same.

'I just look ridiculous!'

'You do,' Joy agreed, kindly. 'Now, do you think Half-man-half-badger will be at the party after the gig?'

'Could be, it was at a party with Ted that you met him before, wasn't it? He's friends with some of the comedians, isn't he?'

'Mmmmm,' Joy nodded dreamily. 'But that was weeks ago and I haven't seen him since. Where did he disappear to, that international half-man-half-badger of mystery? Get the tarot cards and we'll have a quick look at what's going to happen.'

They traipsed into the bijou sitting-room, Joy plucked a card from the deck, then turned it to Ashling. 'Ten of swords. That's a shite one, isn't it?'