'Bloody hell, that's awful news.' Clodagh summoned energy to administer sympathy and woman-to-woman understanding.

'It is not!'

'Aren't you upset?'

'Why would I be?'

'Aren't you worried that you'll feel...' Clodagh stalled. She'd been about to say, 'Less of a woman?' But that was way too tactless. Instead she settled for, 'Aren't you worried that you'll feel a loss?'

'Not a bit if it,' Flor said gaily. 'Whip it out. Sure, it's only a nuisance. No good ever came of it. What would you like me to do for you today?'

'Oh.' Clodagh was mortified. 'A little bit of ironing, if you're able. And maybe the bathroom. Whatever you're able for really...'

Pushing open the door of the city-centre employment agency, fear and excitement manifested themselves in Clodagh's trembling hands. She stopped before a young girl with a pale-haired chignon, whose fresh, apricot-bloom skin was smothered with heavy foundation.

'I have an appointment with Yvonne Hughes.'

The girl stood up. 'Hello,' she said coolly, with surprising confidence. 'I'm Yvonne Hughes.'

'Oh.' Clodagh had expected someone a lot older.

Then Yvonne gave her the mother of all firm handshakes, as though she was in training to be a male politician. 'Take a seat.'

Clodagh palmed over her CV, which had got slightly bent in her bag.

'Now let's have a look.' Yvonne had a delicate, very deliberate way with her hands. She kept stroking the CV with the pads of her splayed, child-like fingers, flattening it out, straightening it up, realigning it with the edge of her desk. Then before she turned the page she took a moment to grasp the corner of it between her thumb and forefinger and did a brief frenzy of rubbing, just to make sure she hadn't picked up two pages at once. For some reason, this really irritated Clodagh.

'You've been out of the workplace for a long time?' Yvonne said. 'It's... how many... over five five years.' years.'

'I had a baby. I never intended to stay away so long, but then I had another child, and the time never seemed right until now.' Clodagh defended herself in a rush.

'I... seeeeeee...' Yvonne continued to toy with Clodagh's nerves as she studied her career details. 'Since you've left school, you've worked as a hotel booking clerk, receptionist at a sound studio, cashier in a restaurant, filing clerk in a solicitor's office, goods inward for a clothing company, cashier at Dublin zoo, receptionist in an architect's firm and a booking clerk at a travel agent's?' Clodagh had made Ashling put down everything she'd ever done, just to show that she was versatile. 'You stayed... three days three days at Dublin zoo?' at Dublin zoo?'

'It was the smell,' Clodagh admitted. 'No matter where I went I could smell the elephant house. I'll never forget it. Even my sandwiches tasted of it...'

'Your longest stint was at the travel agent's,' Yvonne interrupted. 'You were there for two years?'

'That's right,' Clodagh said, eagerly. Somehow she'd moved forward so that she was sitting on the edge of her chair.

'Were you promoted in that time?'

'Well, no.' Clodagh was taken aback. How could she explain that you could only be promoted to be a supervisor and that everyone both despised and pitied the supervisors.

'Have you done any of the travel-agency exams?'

Clodagh nearly laughed. The very thought! That's why you leave school, isn't it? So that you never have to sit another exam?

Yvonne twiddled her fingers in the air, before bringing each one down separately, to deliberately, hypnotically stroke the page flat again. 'What software did you use there?'

'Ah...' Clodagh couldn't remember.

'Have you typing and shorthand?'

'Yes.'

'How many words a minute?'

'Oh, I don't know. I just type with my first two fingers,' Clodagh elaborated, 'but I'm very fast. As fast as some people who've done a course.'

Yvonne's child-like eyes narrowed. She was annoyed, although not to the extent that she would have you believe. She was just playing, having fun with the power she had. 'So can I take it that you don't actually have any shorthand?'

'Well, I suppose, but I could always... No,' Clodagh admitted, having run out of energy.

'Have you any basic word-processing skills?'

'Ah, no.'

And even though Yvonne knew the answer, she asked, 'And you're not a graduate?'

'No,' Clodagh admitted, fixing Yvonne with one normal eye and one red-veined one.

'OK.' Yvonne exhaled long-sufferingly, licked a finger and used it to smooth down a ragged corner of the CV. 'Tell me what you read.'

'How do you mean?'

There was a pause, so tiny it barely existed, but Yvonne had created it to convey what a hopeless idiot she thought Clodagh was.

'FT? Time?' Yvonne prompted. She didn't exactly sigh, but she might as well have. Then she added cruelly, 'Bella? Hello!?'

All Clodagh read were interiors magazines. And Cat in the Hat Cat in the Hat books. And occasional blockbusters about women who set up their own businesses and who didn't have to sit through humiliating interviews such as this one when they wanted a job. books. And occasional blockbusters about women who set up their own businesses and who didn't have to sit through humiliating interviews such as this one when they wanted a job.

'And I see you count tennis among your interests. Where do you play?'

'Oh, I don't play play.' Clodagh gave a near-teenage giggle. 'I mean I like watching it.'

Wimbledon was about to start, there had been lots of pre-transmission publicity on telly.

'And you go to the gym?' Yvonne read. 'Or do you just like watching that too?'

'No, I really go,' Clodagh said, on much more solid ground.

'Although that hardly counts as a hobby, does it?' Yvonne asked. 'That's like saying sleeping is a hobby. Or eating.'

This caught Clodagh on the raw.

'And you're a regular theatre-goer?'

Clodagh wavered, then admitted, 'I'm not really. But you've to put down something, don't you?' (When Clodagh and Ashling had finally stopped inventing joke hobbies such as rally driving and devil worship, and had tried to assemble a list of real real ones, pickings had been slim.) ones, pickings had been slim.) 'So what are are your interests?' Yvonne challenged. your interests?' Yvonne challenged.

'Ah...' What were were her interests? her interests?

'Hobbies, passions, that kind of thing,' Yvonne said impatiently.

Clodagh's mind had frozen. The only thing she could think of was that she liked playing with her split ends, peeling the broken bit along the shaft of the hair, seeing how far up it would go. She could spend hours amusing herself thus. But something stopped her from sharing this with Yvonne. 'You see, I have two children,' she said feebly. 'They take up all my time.'

Yvonne flashed her an if-you-say-so glance. 'How ambitious are you?'

Clodagh recoiled. She wasn't at all ambitious. Ambitious people were weird.

'When working at the travel agent's, what gave you the most job satisfaction?'

Making it through the day, as far as Clodagh remembered. The idea was and it was the same for all of the girls she worked with they went in, suspended their real lives for eight hours and poured their energies into enduring the wait.

'Dealing with people?' Yvonne prompted. 'Ironing out glitches? Closing a sale?'

'Getting paid,' Clodagh said, then realized she shouldn't have. The thing was, it had been a very long time since she'd done any kind of interview. She'd forgotten the correct platitudes. And, as far as she remembered, she'd always been interviewed by men before, and they'd been a damn sight nicer than this little cow.

'I'm not really interested in working in a travel agent's again,' Clodagh said. 'I wouldn't mind if you got me a job in a... magazine.'

'You'd like to work in a magazine?' Yvonne pretended she was finding it hard to stifle a smile. Clodagh nodded cautiously. 'Wouldn't we all, dear?' Yvonne sang.

Clodagh decided she hated her, this powerful, merciless child. Calling her 'dear' when she was half her age.

'What kind of salary did you have in mind?' Yvonne asked, turning the screws.

'I don't... ah... I hadn't thought... What do you you think?' Clodagh handed the last vestiges of her power over to Yvonne. think?' Clodagh handed the last vestiges of her power over to Yvonne.

'It's hard to say. I don't have much to go on. If you'd consider retraining...'

'Maybe,' Clodagh lied.

'If anything comes up, I'll be in touch.'

They both knew she wouldn't be.

Yvonne accompanied her to the door. It gave Clodagh savage pleasure to see that she was slightly pigeon-toed.

Out on the street, in her hateful, ridiculous, expensive suit, she walked slowly to her car. Her confidence was shattered. This morning had been a terrifying lesson in how old and useless she was. She'd hung all her hopes on a job but, manifestly, the world of work was a too-fast place which she didn't have the skills to belong to any more.

Now what was she going to do?

34.

On Tuesday morning, Lisa was pawing the ground and champing at the bit outside Randolph Media, desperate to get in. Never again would she endure a weekend like the one she'd just had. On the bank-holiday Monday, she'd been so bored that she'd gone to the cinema on her own. But the movie she'd wanted to see had sold out, so she'd ended up having to go to something called Rugrats Rugrats Two, sharing the cinema with what seemed like a billion over-excited under-sevens. She really hadn't known there were that many children in the world. And how ironic that the people she was spending so much of her time with lately were children... Two, sharing the cinema with what seemed like a billion over-excited under-sevens. She really hadn't known there were that many children in the world. And how ironic that the people she was spending so much of her time with lately were children...

She glared at Bill the porter, as behind the glass door he jingled his keys to let her in. It was all his fault, the lazy, workshy old bastard. If he'd let her come to work over the weekend she'd never have found out how empty her life was.

'Jayzus, you're early,' Bill grumbled in alarm.

'Nice weekend?' Lisa asked acidly.

'Bedad, I did indeed,' Bill said expansively, and launched into an account of visits from grandchildren, visits to to grand-children... grand-children...

'Because I didn't,' Lisa interrupted.

'I'm sorry to hear that,' he sympathized, wondering what it had to do with him.

But on the good side, Lisa thought, as she went up in the lift, she'd made some decisions. If she was going to be stuck in this horrible bloody country, she was going to build up a network of friends. Well, maybe not friends as such as such, but people whom she could call 'darling' and bitch about other people to.

And she was going to have sex with someone. A man man, she hastily specified. Never mind the New Bisexuality which she'd profiled in the March issue of Femme Femme one sheepish snog with a model at the Met Bar had been all she could manage. Like Sensible Chic, having sex with women just wasn't for her. one sheepish snog with a model at the Met Bar had been all she could manage. Like Sensible Chic, having sex with women just wasn't for her.

That terrible weekend urge to call Oliver was a clear sign that she needed a bloke. Jack, if possible. But, with a hardening of her resolve, she decided if Jack wanted to play Burton and Taylor with Mai, she was going to find someone else. Perhaps that would bring him to his senses. Either way, things couldn't go on as they were.

Of course, she mightn't be able to find a suitable boyfriend immediately. But she swore to herself that at the very least at the very least before the week was out she was going to sleep with someone. before the week was out she was going to sleep with someone.

Like who? There was Jasper Ffrench, the celebrity chef, he'd certainly been up for it. But he was much too much of a pain. There was that Dylan she'd seen with Ashling. He was a babe. Married, unfortunately, so she wasn't really likely to run into him in a nightclub. Spending the weekend hanging around DIY stores would be a better bet.

'Jesus Christ,' she said aloud, coming to a halt when she walked into the office. Champagne bottles, mugs, tin foil and wire were strewn everywhere, and the place stank like a pub. Obviously the cleaner didn't think it was her job to clear up the remains of Friday's beano. Well, Lisa wasn't going to wash anything, she had her nails to think of. Ashling could do it.

To Lisa's jealous contempt, every single other member of staff was late. They'd all had a wild three days. Even Mrs Morley, who, after her couple of mugs of champagne on Friday, had spent the weekend on the sauce.

Now it was payback time all and sundry were moany and depressed, especially Kelvin, who'd punctured his inflatable orange rucksack with his thumb ring in a tragic looking-for-a-biro accident on Sunday night.

As everyone studiously avoided looking at the dirty cups, comparisons of hangovers abounded.

'It always gets me more in the stomach than the head,' Dervla O'Donnell confided to the general populace. 'Nothing but two rasher sandwiches stops the queasiness.'

'Nah, it's the paranoia that does for me,' Kelvin shivered, flicking a furtive glance at her, then dipping his head down again immediately.

Even Mrs Morley admitted shyly, 'I feel as though a dagger is being stabbed repeatedly into my right eye.'

Lisa longed to join in and couldn't. The icing on her pissed-off cake was when Mercedes swanned in, laden with bags covered in airline stickers. Apparently she'd gone to New York, of all places, for the weekend. Spoilt bitch, Lisa thought bitterly. Lucky Lucky bitch. And how come everyone seemed to have known about it except her? bitch. And how come everyone seemed to have known about it except her?

Mercedes had been commissioned to bring back several items: white Levi's for Ashling apparently they were half the price over there; a Stussy hat for Kelvin, which you couldn't get in Europe; and a consignment of Babe Ruth bars for Mrs Morley, who'd been to Chicago in the sixties and had never been able to settle for Cadbury's since. The lucky recipients fell with glad cries upon their items and money changed hands briskly.

'I was thinking of killing myself,' Kelvin cheerfully sported his new hat, 'but now I'm not going to.'

Lisa watched sourly. She could have asked Mercedes to bring back Kiehl's body butter. Not that she would have. But she would have enjoyed refusing refusing to ask her. to ask her.

As well as the requested items, Mercedes brought generous presents for the office forty flavours of jelly beans, bags of Hershey kisses and armloads of Reece's peanut-butter cups. But when Mercedes offered her a bag of Hershey kisses, Lisa shuddered, 'Oh no. I always think American chocolate tastes slightly like sick.'

Mrs Morley her mouth full of a Babe Ruth gasped at such sacrilege and, momentarily, Mercedes' shark-dark eyes bore into Lisa's. Lisa saw contempt, possibly even amusement in there.