Ashling shrugged, then couldn't help giggling. Surely it was obvious?

'My place?' he suggested softly.

He kissed Ashling in the taxi. And again in the hall of his flat. It felt very nice, but when they broke apart, she couldn't help looking around, checking the place out. She fancied him, but she was also keen to see how he lived, to find out about him.

It was a one-bedroomed apartment in a modern block and the grunge factor was surprisingly low.

'But it doesn't smell funny!'

'I told you, my Mammy trained me well.'

She turned into his living-room. 'Look at all your videos,' she gasped. There seemed to be hundreds lining the walls.

'We could watch something if you like,' he said.

She did like. Torn between attraction to him and childish nerves, she welcomed a delay.

'Pick one,' he invited.

But when she began scanning the shelves, she slowly realized something odd. Monty Python, Blackadder, Lenny Bruce, Laurel and Hardy, Father Ted, Mr Bean, The Marx Brothers, Eddie Murphy they were all all comedy videos. comedy videos.

She was confused. On their first date they'd had a lively discussion on their favourite films. He'd claimed to like a wide variety of stuff, but you'd never know it from looking at his shelves. Eventually she plumped for The Life of Brian The Life of Brian.

'An excellent choice, if I may say so, madam!' He produced a bottle of white wine for her, a can of beer for himself, and they tentatively snuggled together in front of the telly.

Ten minutes into the film Marcus touched her bare shoulder with his index finger and began to stroke it slowly. 'Asssh-liiing,' he crooned with an intensity which flipped her stomach. Almost afraid, she looked at him quickly. He was staring at the screen. 'Now watch carefully,' he urged, in the same low tone. 'One of the greatest comedy moments of all time is coming up.'

Mildly disappointed but ever obedient she paid attention and when Marcus dissolved into convulsions she couldn't help laughing herself. Then he swivelled round to her and asked, like a cute little boy, 'Would you mind, Ashling?'

'What!?' Sleeping with me? Sleeping with me?

'If we watched that again.'

'Oh! Not at all'

When her heart rate had slowed down to normal she decided she was touched that he wanted to share what was important to him.

'So were they pleased about me saying I'd do the column?' he asked, some time later.

'Oh, delighted!'

'That Lisa, she's some piece of work, eh?'

'Very persuasive.' Ashling wasn't sure how smart it would be to start slagging off Lisa.

'You should get the credit for it, though.'

'But I didn't do anything.'

Marcus looked at her with meaning. 'You could tell them you persuaded me when we were in bed together.'

The naked intent in his look made her throat seize up. Then she swallowed as if eating an oyster. 'But that wouldn't be true.'

A long pause, where his eyes never wavered from hers. 'We could make it true.'

Her high spirits had worn off. Disappeared, in fact. It felt too soon to go to bed with him, but to resist would seem old-fashioned. She simply could not understand the ridiculous timidity which paralysed her she was thirty-one years old, she'd had sex with lots of men.

'Come on.' He stood up and tugged gently at her hand. Something was telling her that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

'But the film...'

'I've seen it before.'

No kidding.

Shyness wrestled with curiosity, attraction fought with fear of intimacy. She wanted to sleep with him and yet she didn't, but his urgent need was compelling. She found herself on her feet. A kiss went some way to persuading her, and she was in his bedroom. It wasn't a fluid dance where fumbling disappeared and clothes dissolved without clumsiness. He hadn't been able to get the hang of unhooking her bra, and when she saw how large his erection seemed in the narrowness of his hips, she had to look away. She trembled like a terrified virgin.

'What's wrong?'

'I'm shy.'

'So it's not because of me?'

'Oh no.' His vulnerability made her try harder. She gathered him to her, which had the double effect of pleasing him and ensuring she no longer had to see his hardness springing from its nest of hair.

The sheets were fresh, the candles a surprising touch, he was thoughtful and attentive and never once remarked on her absence of waist, but she had to admit that no, she wasn't entirely transported. However, he was very appreciative, and she enjoyed that. It certainly wasn't the worst sexual experience she'd ever had. And the best sex had always been slightly unreal, usually taking place during making up with Phelim, when the joy of being reunited added an extra piquancy to an already compatible experience.

She was a big girl now and expecting the earth to move was unrealistic. Anyway, the first time she'd had sex with Phelim it hadn't set the world on fire either.

38.

On Sunday morning Clodagh woke, perched precariously on the six inches at the edge of the bed. Craig had shunted her to the margin of the bed, but it could quite easily have been Molly or both of them. She couldn't remember the last time she and Dylan had slept unchaperoned, and she was so well practised at sleeping hanging over the side that she was sure she could manage a great night's sleep on the edge of a cliff, at this stage.

Something was telling her it was very early. Five o'clock early. The sun was up and the gap where the calico curtains didn't quite meet glowed in a line of acid-bright light, but she knew it was too soon to be awake. The unseen seagulls beyond her window wailed shrill and plaintive. They sounded like babies from a horror film. Beside Craig, Dylan slept heavily, his limbs thrown across the bed in a random tangle, his breath whistling rhythmically in and out, each exhalation lifting his hair from his forehead.

Despondency lay heavy upon her. She'd had a bad week. After the disaster with the employment agency, Ashling had urged her to get a second opinion. So she'd put her expensive suit back on and tried again. The second employment agency treated her with almost as much disdain as the first had. But to her enormous surprise, the third proposed sending her for a two-day trial, making tea and answering the phone at a radiator-supply firm. 'The pay is... modest,' the recruitment man had admitted, 'but for someone like you who's been out of the workplace for a long time, it's a good start. They're bound to love you, so off you go. Good luck!'

'Oh. Thanks.' As soon as Clodagh knew she might have a job, she didn't want it. Making tea and answering the phone, where was the fun in that? She did it at home all the time. And a radiator-supply firm? It sounded so dreary. In a strange way, getting a job and then finding she didn't want it was almost worse than being told she was unemployable. Though not much given to introspection, she vaguely realized that she wasn't actually looking for a job she certainly didn't need the money she was looking for glamour and excitement. And the reality was she wasn't going to find them at a radiator-supply firm.

So she rang Mr Recruitment and pretended she couldn't start because Craig had got measles. Children had their uses, she reflected. If there was something you didn't want to do, you could say they had a high temperature and that you were worried about meningitis. It had absolved her from attending Dylan's Christmas party last year. And the year before. And she fully intended to use it this year as well.

She shifted uncomfortably. Something sharp was digging into her back. A forage revealed it to be Buzz Lightyear. Outside the window the seagulls shrieked again, their ugly forlorn cries echoing within her. She felt trapped, painted into a corner, blocked. As though she was locked in a small dark airless box, which was getting ever tighter she couldn't understand it. She'd always been happy with her lot. Her life had happened exactly as it should and its progress had been ever forward, ever positive. Then, with no warning, it seemed to have stopped. Going nowhere with nothing to look forward to. A horrible thought wormed in was it going to be like this for ever?

Suddenly she noticed that Dylan's whistling had reached crescendo level. Seized by a frenzy of intolerance she exploded, 'Stop breathing! breathing!' With a rough shove to his head she changed the angle of his windpipe.

'Sorry,' he mumbled, without waking up. She envied his uncomplicated slumber. Flattened against the mattress, she half-listened to the seagulls until Molly clambered into bed beside her and hit her in the face. Time to get up.

An emergency appendectomy, she thought longingly. Or a mild stroke a mild stroke. Nothing too serious. But one that involved a long stay in a hospital that had very restricted visiting hours.

After her shower she dried herself and spoke briskly to Dylan, who was sitting, yawning, on the edge of the bed. 'Don't give Craig any Frosties, he's asked for them all week, but then he won't touch them. There's a new playgroup opening at the bottom of the road, we're all invited to see it today. I don't know whether or not to disturb Molly with a move, but she's so unpopular with the old boot at her current one that maybe it might be a good idea '

'We used to talk about more than the kids.' Dylan sounded weird.

'Like what?' Clodagh asked defensively.

'Don't know. Nothing... anything. Music, films, people...'

'Well, what do you expect?' she said angrily. 'The kids are the only people I see, I can't help it. But while we're on the subject of outside interests, I was thinking we might do some decorating.'

'Decorate what?' he asked tightly.

'Here, our bedroom.' She slapped on some body cream and speedily rubbed it in.

'It's only a year since we did this room.'

'It's at least eighteen months.'

'But...'

Clodagh began to pull on her underwear.

'You missed a bit.' Dylan reached over to rub in the blob of cream at the back of her thigh.

'Get off!' she snapped, shoving his arm away. The touch of his hand on her skin enraged her.

'Would you calm down!' Dylan shouted. 'What is wrong wrong with you?' with you?'

Too late, her response frightened her. She shouldn't have done that. Dylan's expression scared her even more anger twisted and troubled with pain.

'Sorry, I'm just tired,' she managed. 'Sorry. Can you make a start on dressing Molly?'

Trying to dress Molly when she didn't want to be dressed was like trying to put a reluctant octopus into a string bag.

'No!' she screamed, wriggling and writhing.

'Clodagh, give us a hand,' Dylan called, trying to catch a flailing arm and shove it in a sleeve.

'Mummy, nooooooo!'

While Clodagh held Molly still, Dylan crooned in a patient, sing-song voice. Ameliorative nonsense about how Molly was going to look lovely when her shorts and T-shirt were on and how pretty the colours were.

When the final shoe was wedged on to Molly's kicking foot, Dylan smiled in triumph at Clodagh.

'Mission accomplished,' she grinned. 'Thank you.'

When Dylan had said that all they talked about was the kids, it had panicked her. But if she was honest she'd admit it was partly true. They soldiered together, side by side, childcare workers almost colleagues. And what was so wrong with that, she thought, seeking justification. They had two children, what else were they meant to do?

There was a good turnout at the new playgroup. As Clodagh walked through and winced slightly at the day-glo-painted jack-in-the-box doors, the first person she met was Deirdre Bullock, who had a black belt in Mothering. Her daughter, Solas Bullock, was the world's most talented child.

'You'll never believe it!' Deirdre exclaimed. 'Solas is speaking in complete sentences now.' She left a grisly little pause before enquiring, 'Is Molly?' Solas was three months younger than Molly.

'No.' Then Clodagh added airly, 'Molly prefers to communicate with us in writing.'

She'd probably be drummed out of the coffee-morning circuit, but it was worth it to see the horrified look on Deirdre's face.

On Monday, Clodagh came up with a great idea to lift her out of her gloom. She'd go out tonight with Ashling. They'd go on the piss like the old days, maybe even go to a club, and she'd get a chance to wear some of her lovely new clothes. Maybe the palazzo pants and tunic but what shoes did you wear with them, she wondered. She suspected chunky platforms might be expected of her, but could she go through with it without feeling like a complete dick? Hard to know, it was so long since she'd worn fashionable clothes.

All excited, she rang Ashling at work.

'Ashling Kennedy speaking.'

'It's Clodagh. Oh ' She'd just remembered something. 'That Ted called round on Friday to collect his jacket.'

'So he said.'

'He's nice, isn't he? I always thought he was a bit of a fool, but he's actually not so bad once you get to know him, is he?'

'Um.'

'He was telling me about being a stand-up comedian. He showed me his posters.'

'Oh.'

'I'd love to go and see him. He said he'd let me know the next time he's on, but will you keep me posted?'

'Ah, right.'

'Now, why don't we go out for a few drinks tonight? Get plastered, maybe even go for a dance. Dylan can babysit.'

'I can't,' Ashling apologized. 'I'm going out with Marcus. My new boyfriend,' she explained.

'Your what?'

'Boyfriend.' The pride in Ashling's voice was startling. 'We've only seen each other a couple of times, but we spent all day yesterday in bed, and he wants to see me tonight.'

A gap in time opened, hurtling a whoosh of nostalgia at Clodagh. The first buzzy flush of love was right with her, surprising her with its crazy clarity. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it receded, leaving inexplicable yearning in its wash.

'Can't you cancel him?' she attempted.

'No,' Ashling said awkwardly. 'I said I'd help him with his act. He's a stand-up comedian, you see '

'Another one!'