'Shite,' Ashling agreed.

Joy grasped the bundle of cards and at high speed flicked through them until she found one she liked. 'The Queen of Wands, now that's more like it! Now you pick one.'

'Three of Cups.' Ashling held it up. 'Beginnings.'

'That means you're going to meet a man too.'

Ashling laughed.

'It's ages since Phelim went to Australia, no?' Joy interrogated. 'It's about time you got over him.'

'I am am over him. I was the one who ended it, remember?' over him. I was the one who ended it, remember?'

'Only because he wouldn't do the decent thing. Although good for you, even when they won't do the decent thing by me, I still can't give them their marching orders. You're very strong.'

'It's not strength. It was because I couldn't stand the tension of waiting for him to make up his mind. I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown.'

Phelim had been Ashling's on-off boyfriend for five years. They'd had good times and not-so-good times because Phelim always lost his nerve at the last minute when it came to fullblown, grown-up commitment.

To make the relationship work, Ashling spent her life avoiding cracks in the pavement, saluting lone magpies, picking up pennies and consulting both her and Phelim's horoscopes. Her pockets were always weighed down with lucky pebbles, rose-quartz and miraculous medals and she'd rubbed nearly all the gold paint off her lucky Buddha.

Each time they got back together the well of hope was further depleted, and eventually Ashling's love just burnt out from all his dithering. Like every break-up, the final one had been unacrimonious. Ashling said calmly, 'You're always talking about how you hate being trapped in Dublin and how you want to travel the world, so go on. Do it.'

Even now a faint line of connection hummed between them, across twelve thousand miles. He'd come home in February for his brother's wedding and the first person he'd gone to see was Ashling. They'd walked into each other's arms and stood, squeezing each other for minutes on end, tears in their eyes from the close-but-no-cigar air of it all.

'Bastard,' Joy said, energetically.

'He wasn't,' Ashling insisted. 'He couldn't give me what I wanted but that doesn't mean I hate him.'

'I hate all my ex-boyfriends,' Joy boasted. 'I can't wait for Half-man-half-badger to be one, then he won't have this hold on me. Now what if he's there tonight? I need to seem unavailable. If only... no, an engagement ring would be going too far. A love-bite might do the trick, though.'

'Where are you going to get one of those?'

'From you! Here,' Joy swept aside a mass of curls from her neck. 'Would you mind?'

'Yes.'

'Please.'

And because she was an obliging type, Ashling pushed away her reluctance, half-heartedly put her teeth on Joy's neck and gave her a hickey.

Mid hickey-giving, someone said, 'Oh.' They looked up, frozen in a pose that was somehow sodden sodden with guilt. Ted was standing, looking at them. He seemed upset. 'The door was open... I didn't realize...' Then he gathered himself. 'I hope you'll both be very happy.' with guilt. Ted was standing, looking at them. He seemed upset. 'The door was open... I didn't realize...' Then he gathered himself. 'I hope you'll both be very happy.'

Ashling and Joy looked at each other and roared laughing, until Ashling took pity on him and explained all.

He saw the tarot cards on the table and pounced. 'Eight of Wands, Ashling, what does that mean?'

'Success in business,' Ashling said. 'Your act will go down a storm tonight.'

'Yeah, but will I be a big hit with the goils?'

Ted had become a stand-up comedian for one reason and one reason only to get a girlfriend. He'd seen the way women flung themselves at the comedians working the Dublin circuit, and thought that his chances of pulling were higher than at a dating agency. Not that he'd go to a real real dating agency. The only one he'd have anything to do with was the Ashling Kennedy dating agency Ashling regularly sought to matchmake all her single friends. But the only one of Ashling's pals Ted had liked was Clodagh and unfortunately she was unavailable. Very. dating agency. The only one he'd have anything to do with was the Ashling Kennedy dating agency Ashling regularly sought to matchmake all her single friends. But the only one of Ashling's pals Ted had liked was Clodagh and unfortunately she was unavailable. Very.

'Take another card,' Ashling invited him.

The one he picked was the Hanged Man.

'You'll definitely get lucky tonight,' Ashling promised.

'But it's the Hanged Man!'

'Doesn't matter.'

Ashling knew that if you put a man on a stage, no matter how plug-ugly he is and be it strumming a guitar, lepping around in doublets and purple hose or observing that you can wait for a bus for ages, then three come at once you can guarantee that women will find him attractive. Even when it's only standing on a dusty, foot-high platform in a twenty-foot-square room, he assumes a strange, seductive glamour.

'I've decided to change my act, go slightly surreal. Talk about owls.'

'Owls?'

'Owls have worked for lots of people.' Ted was defensive. 'Look at Harry Hill, Kevin McAleer.'

Oh Christ. Ashling's heart sank. 'Come on, let's go.'

As they left the flat there was a little pile-up in the hall as everyone sought to rub the lucky Buddha.

The comedy gig was in a packed, rowdy club. Ted wasn't on until the middle of the show and though the proper comedians were clever and slick, Ashling couldn't let go and enjoy herself. Too worried about how Ted would go down.

Like a lead balloon, if the performance of the other first-timer was anything to go by. He was an odd, hairy little boy whose act consisted almost entirely of 'doing' Beavis and Butthead. The audience were unforgiving. As they booed and shouted, 'Get off, you're crap,' Ashling's heart twisted for Ted.

Then it was Ted's turn. Ashling and Joy clasped hands, like proud but justifiably anxious parents. Within seconds, their hands were so slippery with sweat that they had to let go.

Under the lone spotlight, Ted looked frail and vulnerable. Absently, he rubbed his stomach, lifting up his T-shirt, giving a brief glimpse of the waistband of his Calvins and his narrow, dark-haired midriff. Ashling approved. That might get the girls interested.

'This owl walks into a bar,' Ted started. The audience's upturned faces were lambent with expectation. 'He orders a pint of milk, a packet of crisps and ten smokes. And the barman turns to his friend and says, "Look at that, a talking owl." '

There were one or two nonplussed titters, but otherwise an expectant silence reigned. They were still waiting for the punchline.

Anxiously, Ted started into a new gag. 'My owl has got no nose,' he announced.

More silence. Ashling had almost gouged stigmata in her palms with tension.

'My owl has got no nose,' Ted repeated, laced with desperation.

Then Ashling understood. 'How does he smell?' she called, her voice quavering.

'Terrible!'

The air was thick with perplexedness. People turned to their neighbours, their faces twisted into what-the-fuck... ?

And on Ted laboured. 'I met a friend of mine and he said, "Who was that lady I saw you walking along Grafton Street with?" And I said, "That was no lady, that was my owl!" '

And suddenly they seemed to get it. The laughter started small, but began to swell and burgeon, until the audience were in paroxysms. In fairness, it was Saturday night and they were were pissed. pissed.

Behind her, Ashling heard people wheeze, 'Your man's hilarious hilarious. Off-the-wall, completely.'

'What's yellow and wise?' Ted dazzled with a smile.

The audience were in the palm of his hand, their breath held, waiting for the gag. Ted smiled around the room. 'Owl-infested custard!'

The roof nearly lifted.

'What's grey and has a trunk?'

A giddy pause.

'An owl going on holidays. That's a grey owl, obviously.'

There went the rafters again.

'You're recruiting for a job.' Ted was on a roll and the audience were in floods of merriment. 'You interview three owls and ask each of them what's the capital of Rome. The first one says she doesn't know, the second one says it's Italy and the third one says that Rome is is a capital. Which owl do you give the job to?' a capital. Which owl do you give the job to?'

'The owl with the biggest tits!' someone yelled from the back and once again laughter and applause rose and flapped like a flock of birds. The more established comedians, who'd only let Ted on as a favour to stop him pestering them, looked at each other anxiously.

'Get him off,' Bicycle Billy muttered, 'the little bollocks.'

'Gotta go,' Ted ruefully told the audience as Mark Dignan made an urgent throat-cutting gesture.

'AAAAAAWWWWWWW,' everyone complained in bitter disappointment.

'We've created a fucking monster!' Bicycle Billy whispered to Archie Archer (real name Brian O'Toole).

'I've been Ted Mullins, a comedian who tells a load of oul' jokes. Or should I say owl owl jokes?' Ted twinkled. 'And you've been an owl audience!' jokes?' Ted twinkled. 'And you've been an owl audience!'

Amid hysterical cheers, whistles, foot-stamping and thunderous applause, he took his leave.

Later, as everyone beat their way out, Ashling overheard person after person talking about Ted.

'What's yellow and wise? I thought I'd end myself laughing.'

'That Ted was fantastic. Sexy too.'

'I liked the way he lifted his '

' T-shirt. Yeah, so did I'

'D'you think he has a girlfriend?'

'Bound to.'

The party was in a modern block along the quays. As it was Mark Dignan's flat, and loads of the other guests were also comedians, Ashling had expected to be kept in hysterics all night. But though the room was crowded and noisy, a bizarre atmosphere of gloom pervaded.

'They're all keeping shtum in case anyone steals their lines or ideas,' explained Joy, a veteran of such knees-ups. 'Without a paying audience you wouldn't get these fellas being funny to save their lives. Now Where is is he?' he?'

Joy went on a Half-man-half-badger walkabout and Ashling poured herself a glass of wine in the galley kitchen where Bicycle Billy was rolling a spliff. As he was short and troll-like, she was able to smile at him and say, 'You were very funny tonight. You must get great satisfaction from what you do.'

'Ah, not really,' he said tetchily. 'I'm writing a novel, you see. That's what I really want to do with my life.'

'Lovely,' Ashling encouraged.

'Oh no, it's not,' Billy was keen to emphasize. 'It's very truthful, very depressing. Very Very grim. Ah, where's my lighter?' grim. Ah, where's my lighter?'

'Allow me,' Ashling flared a match and lit his spliff. Seemed to her like he needed it.

Through the crowds in the sitting-room, she saw Ted enthroned on an armchair, an orderly queue of interested girls shuffling forward to make their case. Staring out the window into the oil-black waters of the Liffey was a broody figure, a thick stripe of grey through the front of his long, black hair. Aha, thought Ashling. International half-man-half-badger of mystery, I presume. Joy was nearby, energetically ignoring him.

Under the half-man-half-badger circumstances, Ashling decided to let her alone. Hanging around, swigging her wine, she spotted Mark Dignan. As he was almost seven-foot tall and had the poppiest eyes she'd ever seen on someone who hadn't recently been strangled, she was able to have a little chat with him too.

But he dismissed her praise of his act with a cranky wave of his hand. 'It'll do until my novel is published.'

'Ah, you're writing a novel too. So, um... what's it about?'

'It's about a man who sees the world in all its rottenness rottenness.' Mark's eyes bulged even further. They'd fall out on to the carpet soon if he wasn't careful, Ashling thought anxiously. 'It's very depressing,' Mark boasted. 'Like, unbelievably unbelievably depressing. He hates life more than life itself.' depressing. He hates life more than life itself.'

Mark realized he'd said something vaguely witty and flicked an anxious glance to make sure no one had heard.

'Er, the best of luck.' Miserable bastard Miserable bastard. Ashling moved away, and was buttonholed by an enthusiastic, bright-eyed man who insisted that Ted was a comedic anarchist, an ironic post-modern deconstructionist of the entire genre. 'He's taken the basic gag and completely subverted it. Challenging our expectations of what's funny. Anyway, d'you want to dance?'

'What? Here?' Ashling was completely thrown. It was a long time since a strange man had asked her to dance. Especially in someone's sitting-room. Although now that she looked, people all female, of course were kind of flinging themselves around to Fat Boy Slim. 'Ah, no thanks,' she apologized. 'It's too early in the night, I'm still too inhibited.'

'OK, I'll ask you again in an hour.'

'Great!' she exclaimed hollowly, taking in his eager face. An hour wouldn't get her drunk enough. A lifetime lifetime wouldn't suffice. wouldn't suffice.

Some time later, to her delight, she spotted Joy kissing the face off Half-man-half-badger.

She hung around a little longer. Though it was a fairly crappy party, she was surprised to find she was happy to be with a crowd and happy to be on its edges. Such contentment was rare: all Ashling knew was that she almost never felt whole. Even at her most fulfilled, something remained forever absent, right at her very core. Like the tiny, pinprick dot that remained in the wash of black when the telly used to shut down for the night.

But tonight she was calm and peaceful, alone but not lonely. Even though the only men who'd hit on her weren't her type, she didn't feel like a failure when she decided to go home.

At the door she met Mr Enthusiastic again. 'Going already? Hold it a minute.' He scribbled something on a piece of paper, then handed it to her.

She waited until she was outside before opening the twist of paper. It was a name Marcus Valentine a phone number and the instruction, 'Beliez moi!'

It was the best laugh she'd had all night.

The walk home took ten minutes at least the rain had stopped. When she reached the front-door of her block of flats, there was a man asleep in the doorway.

The same man who'd been there the other day. Except he was younger than she'd realized. Pale and slight, clutching tightly on to his thick grubby-orange blanket, he looked barely more than a child.