She closed her eyes and pressed her spine into his stomach. The rigid tension that kept her back teeth permanently clamped together loosened, lessened and dissolved. She slept better than she had in a long, long time.

In the morning they slipped with almost alarming ease into their old routine. The pattern of domesticity that they'd shared every morning for four years. Oliver got up first and organized coffee. Then Lisa hogged the bathroom while he seethed outside trying to chivvy her along. When he pounded the door and yelled, 'C' mon babes, I'll be late!' the deja vu deja vu was so intense she had a long, dizzy moment when she couldn't remember where she was. She knew it wasn't home but... was so intense she had a long, dizzy moment when she couldn't remember where she was. She knew it wasn't home but...

When she emerged swaddled in towels, she grinned, 'Sorry.'

'You'd better have left me some dry towels,' he warned.

''Course I have.' She scooted across to gulp some coffee. And waited.

She heard the rush of the shower being turned on, then a while later the sudden cessation of its pounding. Any minute now...

'Aw, Lisa.' Oliver's echoey complaint issued, as expected. 'Babes! You've only left me a naffing face-cloth! You always do this.'

'It's not a face-cloth,' Crouching with laughter, Lisa came into the bathroom. 'It's much much bigger.' bigger.'

Oliver scorned the hand-towel that Lisa demonstrated. 'That's not even going to dry my knob!'

'I'm sorry,' she teased tenderly, and unwound one of her own towels. 'See, I'm going to give you the shirt off my back.'

'You're a trollop,' he grumbled.

'I know,' she nodded.

'You really are un-fucking-believable.'

'Oh, I know,' know,' she agreed, with extreme sincerity. she agreed, with extreme sincerity.

Alternately mocking and soothing, Lisa dried his hard shiny body. It was an activity that she'd always loved, though some parts of his body got more attention than others.

'Hey, Lees,' Oliver eventually said.

'Mmmm?'

'I think my thighs might be dry now.'

'Oh... yeah.' They shared a wry look.

As they got dressed, across the room she suddenly noticed something almost as familiar as herself. Before she could stop herself, she'd exclaimed, 'Oi, that's my LV holdall!'

And it was. He'd used it to pack some of his stuff the day he'd left.

Instantly the room was dense with the ugly emotions of that day. Oliver furiousagain. Lisa angrily defensiveagain. Oliver objecting that theirs was no longer a proper marriage. Lisa sarcastically telling him to divorce her.

'I'll give it you back.' Oliver proferred the holdall hopefully, but it was no good. The mood was sombre and, in silence, they finished getting ready for work.

When she couldn't stall any further, Lisa said, 'Well, bye.'

'Bye,' he replied. To her surprise she had tears in her eyes.

'Aw, don't cry.' He bundled her in his arms. 'C' mon, Editor-Girl, you'll smudge your make-up.'

She managed a wet giggle, but her throat ached as if a big round stone was stuck in it. 'I'm sorry things didn't work out for us,' she admitted, in a low tone.

'Well,' he shrugged. 'Shit happens. Did you know that '

' two in three marriages end in divorce,' they said together.

With effort, they managed a laugh, then disengaged.

'And at least it's amicable now,' she said awkwardly. 'Like, we're, you know, talking to each other.'

'Exactly,' he cheerfully agreed. She was distracted by the sheen of his lilac linen shirt against the silky chocolate of his throat. Jesus, that man knew how to dress!

As she pulled the door closed, he called, 'Hey, babes, don't forget.'

Her heart lifted and she opened the door again. Forget what? I love you? Forget what? I love you?

'Get a lawyer!' He wagged his finger and grinned.

It was a beautiful sunny morning. She walked through the buttery sunshine to work. She felt like shit.

41.

Lisa suddenly realized that no one had mentioned the shows. Or should she say, The Shows!!! She could never think of them without seeing them lit up in neon. They were the highlight of an editor's job. Twice a year, jetting off to the buzzy hub of Milan or Paris. (She flew everywhere else but the shows were so glamorous that naturally one 'jetted' to them.) Staying at George V or Principe di Savoia, being treated like royalty, getting front-row seats at Versace, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel, receiving flowers and gifts simply for showing up. The four-day circus teeming with egomaniac designers, neurotic models, rock-stars, film-idols, sinister millionaires in gold, chunky jewellery, and, of course, magazine editors eyeing each other with savage hatred, checking out how high their seat was in the pecking order. Party after party, in art galleries, nightclubs, warehouses, abbatoirs (some of the more cutting-edge designers just didn't know where to draw the line). Where you simply couldn't be more at the centre of the universe if you tried tried, dear.

Of course, it was written in stone that you bitched that the clothes were unwearable nonsense designed by misogynistic wankers, that the post-show presents weren't as lavish as the previous year's, that the best hotel room was always bagsed by Lily Head-ley-Smythe, and what a huge pain it was having to travel a mile outside the city-centre to see some young hotshot display his groundbreaking collection in a disused bean-canning plant, but it was still unthinkable not to go. And it hit her like an avalanche of Kurt Gieger loafers that there had been no talk of the shows at Colleen Colleen. Seeing Oliver must have triggered thoughts of them.

It was probably all in hand, she soothed herself. There was likely to be a budget provision for both herself and Mercedes to go. But what if there wasn't? The freelance budget she'd been given couldn't accommodate the costs. Not even close. It could barely have paid for a croissant at George V.

With rising panic Lisa knocked on Jack's door and didn't wait for him to answer before she marched on in. 'The shows,' she said with an involuntary wheeze.

In surprise, Jack looked up, frozen in a hunched pose over what looked like a ton of legal documents. 'What shows?'

'Fashion shows. Milan, Paris. September. I will be going?' Her pounding heart was too big for her chest.

'Sit down,' Jack gently invited, and instantly she knew those words were bad news.

'I always went when I was editor of Femme Femme. It's important for the profile of the magazine that we have a presence there. Advertising, all that,' came out in a garbled rush. 'We'll never be taken seriously if we're not seen...'

Jack watched her, waiting for her to finish. The sympathy in his eyes told her she was wasting her time, but never say die.

A deep breath steadied her, 'I am going?'

'I'm sorry,' Jack crooned, his voice like Savlon. 'We don't have the budget. Not this year, anyway. Maybe when the magazine is more on its feet, when the advertising has increased.'

'But surely I?'

Sadly he shook his head. 'We haven't the money.'

It was the pity in his look as much as his words that finally hammered the truth home. The full awful reality slammed into her. Everyone else would be there. Everyone in the whole world. And they'd notice she wasn't, she'd be a laughing stock. Then an even more awful thought filled her head. Maybe they wouldn't wouldn't notice. notice.

Jack was pouring oil on troubled waters like no one's business, promising to buy syndicated pictures from any number of sources, how Colleen Colleen could still do a fantastic spread, how the readers would never know that their editor hadn't actually been... could still do a fantastic spread, how the readers would never know that their editor hadn't actually been...

It was then that Lisa realized she was crying. Not angry, tantrummy tears, but pure, sweet grief that she was powerless to control. Infinite sadness heaved out of her with each sob.

It's only a few silly fashion shows, said her head.

But she couldn't stop crying and from nowhere came a memory, completely unrelated to anything. Of when she was about fifteen, smoking and mooching around Hemel town centre with two other girls, complaining about how shit it all was.

'Full of spastics,' Carol's slick mouth had twisted with bored disgust as she surveyed the high street.

'And pricks with shit clothes and shit lives,' Lisa had agreed nastily.

'Look, that's your mum, isn't it?' Andrea's blue-mascaraed eyes were catty and amused as, with a nod of her backcombed head, she'd indicated a woman across the road.

With an unpleasant lurch Lisa saw her mother, dowdy and ridiculous in her 'best' coat. 'Her?' Lisa had scorned, exhaling a long plume of smoke. 'That's not my mum.'

Back in Jack's office she was saying something. Over and over, her voice muffled. 'I've worked so hard,' she insisted, into her hands. 'I've worked so hard.'

She was barely aware of Jack, as he pawed around in his pockets. There was the rustle of cardboard, the click of a lighter, the acrid whiff of nicotine.

'Can I have one?' She lifted her tear-mottled face briefly.

'It's for you.' He passed her the lit cigarette which she accepted meekly and sucked on as if it was saving her life. She smoked it in six hungry pulls.

Jack continued pawing. Passively, uninterestedly, she watched him pull a scratchcard from one pocket, a receipt from another. Finally, in his desk drawer, he found what he was looking for. A wodge of paper napkins bearing the SuperMac logo, which he pressed into her hand.

'I wish I was the kind of man who carries a big, clean white hanky for this sort of eventuality,' he said softly.

''s all right.' She rubbed the shiny paper over her salt-tender cheeks. With each hit of nicotine, her weeping lessened, until the only sound she was making was a sporadic tearful gasp.

'Sorry,' she eventually said. Everything had slowed down; her heart rate, her reactions, her thoughts. She could go on sitting in this office for ever, too stupefied to be embarrassed, too sleepy to question what was happening to her.

'Another one?' Jack enquired as she stubbed out her cigarette. She nodded.

'You know that they only picked you for this job because you're the best,' Jack said, passing her a lit cigarette, then lighting one for himself. 'No one else could set up a magazine from scratch.'

'Funny way to reward me,' she said, another wheezy gasp jumping from her.

'You are amazing,' Jack said earnestly. 'Your energy, your vision, your ability to motivate staff. You don't miss a trick. I wish you could see how much we value you. You'll get to the shows. Maybe not this year, but soon.'

'It's not just the job or the shows.' The words spilled from her mouth.

'Oh?' Jack's dark eyes were interested.

'I saw my husband...'

'Your... um?' The sideshow of emotions on Jack's face interested her. He was bothered. Though she couldn't feel it yet, she knew this was a good thing. 'I didn't know you were married,' he settled on.

'I'm not. Well, I am, but we've split up.' Painfully, she added, 'We're getting divorced.'

Jack looked deeply uncomfortable. 'Christ! I've never been through it, so I'm not going to patronize you with advice or stuff... I mean, I've split up with people, which is rough, but not the same, I'd imagine. But, anyway, well, it sounds...' He searched around for the appropriate word and couldn't find anything dramatic enough. 'Rough, it sounds rough.'

She nodded. 'Yeah. Look, I don't know why I'm telling you this.' With a sudden show of control and efficiency, she blew her nose, rummaged in her bag, then flipped open a mirror. 'I'm a horror-show,' she said briskly.

'You look fine to me...'

After a quick repair job with Beauty Flash and All About Eyes, she said, 'I'd better get back. Ashlings to shout at, Gerries to row with.'

'You don't have to...'

Slowing down, she momentarily took off her mag-hag persona. 'You've been very kind to me,' she admitted. 'Thank you.'

42.

'Him, there, the tall one.' Ashling pointed through the crowds at the River Club.

'That's your boyfriend?' Clodagh asked incredulously. 'He's lovely, a bit like Dennis Leary.'

'Ah, he's not really,' Ashling demurred, thrilled thrilled.

All of a sudden she felt nearly as good as Clodagh. OK, Clodagh obviously needed glasses, but so what! And wait until she saw Marcus perform!

It was Saturday night and there was a star-studded cast on at the River Club. As well as Marcus and Ted, Bicycle Billy, Mark Dignan and Jimmy Bond were also playing.

'Quick, spread your jacket and your bag across as many chairs as possible.' Ashling threw herself towards a vacant table. The comedians were doing the great honour of sitting with them, and Joy and Lisa were also coming. Even Jack Devine had said he might drop in.

From across the room, Ted had spotted Clodagh and came running. 'Hello,' he exclaimed, pathetically aglow. 'Thank you for coming.'

'I'm looking forward to it,' Clodagh said graciously.

Ted pulled up a chair and sat next to Clodagh in a way that proclaimed they were 'special' friends.

Ashling anxiously watched the interplay. The dogs in the street knew that Ted fancied Clodagh. But what of Clodagh? She had had insisted on coming without Dylan. insisted on coming without Dylan.

With wild animation Ted chatted away until suddenly he realized that he might have to vomit. His usual nerves were wildly exacerbated by Clodagh's presence. White-faced, he made his excuses and lurched towards the gents'.