There was muttered talk amongst the adults. People came to the house, conversed in low tones and fell silent whenever Ashling came near. '... his parents are elderly, they couldn't cope with three lively children...' Strange new words began to be mentioned. Depression. Nerves. Breakdown. Talk of her mother 'going in someplace'.

Eventually her mother did 'go in', and her dad had to take them with him, as he worked. They drove long distances, car-sick and bored, Janet and Owen sharing the back seat with a display vacuum-cleaner. Ashling sat in the front like an adult as they criss-crossed the country, stopping at small electrical shops in small towns. From the very first appointment she absorbed Mike's anxiety.

'Wish me luck,' he said, as he grabbed his folder of brochures. 'This fellow wouldn't spend Christmas. And don't touch anything.' And don't touch anything.'

Through the car window, Ashling watched her father greet his customer on the forecourt, and saw him mutate from irritable and worried to carefree and chatty. Suddenly he had all the time in the world for a chinwag. Never mind that he still had eight more calls to make that day and was way behind schedule due to their late start. Over he went to admire the man's new car. A lot of leaning back, inspecting from all angles and congratulatory shoulder-slapping. As he talked animatedly to his customer, full of smiles and good-natured slagging, Ashling was visited with an awareness that she was much too young for. This is hard for him This is hard for him.

As soon as Mike got back into the car, the airy smiles dissolved and he changed back to being abrupt.

'Did he order stuff, Dad?'

'No.' Mouth tight, reversing fast, getting the car back on the road, screeching to his next appointment.

Sometimes people ordered goods, but it was never as much as he'd hoped, and every time he climbed back into the car and drove away, he seemed further diminished.

By the end of the week, Janet and Owen were crying almost constantly, agitating to go home. And Ashling had managed to pick up an ear infection. Something which continued to recur at times of stress throughout her life.

After three weeks of incarceration, Monica re-emerged devoid of any obvious improvement. The anti-depressants she'd been prescribed made her irritatingly dopey and slow, so she changed to another type, which didn't agree with her either.

And despite her on-going interaction with pharmaceuticals and Ashling's increasingly elaborate rituals, things never really got better. Monica's grief could be triggered by anything anything, from a natural disaster to a small random act of cruelty. A schoolboy being bullied out of his pocket-money could unleash the same torrent of weeping as an earthquake in Iran which killed thousands. But the days of silent, mostly bed-bound weeping were punctuated by fits of screaming, violent rage, directed at her husband, her children, and most of all herself.

'I don't want to feel this way!' she used to shriek. 'Would anyone want to feel like this? You're lucky, Ashling, you'll never suffer like me because you've no imagination.'

Ashling held on to this fact as though it were a shield. Lack of imagination was a great thing, it stopped you from turning into a nutter.

So volatile was Monica that Ashling spent large parts of her teenage years practically living at Clodagh's.

Occasionally, amid the torpor and hysteria, there were pockets of normality. Which weren't really normal at all. With each shirt that Monica ironed perfectly, with every meal that she served up on the dot of six, Ashling's nerves stretched that little bit more, waiting for the time when it would all slip again. And when it came it was nearly a relief.

At seventeen, Ashling left home and moved into a flat. Three years later, Mike got a job over a hundred miles away in Cork, and their subsequent move meant Ashling rarely saw her parents. During the last seven years Monica had stabilized: the depression and rage departed as unexpectedly and as unheralded as they had arrived. Her doctor said it was linked to the end of her menopause.

'She's not so bad now.' Clodagh's voice brought her back to the present.

'I know.' Ashling exhaled wearily. 'But I still don't really want to be near her. That's an awful thing to say, I know. I love her, but I find it hard to see her.'

46.

Ashling was due to arrive in Cork at lunch-time on Saturday, and she was getting the five o'clock train home on Sunday. So the 'weekend' was really only twenty-eight hours long. And she'd be asleep for eight of those hours. Which only left twenty hours to talk to her parents. No bother to her.

Twenty hours! Clutched by panic she wondered if she had enough cigarettes. And magazines? And her mobile? She must have been insane to say she'd come. Clutched by panic she wondered if she had enough cigarettes. And magazines? And her mobile? She must have been insane to say she'd come.

As she watched the countryside rickety-rack past, she prayed that the train would oblige and break down. But no. Of course not. That only happened if you were in a desperate hurry. Then Then the train would spend several unexplained half-hours loitering in sidings. the train would spend several unexplained half-hours loitering in sidings. Then Then you'd all have to change to a different train, you'd all have to change to a different train, then then you'd all have to get off the new train and on to a waiting, freezing bus, and the original three-hour journey would end up taking eight hours. you'd all have to get off the new train and on to a waiting, freezing bus, and the original three-hour journey would end up taking eight hours.

Instead Ashling's train arrived in Cork a galling ten minutes early. Naturally her parents were already there, waiting, looking determinedly normal. Her mother could have passed for any Irish mother of a certain age: the bad perm, the nervous, welcome-home smile, the acrylic cardigan draped about her shoulders.

'You're a sight for sore eyes.' Monica was about to burst into proud tears.

'You too.' Ashling couldn't help feeling guilty.

Then came the hug Monica's uncertain cross between ladylike cheek-to-cheeking and full-on body-slamming ended up being more like a scuffle.

'Hi, Dad.'

'Er, welcome, welcome, welcome!' Mike looked uncomfortable would he too be required to indulge in affection? Luckily he was able to grab Ashling's bag and busy all available arms with that.

The drive to her parents' house, the discussion about what Ashling had eaten on the train, and the debate over whether she'd have a cup of tea and a sandwich or just a cup of tea, took up a good forty minutes.

'Just a cup of tea is fine.'

'I've Penguins,' Monica tempted. 'And butterfly buns. I made them myself.'

'No, I... oh...' The talk of home-made butterfly buns poleaxed Ashling. Monica opened a biscuit tin, displaying small misshapen buns, each with two sponge 'wings' arranged in a blob of cream on top. The cream was sprinkled with hundreds and thousands and as Ashling swallowed a bite a wing, actually she discovered she was also swallowing a lump in her throat.

'I've to go into town,' Mike announced.

'I'll come with you.' Ashling catapulted up.

'Oh, will you?' Monica looked disappointed. 'Well, make sure you're back in time for your dinner.'

'What are we having?'

'Chops.'

Chops! Ashling almost sniggered she hadn't realized that such a foodstuff still existed. Ashling almost sniggered she hadn't realized that such a foodstuff still existed.

'Why are we going into town?' she asked her father as they backed out on to the road.

'To buy an electric blanket.'

'In July?'

'It'll be winter soon enough.'

'Nothing like being prepared.'

They exchanged a smile, then Mike had to go and ruin it by saying, 'We don't see you much, Ashling.'

Oh, for fuck's sake.

'Your mother's delighted to see you.'

Some response was called for, so Ashling settled on, 'How, um, is she?'

'Marvellous. You should come and see us more, she's back to being the woman I married.'

Another silence, then Ashling heard herself ask a question that she had no memory of ever asking before. 'What was it all about, that terrible time? What made it happen?'

Mike took his eyes off the road to look at her, his expression a grisly mix of defensiveness and determined innocence he had not not been a bad father. 'Nothing happened.' His joviality seemed unexpectedly pitiful. 'Depression is a sickness, you know all this.' been a bad father. 'Nothing happened.' His joviality seemed unexpectedly pitiful. 'Depression is a sickness, you know all this.'

As children, they'd had it explained to them that it wasn't their fault that their mother was a basket case. Naturally, none of them had believed it.

'Yes, but how do you get depression?' She struggled for under-standing.

'Sometimes it's triggered by a loss or a what d'you call them things? trauma,' he muttered, the car full of his ghastly discomfort. 'But it doesn't have to be,' he continued. 'They say it can be hereditary.'

That cheery thought knocked all talk out of Ashling. She rummaged for her mobile phone.

'Who are you ringing?'

'No one.'

He watched Ashling continue to press buttons on her mobile phone. Affronted, he demanded, 'Do you think I'm blind?'

'I'm not ringing anyone, I'm checking my messages.'

Marcus hadn't rung her since he'd departed her flat on Thursday night. In the two months that they'd been going out not that she was counting they'd slipped into a routine of ringing each other every day. She felt his absence of contact keenly. Holding her breath, she yearned for a message from him but, once again, there was none. Disappointed, she snapped her phone away.

That evening, after her time-warp dinner chops, mash and peas from a can she decided to ring him. She had a good excuse: wishing him luck with the Eddie Izzard gig. But she got his answering machine again. She had a horrible vision of him standing in his flat, listening to her message but refusing to pick up. Unable to stop herself, she tried his mobile: it went straight to message service. Mercury is in retrograde Mercury is in retrograde, she told herself. Then she reluctantly admitted, or maybe it's just that my boyfriend's pissed off with me or maybe it's just that my boyfriend's pissed off with me.

Plainly, he was hurt by her visiting her parents, but just how bad was the damage? For a moment she considered the possibility that it was irreparable, and the accompanying squeeze of terror left her weak. She really, really, really really liked Marcus. He was the closest to Mr Right she'd met in a long time. She was dying for Sunday evening, because he'd liked Marcus. He was the closest to Mr Right she'd met in a long time. She was dying for Sunday evening, because he'd asked asked her to call him then. But what if he still didn't answer the phone... ? Christ! her to call him then. But what if he still didn't answer the phone... ? Christ!

'We usually watch a video on a Saturday night,' her mother informed her.

From Here to Eternity how appropriate, Ashling thought, as the evening stretched like chewing gum. Chilled by exclusion, she ached to be in Dublin, with her boyfriend. All the while Burt Lancaster romped with Deborah Kerr, Ashling was wondering how Marcus was getting on, and if Clodagh and Ted had gone to the gig. It shamed her that she hoped they hadn't, that it would make her feel even more left out. how appropriate, Ashling thought, as the evening stretched like chewing gum. Chilled by exclusion, she ached to be in Dublin, with her boyfriend. All the while Burt Lancaster romped with Deborah Kerr, Ashling was wondering how Marcus was getting on, and if Clodagh and Ted had gone to the gig. It shamed her that she hoped they hadn't, that it would make her feel even more left out.

Her parents tried very, very hard. Producing a bag of pick'n'mix that had been bought specially for her, tentatively offering her a 'drink'while they drank tea, and, when she went to bed at a shamefully early ten-twenty, her mother insisting on filling a hot-water bottle for her.

'It's July, I'll roast!'

'Ah, but the nights can be cold. And it'll be August in two days' time, officially Autumn.'

'Oh no, nearly August already.' Ashling squeezed her eyes shut in breath-shortening fear. Colleen Colleen was due to be launched on the last day of August and there was still a titanic quantity of work to be done on the bloody launch party as well as the magazine. While it was still July, she'd been able to reassure herself that they had plenty of time. August felt way, way, was due to be launched on the last day of August and there was still a titanic quantity of work to be done on the bloody launch party as well as the magazine. While it was still July, she'd been able to reassure herself that they had plenty of time. August felt way, way, way way too close for comfort. too close for comfort.

Grasping a dog-eared Agatha Christie from the shelf, she read for fifteen minutes, then switched off the peach-shaded lamp. She slept as well as could be expected beneath a peach duvet and in the morning the first thing she did was switch on her mobile, praying there would be a message from Marcus. There wasn't this was her darkest hour. Which wasn't helped by the peach and white stripy wallpaper moving in on her. Reaching for her cigarettes, she upended a little bowl of pot-pourri. Peach flavoured, wouldn't you know it.

She couldn't ring him again again. He'd think she was desperate. Of course, she was was desperate, but she didn't want him to think it. Instead she rang Clodagh, half-looking for information, but half-hoping that Clodagh wouldn't be in the position to offer any. desperate, but she didn't want him to think it. Instead she rang Clodagh, half-looking for information, but half-hoping that Clodagh wouldn't be in the position to offer any.

'Did you go to see Marcus?' She clenched her spare fist and willed her to say no.

'Yes '

'You went with Ted?'

'Sure did.' This plunged Ashling further into dread. She didn't really really think there was any chance that Clodagh would touch Ted with a bargepole, it was just... think there was any chance that Clodagh would touch Ted with a bargepole, it was just...

Clodagh chattered on. 'We had a great time and Marcus was fantastic. He did this hilarious hilarious thing about women's clothes. About the difference between a blouse, a top, a vest, a T-shir ' thing about women's clothes. About the difference between a blouse, a top, a vest, a T-shir '

'He what?' what?' Never mind Ted and Clodagh! Ashling was suddenly concerned with herself. Never mind Ted and Clodagh! Ashling was suddenly concerned with herself.

'He even knew what a shell-top was,' Clodagh exclaimed.

'I bet he did.' Ashling knew she should be flattered, but instead she felt used. Marcus hadn't even told her he was thinking of including their conversation in his act.

'It beats me how he thinks of these things,' Clodagh frothed.

That's because he doesn't.

'And afterwards?' Ashling asked jealously, not sure if she could take any more unwelcome news. 'You went home?'

'Not at all, we went backstage, met Eddie Izzard, got jarred. Fantastic!'

The farewell to her parents, draining at the best of times, was worse than usual.

'Do you have a boyfriend at all?' Mike asked jovially, unintentionally rubbing salt into Ashling's very raw wound. 'Bring him the next time too.'

Oh, dont't.

Every carriage was jam-packed and she was weary and Sunday-evening depressed when, three hours later, the train pulled into Dublin. She pushed towards the taxi-rank, hoping the queues wouldn't be too insane, when through the crowds milling about on the concourse she saw someone she knew...

'Marcus! ' Her skin sparked with joy at the sight of him standing near the exit, wearing a sheepish smile. 'What are you doing here?!'

'Collecting my girlfriend. Often there's a long queue for the taxis, I'm told.'

A delighted laugh bubbled from her. Suddenly she was wildly happy.

He took her bag in one hand and slung his other arm around her. 'Hey, I'm sorry about...'

'It's OK! I'm sorry too.

Our first argument, she thought dreamily, as he steered her to his car. Our first proper row. Now we really are are a couple. a couple.

47.

The pile of discarded clothes on Clodagh's bed grew higher. The tight black dress? Too sexy. The palazzo pants and tunic? Too glam. The see-through dress? Too see-through. What about the white pants? But he'd seen them already. The combats and trainers? No, she just felt silly in them. Of all the fashionable clothes she'd bought over the past two months, they'd been her biggest mistake so far.

For a moment the cloud of clothing anxiety cleared and she was inflicted with a sudden, unwelcome overview. What am I doing? What am I doing?