'Bernard, will you be my lovely assistant and help me wash my hair?'

He looked terrified.

'I've an ear infection,' she explained patiently. 'I need help to make sure water doesn't get in.'

He squirmed in agony. 'Get one of them girls to help you.'

'Look around, there's no one here. And I'm interviewing Niamh Cusack in less than an hour, it has to be now.'

'When you come back?'

'I've to go straight to the hotel to help set everything up. Please, Bernard!'

'Ah, no,' he writhed. 'I couldn't, it wouldn't be right.'

Christ! The day and a half from hell! But what could she expect? Bernard was forty-five and still lived at home with his mother.

'Anyway, I've to go out to the credit union,' he lied. And off he raced.

Ashling slumped at a desk and tears were way too close for comfort. Her ear hurt, she was exhausted, she'd have to go to the party with flat, filthy, greasy hair and everyone else would look fantastic. She cupped a hand over her throbbing ear and let a few exploratory trickles run down her face.

'What's wrong?'

She jumped. It was Jack Devine, studying her with what was almost concern.

'Nothing,' she mumbled.

'What's wrong?'

'The party's tonight,' she recited resentfully. 'My hair is dirty, I can't get a hairdresser's appointment for love nor money, I can't wash it myself because I have an ear infection and no one will help me do it here.'

'Who's no one? Bernard? Was that why he was leaving at such high speed? He nearly knocked me over coming out of the lift.'

'He's gone to the credit union.'

'No, he's not. He only goes to the credit union on a Friday. God, you must have really spooked him.'

Jack had a good old laugh at that while Ashling regarded him sullenly. Then he laid down his pile of documents and abruptly snapped into action. 'Right then, come on!'

'Come on what?'

'Come on to the bathroom till we wash your hair.'

She turned her dismal face up to his. 'You're busy,' she accused. He was always busy.

'It won't take long to wash your hair. Let's go!'

'Which bathroom?' she finally asked.

'The gen ' he started, then stopped. They locked eyes in a silent struggle. 'But '

'Not the gents', she said, as firmly as she could.

'But '

'No.' Bad enough for Jack Devine to be washing her hair, but to have to eyeball a wall of urinals into the bargain I don't think so.

'All right then,' he sighed, defeated.

'It's not a bit like our one.' Jack hovered on the threshold, looking into the innocuous washroom as if it was something remarkable, frightening even.

'Come on,' Ashling said snippily, trying to hide her awkwardness. She took the rubber shower-hose that had been a freebie from a shampoo company and tried to suction it on to the tap. But it concertinaed up into bendy uselessness. 'No-good pile of shite.' Her jaw was clenched. Could this day get any worse?

'Give it here.' He leant over her, and she stepped smartly out of the way. With one upward yank he thrust it on to the faucet.

'Thanks,' she muttered.

'Now what?' He watched her dash her hands under the pinpricks of water, adjusting the tap until she got the right temperature.

Tipping her head forward she leant into the white porcelain basin. 'Get it wet first. And mind my ear.' God, she could have done without this!

Uncertainly he picked up the hissing shower-head and buzzed an experimental trail of water over her head. Her brown hair changed instantly to a black slick.

'You've to get it all all wet,' she called, her voice upside-down smothered. wet,' she called, her voice upside-down smothered.

'I know!' She felt him start at her left ear the good one lifting the hair, systematically separating it into hanks, soaking it all, moving around to her hairline, then down to her neck. It tickled, not unpleasantly.

As he stretched to reach it all, he was bent over her yielding back and his thigh was near against her side. At the same time that she realized she could feel the heat of him, she became very aware that the door was shut. They were alone. She started to sweat.

But as the trail of water tickled its way towards her right ear, she was diverted by fear. 'Careful!'

'All right!' Jack was disappointed. He'd thought he was doing quite well for a man who'd never washed anyone's hair other than his own before.

'Sorry.' Her voice was muffled. 'But if any water gets in, the eardrum will perforate. It's happened twice already.'

'Right, I get the picture.' He made himself slow right down and, with his fingers, stroked gentle furrows to sluice water away from the danger area. To his surprise there was something about the arc of skin at the back of her ear that bizarrely touched him. That little line of clean tenderness before her hair sprang into vibrant life. It looked so pitiful and sweet and inexplicably brave. And the big, idiotic-looking lump of cotton wool which blossomed from the side of her head... He swallowed.

'Shampoo,' she interrupted. 'Put a blob on the hair, then lather it '

'Ashling, I know how shampoo works.'

'Oh. Of course.'

Slowly he began to circle his fingers on her scalp, working the shampoo through. It was unexpectedly pleasurable. She closed her eyes and let herself lapse into it, letting the last exhausting month, her enormous workload recede.

'How'm I doing?' he asked.

'Fine.'

'I always wanted to be good with my hands,' he admitted. He sounded wistful.

'You couldn't be a hairdresser,' she murmured, half-resenting having to speak, so much was she enjoying this. 'You're not camp enough.'

Her skull tingled with ecstasy as he worked his hard, sure hands along her. She was going to be dead late for Niamh Cusack and frankly, she didn't give a shite. Little shivery thrills crawled along her hairline, the tension departed her over-stressed body and the only sound in the shady room was that of Jack's breathing. Slumped over the sink, she was sleepily cocooned in his warmth. Bliss... But then, as she felt an ache opening way down in her, she became frightened. He was not giving her a normal shampoo. She knew it. He He must know it. It was far too intimate. must know it. It was far too intimate.

And there was something else. A presence. An upright hardness that was hovering around her liver, just about where Jack Devine's groin was. Or was she imagining it... ?

'Perhaps you could rinse it now,' she said in a little voice. 'And put some conditioner in, but do it quick, I'll be late.'

This was Jack Devine. Her boss's boss. She didn't know what was going on, but whatever it: was, it was too freaky.

The very second he finished, she squeezed out the excess water, then saw him approaching with the towel. 'I can dry it myself, thanks.' She was breathless.

In the mirror their eyes collided. Instantly she swung away from his sloe-black look. She was embarrassed, confused... the way she always felt around him, but to the power of ten.

'Thank you,' she managed politely. 'You've been a big help.'

'No problem.' Then he smiled and the mood altered totally, so much so that she later wondered if she'd imagined the unspoken something buzzing around them. 'I'm not the big ogre you all think I am.'

'No, we don't '

'I'm just a bloke doing a tough job.'

'Er, right!'

'Now, how much do you bet me that Trix will catch me coming out of here?'

It took Ashling a moment to reply, 'A tenner.'

52.

When Jack arrived at the Herbert Park Hotel, the party was well underway. The place was thronged, copies of Colleen Colleen lay on tables in thick, lustrous piles, and the girls had a highly efficient human conveyor-belt in place to process the anticipated movers and shakers. lay on tables in thick, lustrous piles, and the girls had a highly efficient human conveyor-belt in place to process the anticipated movers and shakers.

First port of call was Lisa, who, lacquered and glittery-shiny, had probably never looked more beautiful. Then Ashling, awkward in a dress and spindly heels, was checking invitations against a list. Mercedes, snake-thin in black wet-look, was affixing name-badges to arrivees, then Trix, attired in nothing much at all, was directing people towards the cloakroom. Beautiful young men and women circulated with trays of grown-up-looking cocktails not an umbrella in sight.

'Madam editor,' Jack stopped in front of Lisa.

'Hi, I'm the greeter!' she grinned.

'Well, greet me then.'

She kissed his cheek and in a mag-hag parody exclaimed, 'Darling, so fabulously fantabulous to meet you! Er, who exactly are you?'

Jack laughed and moved on to Ashling, who looked up from her print-out. 'Oh, hello,' she exclaimed, unexpectedly skittish. 'Devine. Jack. Can't see you on my list. Which are you, a mover or a shaker?'

'Neither.' He acknowledged her black shift-dress. 'Looking good.' But what he really meant was, 'Looking different.'

'I hardly ever wear dresses,' Ashling confided.'And I've already laddered one pair of tights.'

'How's the hair working out for you?'

'Judge for yourself.' She did a tipsy twirl.

On other women a swingy bob would look sleek and feline; on her it had an endearing plainness which he found vaguely heartwrenching.

'And your ear?'

'What ear?' Ashling demanded gaily, then raised her champagne cocktail. 'Cheers! Feeling no pain. Now, move along, please.'

Lisa spent the night receiving congratulations. The party was a triumph: they'd all come. A thorough search had uncovered only six hundred and fourteen Irish movers and shakers, but it seemed as if every single one of them had turned out. Praise and goodwill swirled around the room in great uplifting gusts. It was fabulous!

And despite disasters right up to printing, Colleen Colleen was a dazzling achievement. Its cutting-edge heat practically hopped from the glossy pages. Lisa had even, at the eleventh hour, secured a celebrity letter. The new boy-band Laddz had just broken through and Shane Dockery, their lead singer, the nervous youth who Lisa had met all those months ago at the Monsoon launch, had managed to mutate into a was a dazzling achievement. Its cutting-edge heat practically hopped from the glossy pages. Lisa had even, at the eleventh hour, secured a celebrity letter. The new boy-band Laddz had just broken through and Shane Dockery, their lead singer, the nervous youth who Lisa had met all those months ago at the Monsoon launch, had managed to mutate into a bona fide bona fide heart-throb, who had teenage girls swarming like monkeys up the walls of his house. heart-throb, who had teenage girls swarming like monkeys up the walls of his house.

Shane remembered Lisa. How could he forget the only person who'd been nice to him during the wilderness months? If he could just evict the teenage girls from his stationery drawer he'd be happy to write the letter. And everyone agreed that his article had an engaging freshness and exuberance that hoarier old rockers wouldn't have been able to simulate.

Lisa couldn't stop smiling: proper, ear-splitting beams. Who would have thought, four months ago, that she'd have pulled it off? And that she'd feel so good about it?

Even the advertising situation was sorted swung by the Frieda Kiely homeless pictures. Press officers in all the major fashion houses had realized that Colleen Colleen was no provincial free-sheet, but a force to be reckoned with. Not only had they placed big, expensive ads, but they'd actually asked for their collections to be included in forthcoming issues. was no provincial free-sheet, but a force to be reckoned with. Not only had they placed big, expensive ads, but they'd actually asked for their collections to be included in forthcoming issues.

'Hiya, Lisa.' Lisa turned to see Kathy, her neighbour, holding a tray of sushi.

'Oh, hi, Kathy.'

'Thanks for getting me this gig.'

'No problem.'

'Thing is, a few people have been asking where the sausage rolls are?'

Lisa actually laughed. 'Then they shouldn't be here.'

'I tried that sushi stuff myself,' Kathy confided. 'And, d'you know, it's not bad.'

Marcus Valentine, looking the worse for wear, lurched past. Automatically, Lisa gave him a blinding smile. And Jasper Ffrench, looking even more the worse for wear, tottered after him. And here came Calvin Carter, who'd flown in from New York specially.

Calvin was all meaty handshakes and first-name usage.

'Terrific, Lisa.' He surveyed the good-looking crowd. 'Terrrific. All righty, Lisa, let's make speeches!'

He bounded up to the little stage and kicked off with an Irish phrase he'd made Ashling write out for him phonetically.

'Kade Meela Fall-che,' he bellowed, which seemed to go down very well, judging by the storm of laughter that rose. Although, of course, Calvin had always found it hard to distinguish between people laughing with with him and people laughing him and people laughing at at him. him.