Rummaging in her rucksack she found a pound and placed it silently beside his head. But maybe it'd be nicked, she worried, so she moved it under his blanket. Then, stepping over him, she let herself in.

As the door clicked behind her, she heard, 'Thanks,' so faint and whispered she wasn't sure if she'd imagined it.

While Ted was going down a storm in the Funny Farm, Jack Devine was opening his front-door in a bleak, sea-facing corner of Ringsend.

'Why didn't you call me?' Mai demanded. 'You never have enough time for me.' She pushed past him and marched straight up the stairs. She was already unbuttoning her jeans.

Jack stared out at the sea, the nearly-black of the night-time water as impenetrable as his eyes. Then he closed the door and slowly followed her up the stairs.

At the same time, in a stylish, Edwardian, red-brick house in Donnybrook, Clodagh downed her fourth gin and braced herself. It had been twenty-nine days.

7.

Ashling woke at twelve on Sunday, feeling rested and only mildly hungover. She lay on the couch and smoked cigarettes until The Dukes of Hazzard The Dukes of Hazzard finished. Then she went out and bought bread, orange juice, cigarettes and newspapers one scurrilous rag and one broadsheet to cancel out the rag. finished. Then she went out and bought bread, orange juice, cigarettes and newspapers one scurrilous rag and one broadsheet to cancel out the rag.

After gorging herself to the point of mild disgust on overblown stories of infidelity, she decided to tidy her flat. This mostly consisted of carrying about twenty crumb-strewn plates and half-empty glasses of water from the bedroom to the kitchen sink, picking up an empty tub of Haagen Daz from where it had rolled under the couch and opening the windows. She drew the line at polishing, but she sprayed Mr Sheen around the room and the smell instantly made her feel virtuous. Cautiously she sniffed her bed-linen. Grand, it'd do for another week.

Then, even though she knew it couldn't have gone anywhere, she checked that the suit she'd had dry-cleaned hadn't been stolen. It was still hanging in her wardrobe, beside a clean top. Big day tomorrow. Very big day tomorrow. It wasn't every Monday she started a new job. In fact it had been over eight years and she was horribly nervous. But excited too, she insisted, trying to ignore her fluttery stomach.

What now? Vacuuming, she decided, because if you did it right it was great exercise for the waist. Out came her magenta and lime-green Dyson. Even now she couldn't believe she'd spent so much money on a household appliance. Money that she could just as easily have spent on handbags or bottles of wine. The only conclusion she could draw was that she was finally grown-up. Which was funny because in her head she was still sixteen and trying to decide what to do when she left school.

She flicked the switch and, energetically bending and twisting from the waist, worked her way across the hall floor. Much to the relief of her very hungover neighbour in the flat below (Joy) it didn't take long Ashling's flat was ludicrously small.

But how she loved loved it. The biggest fear about losing her job was that she wouldn't be able to meet her mortgage payments. She'd bought the flat three years previously, when she'd finally understood that Phelim and she wouldn't be applying together to purchase a cottage with roses round the door. There had been an element of brinkmanship to it naturally she'd hoped that Phelim would hurtle in as the credits were rolling and breathlessly agree to sign up for the regulatory three-bedroom semi in a distant suburb. But to her heavy-hearted disappointment he didn't and the purchase went ahead. At the time it had seemed like an admission of failure. But not now. This flat was her haven, her nest and her first real home. She'd lived in rented hovels since she was seventeen, sleeping in other people's beds, sitting on lumpy sofas that landlords had bought for cheapness, not comfort. it. The biggest fear about losing her job was that she wouldn't be able to meet her mortgage payments. She'd bought the flat three years previously, when she'd finally understood that Phelim and she wouldn't be applying together to purchase a cottage with roses round the door. There had been an element of brinkmanship to it naturally she'd hoped that Phelim would hurtle in as the credits were rolling and breathlessly agree to sign up for the regulatory three-bedroom semi in a distant suburb. But to her heavy-hearted disappointment he didn't and the purchase went ahead. At the time it had seemed like an admission of failure. But not now. This flat was her haven, her nest and her first real home. She'd lived in rented hovels since she was seventeen, sleeping in other people's beds, sitting on lumpy sofas that landlords had bought for cheapness, not comfort.

She hadn't had a stick of furniture when she'd moved in. Apart from the essentials like an iron and a pile of threadbare towels, mismatched sheets and pillowcases, everything had to be bought from scratch. Which caused Ashling to throw a rare tantrum. She fumed with seething resentment at the thought of diverting month after month of clothes money to buy all sorts of stupid things. Like chairs.

'But we can't sit on the floor,' Phelim had yelled.

'I know know,' Ashling admitted. 'I just didn't realize it would be like this...'

'But you're mind-blowingly organized.' He was baffled. 'I thought you'd be great at this sort of thing. Whatjacallit? Home-making Home-making.'

She looked so lost and bleak that Phelim said softly, 'Oh baby, let me help. I'll buy you some furniture.'

'A bed, I bet,' Ashling said scornfully.

'Well, now that you mention it...' Phelim was fond of having sex with Ashling. Buying a bed for her was no hardship. 'Can I afford it?'

Ashling considered. Now that she'd reorganized Phelim's finances, he was a lot better off. 'I suppose,' she said sulkily. 'If you do it on your credit card.'

Bitterly, irritably she applied for a bank loan, then bought herself a couch, a table, a wardrobe and a couple of chairs. And that, she resolved, would be that. For over a year she refused to buy blinds. 'I'll just not wash the windows,' she said. 'That way no one can see in.' And she only got herself a shower curtain when the daily puddles on her bathroom floor began to leak through to Joy's. But somewhere along the line her priorities had changed. Though she wasn't anything like the Ninja-decorator that Clodagh was, she certainly cared cared. To the point where she owned not just one but a grand total of two two sets of bed linen (a funky denim-look set and a crisp white Zen ensemble with a waffle throw). Recently she'd shelled out forty quid on a mirror that she didn't even need, just because she thought it was pretty. Granted she'd been premenstrual and not in her right mind, but still. And the sea change was obviously complete the day she'd handed over two hundred quid for a dust-sucker. sets of bed linen (a funky denim-look set and a crisp white Zen ensemble with a waffle throw). Recently she'd shelled out forty quid on a mirror that she didn't even need, just because she thought it was pretty. Granted she'd been premenstrual and not in her right mind, but still. And the sea change was obviously complete the day she'd handed over two hundred quid for a dust-sucker.

There was a knock at the door. Joy, white as a ghost, sidled in.

'Sorry, I got a bit carried away with the cleaning,' Ashling realized. 'Did I wake you?'

'It's OK. I've to go out to Howth to see my mammy.' Joy made an anguished face. 'I can't cancel again, I've done it for the past four Sundays. But how will I cope? She'll have made a huge roast dinner which she'll try to force-feed me and she'll spend all afternoon quizzing me, trying to establish if I'm happy. You know what mothers are like.'

Well, yes and no, Ashling thought. She was familiar with the 'Are you happy?' questions. Only thing was, it was Ashling who used to monitor her mother's happiness levels, not the other way round.

'If only she'd have Sunday lunch at a more civilized time,' Joy complained.

'Like Tuesday evening,' Ashling grinned. 'Now, I suppose you haven't seen Ted so far today?'

'Not yet. I presume he got lucky last night and is refusing to leave the poor girl's bedroom.'

'He really was surprisingly excellent last night. So, are you going to tell me what happened with Half-man-half-badger or do I have to beat it out of you?'

Joy instantly lightened. 'He spent the night with me. We didn't actually have sex but I gave him a b-j and he said he'll call. I wonder if he will.'

'One swallow doesn't make a relationship,' Ashling warned, with the wisdom of experience.

'Who are you telling? Give me them ' Joy leant over to the pack of tarot cards, ' till I see what they say. The Empress? What does that mean?'

'Fertility. Mind you keep taking your pill.'

'Cripes. How did you you get on last night? Meet anyone nice?' get on last night? Meet anyone nice?'

'No.'

'You'll just have to try harder. You're thirty-one, all the good men will be gone soon.'

I don't need need a mother, Ashling realized. Not with Joy around. a mother, Ashling realized. Not with Joy around.

'You're twenty-eight,' Ashling retorted. twenty-eight,' Ashling retorted.

'Yeah, and I sleep with tons tons of men.' More gently, Joy enquired, 'Don't you get lonely?' of men.' More gently, Joy enquired, 'Don't you get lonely?'

'I'm just out of a five-year relationship it takes a while to get over something like that.'

Phelim hadn't been a cruel person, but his inability to commit had had the effect of a scorched-earth policy on Ashling's attitude to love. Since he'd gone, loneliness had whistled through her like a bleak wind, but she was in no way equipped to get involved with a new man. Not that she'd been exactly inundated with offers, mind.

'It's nearly a year year, you're well over Phelim now. New job, new beginnings. I read somewhere that a hundred and fifty per cent of people meet their partners at work. Did you see any sexy men when you had your interview?'

Immediately Ashling thought of Jack Devine. A handful. A skilled nerve-shredder.

'No.'

'Pick a card,' Joy urged.

Ashling split the deck and held a card up.

'The Eight of Swords, what does that mean?' Joy asked.

'Change,' Ashling reluctantly admitted. 'Disturbance.'

'Good, it's long overdue. Right, I'd better go. I'm just going to rub the lucky Buddha to make sure I don't puke on the bus... Actually, feck the Buddha. Loan us money for a taxi?'

Ashling handed Joy a tenner and two big plastic bags of rubbish, which seemed to do an embarrassing amount of clinking. 'Stick them down the chute for me, thanks.'

Quarter of a mile away in Malone's Aparthotel, Sunday was hanging heavy on Lisa's hands. She'd read the Irish papers well, the social pages anyway. And they were pants! They seemed to consist of nothing but pictures of fat, broken-veined politicians, oozing bonhomie and backhanders. Well, they wouldn't be getting into her her magazine. magazine.

She lit yet another cigarette and scuffed moodily about the room. What did people do do when they weren't working? They saw their mates, they went to the pub, or the gym, or shopping, or decorating, or they hung out with their blokes. She remembered that much. when they weren't working? They saw their mates, they went to the pub, or the gym, or shopping, or decorating, or they hung out with their blokes. She remembered that much.

She longed for a sympathetic ear and thought about ringing Fifi, the closest thing she had to a best friend. They'd been juniors together on Sweet Sixteen Sweet Sixteen many years ago. When Lisa moved to Features on many years ago. When Lisa moved to Features on Girl Girl, she wangled Fifi the job of assistant beauty editor. When Fifi got the job of Senior Features writer on Chic Chic, she tipped Lisa off when they were looking for an assistant editor. When Lisa had left to become assistant editor of Femme Femme, Fifi took over Lisa's position of assistant editor of Chic Chic. Ten months after Lisa became editor of Femme Femme, Fifi became editor of Chic Chic. Lisa had always been able to moan to Fifi she understood the perils and plights of their so-called glamorous jobs, when everyone else was ugly with envy.

But something was stopping Lisa from picking up the phone. She was embarrassed, she realized. And something like resentful. Though their careers had run almost parallel, Lisa had always been further down the track. Fifi's career had been a struggle but Lisa had risen without trace through the ranks. She'd been made an editor nearly a year before Fifi was, and though Chic Chic and and Femme Femme were in almost direct competition, were in almost direct competition, Femme's Femme's circulation was well over a hundred thousand more. Lisa had blithely assumed that the promotion to circulation was well over a hundred thousand more. Lisa had blithely assumed that the promotion to Manhattan Manhattan would propel her so far in front she'd be beyond catching altogether. But instead she was shunted to Dublin and Fifi was suddenly, by default, top-dog. would propel her so far in front she'd be beyond catching altogether. But instead she was shunted to Dublin and Fifi was suddenly, by default, top-dog.

Oliver, Lisa gasped, happiness suddenly slotting into place. I'll ring him I'll ring him. But the warm honey-tide of good feeling immediately turned to acid. She'd forgotten for a moment. I don't miss him don't miss him, she tutored herself. I'm just bored and fed up.

In the end, she rang her mum probably because it was a Sunday and therefore traditional but she felt like shit after wards. Especially because Pauline Edwards was desperate to know why Oliver had rung her looking for Lisa's number in Dublin.

'We've split up.' Lisa's stomach snarled into a tight walnut of emotion. She didn't want to talk about this and why hadn't her mum phoned her if she was that concerned? Why did she always have to ring her?

'But why have you split up, love?'

Lisa still wasn't exactly sure. 'It happens,' she said snippily, desperate to get this dealt with.

'Have you tried that counselling thingummy?' Pauline asked tentatively, reluctant to bring the ire of Lisa down on her head.

''Course.' Said with terse impatience. Well, they'd gone for one session, but Lisa had been too busy to go to any more.

'Will you be getting divorced?'

'I should think so.' In fact, Lisa didn't know. Apart from what they'd yelled at each other in the heat of anger 'I'm divorcing you!' 'No, you can't because I'm divorcing you! you!' nothing specific had been discussed. In fact, she and Oliver had barely spoken since the split but, inexplicably, she wanted to hurt her mother by saying it.

Pauline sighed unhappily. Lisa's big brother Nigel had got divorced five years previously. She'd had her children late in life, and she didn't understand the ways of their world.

'They say that two in three marriages end in divorce,' Pauline acknowledged, and abruptly Lisa wanted to yell that she wouldn't be getting divorced and that her mum was a horrible old trout to even suggest it.

Pauline's worry for her daughter wrestled with fear of her. 'Was it because you were... different?'

'Different, Mum?' Lisa was tart.

'Well, with him being... coloured?'

'Coloured!'

'That's the wrong word,' Pauline amended hastily, then tentatively tried, 'Black?'

Lisa clicked her tongue and sighed hard.

'African-American?'

'For crying out loud, Mum, he's English!' Lisa knew she was being cruel, but it was hard to change the habits of a lifetime.

'English African-American, then?' Pauline said desperately. 'Whatever he is, he's very nice-looking.'

Pauline said this often to show she wasn't prejudiced. Though her heart had nearly stopped with fright the first time she'd met Oliver. If only she'd been warned warned that her daughter's boyfriend was a hard, gleaming, six-foot-tall black man. Coloured man, African-American man, whatever the correct phrase was. She had nothing against them, it was just the unexpectedness of it. that her daughter's boyfriend was a hard, gleaming, six-foot-tall black man. Coloured man, African-American man, whatever the correct phrase was. She had nothing against them, it was just the unexpectedness of it.

And once she'd got used to him, she was able to get beyond his colour and see that he really was was a nice-looking boy. To put it mildly. a nice-looking boy. To put it mildly.

A huge ebony prince, with smooth, lustrous skin pulled tight over slanting cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and thin, swingy dreadlocks that ended at his jaw-line. He walked as if he was dancing and he smelt of sunshine. Pauline also suspected though she would never have been able to consciously formulate it that he was hung like a donkey.

'Did he meet someone else?'

'No.'

'But he might, Lisa love. A nice-looking boy like him.'

'Fine by me.' If she said it often enough, it would eventually become true.

'Won't you be lonely, love?'

'I won't have time to be lonely,' Lisa snapped. 'I have a career to think of.'

'I don't know why you need a career. I didn't have one and it didn't do me any harm.'

'Oh yeah?' Lisa said fiercely. 'You could have done with one after Dad hurt his back and we had to live on his disability.'

'But money isn't everything. We were ever so happy.'

'I wasn't.'

Pauline lapsed into silence. Lisa could hear her breathing over the phone.

'I'd best go,' Pauline eventually said. 'This must be costing you.'

'Sorry, Mum,' Lisa sighed. 'I didn't mean it. Did you get that parcel I sent you?'

'Oh yes,' Pauline said nervously. 'The face creams and lipsticks. Very nice, thanks.'

'Have you used them?'

'Weeeell ' Pauline began.

'You haven't,' Lisa accused.

Lisa showered Pauline with expensive perfumes and cosmetics that she got in the course of her job. Desperate for her to have a bit of luxury. But Pauline refused to relinquish her Pond's and Rimmel products. Once she'd even said, 'Oh, your things are too good for me, love.'

'They're not too good for you,' Lisa had exploded.