Suddenly the bag was bulging-full. Then Dylan was zipping it with a high-pitched whizz. 'I'll be back for the rest later.'

He swung from the room, and after a panicky second Clodagh dragged on a dressing-gown and ran down the stairs after him.

'Dylan, I still love you,' she implored.

'So what was that all about?' He jerked his head upstairs.

'I still love you,' she repeated, her voice more subdued, 'but...'

'You're no longer in in love with me?' Dylan finished harshly. love with me?' Dylan finished harshly.

She hesitated. But she had to be honest. 'I suppose...'

He shuttered his face. 'I'll be back tonight to explain things to my children. You can stay here in the house for the time being.'

'For the time being?'

'The house will have to be sold.'

'Will it?

'I can't afford to pay the mortgage on this place and another. And if you think you're staying on here while I'm in some smelly shoebox in Rathmines, you're very much mistaken.'

And then he was gone.

She reeled from shock, from the speed it had all happened at. She'd fantasized about Dylan removing himself from her life, but now that it had actually come to pass it was ugly. Eleven years wiped out in half an hour, and Dylan in such agony. And talking about selling the house! Yes, she was wild about Marcus, but things weren't that simple.

Too stunned to cry, too frightened to grieve, she sat in the kitchen for a long time. A ring at the front door jolted her back to the real world. It might be Marcus.

But it wasn't. It was Ashling.

Clodagh hadn't been expecting her. She certainly wasn't ready for her. And Ashling's uncharacteristic angry hostility compounded the whole horrible mess. Clodagh had always been surrounded by love, but suddenly everyone hated her, including herself. She was a pariah, a scumbag, she'd broken every rule in the book and wouldn't be forgiven.

After Ashling left, then then she cried. She crawled back into bed, between the sheets with their smell of abandoned sex. She'd never laundered so much bed-linen as she had in the past five weeks. Well, no need to do it today, nothing to hide any longer. she cried. She crawled back into bed, between the sheets with their smell of abandoned sex. She'd never laundered so much bed-linen as she had in the past five weeks. Well, no need to do it today, nothing to hide any longer.

She reached for the phone and rang Marcus, so he could remind her that they hadn't really done anything wrong. That they were mad about each other, that they couldn't help it, that theirs was a noble entanglement. But he wasn't at work and he wasn't answering his mobile, so she had to endure her anguish alone.

This isn't my faulty she repeated again and again like a mantra. I she repeated again and again like a mantra. I couldn't help myself couldn't help myself But, like a fissure into hell opening, she caught a glimpse of the atrocity she'd perpetrated. What she had done to Dylan was unforgivable. But, like a fissure into hell opening, she caught a glimpse of the atrocity she'd perpetrated. What she had done to Dylan was unforgivable. Unbelievable Unbelievable. With shaky speed she grasped the nearest magazine to hand and tried to forget herself in an article about stencilling. But the fissure opened again worse this time. It wasn't just Dylan she'd fucked over. It was her children. And Ashling.

Her heart beat faster and with a hand slidy with sweat she pressed buttons on the remote control until she found Jerry Springer. But he wasn't enough to distract her from herself normally the people he had on seemed like cartoon characters with their ridiculously convoluted private lives, but today she didn't feel any different from them.

She flicked to Emmerdale Emmerdale, then Home and Away Home and Away, but nothing worked. She trembled with shock and disbelief at her own actions, at the devastation she'd wrought. Then she remembered she'd have to collect Molly from playgroup and had a panicky seizure of paralysis. She couldn't go out. She really couldn't. It was impossible.

She couldn't be on her own and she couldn't be with anyone else and for a horrible moment she wondered if she was cracking up. This beyond-the-pale thought held her in its grip for a nightmarish while, then she struggled from the embrace of the bed. Cracking up was even more unpleasant than having to face the outside world.

Marcus rang in the afternoon and, in spite of everything, every cell in her body sang as soon as she heard his voice. She was mad about him, in a way that she hadn't felt about Dylan in years. If ever. Love would conquer all.

'How're you doing?' he asked, his voice full of concern.

'Shit!' she half-laughed, half-cried. 'Dylan's moved out, everyone hates me, it's all a disaster.'

'It's going to be fine,' he soothed.

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

'Hey, I rang you earlier and your phone was off.'

'Keeping a low profile.'

'Ashling knows. Dylan told her.'

'I figured he might.'

'Will you talk to her?'

'I don't think there's any point,' he said, trying to disguise his shame. 'I want to be with you. What can I tell her that she doesn't already know?'

Marcus had spent the past five weeks justifying his involvement with Clodagh by saying that Ashling was neglecting him. But, in truth, his feelings were more complex. He hadn't been able to credit his luck with Clodagh. She was so beautiful and he certainly preferred her to Ashling. But he'd been very fond of Ashling and was needled by his shitty behaviour. The last thing he wanted to do was confront his own cavalier carry-on by having a question-and-answer session with Ashling.

Far better to focus on the positive. His voice intense with desire, he asked Clodagh, 'Can I see you?'

'Dylan's coming after work. To talk to the kids. Christ, it's hard to believe...'

'But how about when he's gone? I could spend the night. After all, there's nothing to be afraid of now, is there?'

Her heart soared. 'I'll call you when he's gone.'

'Right, ring me at home. Ring three times, then hang up, then ring back. That way I'll know it's you.'

Dylan arrived after work. He was different. No longer obviously in pain, but angry.

'You wanted to be caught, didn't you?'

'No!'Did she? she?

'Yes, you did. You've been behaving really weirdly.'

Maybe she had been, she acknowledged.

'Have my children seen you in bed with that prick?'

'No, of course not!'

'Well, they better not. Not if you want any access to them.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'm going to get custody of them, you don't stand a chance. In the circumstances In the circumstances,' he added, unpleasantly.

His words and the hard expression on his face suddenly brought home to Clodagh how deadly serious this situation was. It was a side to Dylan that she wasn't familiar with.

'Jesus Christ, Dylan,' she exploded, 'why are you being such a !' She stopped short of calling him a bastard. Why wouldn't he be a bastard, all things considered?

He seemed amused by her frustration if it was possible for someone to laugh and sneer simultaneously.

She was reminded that Dylan was a businessman. A very successful one. A man who played hardball. Maybe he wasn't going to roll over and play dead just because she wanted him to. Dylan had always treated her with tenderness and love, she was finding this abrupt change hard, even if she was responsible for it.

'I'm going to get custody,' he repeated.

'OK,' she said humbly. But even as her face was meek, her head was whirring. He's not getting my children, no way He's not getting my children, no way.

'Right, I'm going to talk to them.' Dylan went into the room where Craig and Molly were watching telly. They obviously sensed something was wrong because they'd been bizarrely subdued all afternoon.

When Dylan emerged he said coldly, 'I've just told them I have to go away for a while. I need time to think what the best way to deal with this long-term should be.' He rubbed his hand over his mouth and suddenly he looked exhausted exhausted.

But Clodagh's aching compassion for him vanished when he added, 'I could could tell them their mother is an adulterous bitch who's ruined everything, but it would do more harm than good, I'm told. Right, I'm going. I'm at my parents'. Ring me ' tell them their mother is an adulterous bitch who's ruined everything, but it would do more harm than good, I'm told. Right, I'm going. I'm at my parents'. Ring me '

'I will '

'If there's anything up with my children.'

She watched him hug them fiercely, his eyes clenched shut. This was so fucking awful. This time yesterday things couldn't have been more normal. She'd made stir-fry for dinner, Craig had spat it all back out on to his plate, she'd watched Coronation Street Coronation Street, she'd nagged Dylan into changing a light-bulb, Molly had smeared her bedroom wall with peanut butter. In retrospect it seemed like a golden era, untouched by pain or worry. Who would have thought that so quickly their lives would be thrown up in the air and utterly rearranged, mired in bitterness?

'Bye.' Dylan closed the front-door behind him. She'd seen him pack his bag, he'd told her he was leaving, but she hadn't been able to imagine it until presented with it as a fait accompli fait accompli.

This isn't happening, she thought as she stood in the hall. This isn't happening This isn't happening.

She turned away from the door and found Craig and Molly standing gazing at her in silence. Shamed, she turned away from their questioning eyes and reached for the phone.

She listened to Marcus's phone ring and ring, then click into answer-machine mode. Where was he? Then she remembered that he'd asked for her to ring, hang up, then ring again. Reluctantly she did so it made her feel like a type of outlaw.

On the second set of rings, Marcus answered and instantly her pain lessened and was replaced by a soaring, giddy sensation.

'Is Dylan gone?' he asked.

'Yes '

'OK, I'm on my way.'

'No, wait!'

'What?' His voice was suddenly unfriendly.

'I'd love to see you,' she explained, 'but not tonight. It's too soon. I don't want to confuse the kids. You see, Dylan's talking about all kinds of terrible things like making sure I don't get custody of them.'

All was still, then in a low voice Marcus asked, 'Don't you want to see me?'

'Marcus, I would give anything! You know I would, but I think it's better if we leave it until tomorrow. Hey, I bet you're sorry you ever got involved in this,' she sniffled, with a little laugh.

'Don't be mad,' he insisted, as she'd known he would.

'Call over tomorrow afternoon,' she invited shyly. 'There's a couple of people I'd like you to meet.'

The following afternoon Marcus arrived with a Barbie for Molly and a big red truck for Craig. Despite the presents, the children greeted him with suspicion. They both sensed that their world was horribly askew and were further unsettled by this newcomer. Battling their resistance, Marcus patiently played with them both, solemnly brushing Barbie's hair and shoving the truck back and forth, back and forth along the carpet to Craig. It took an hour of full-on dedication and the production of a bag of Percy Pigs before Molly and Craig began to slip into unselfconsciousness.

Sick with hope, Clodagh watched, hardly daring to breathe. Maybe things would get better. Maybe everything would work out. Her head reeled off into the future. Perhaps Marcus could move in here, he could pay the mortgage, she'd get custody of the children, Dylan would be unmasked as a paedophile or a drug-dealer so that everyone would hate him and forgive her...

While Craig and Molly were briefly distracted, Marcus took advantage of the gap to gently touch her. 'How are you?' he asked softly. 'Bearing up?'

'Everyone hates us,' she laughed tearfully. 'But at least we have each other.'

'That's right. How soon can I get you into bed?' he murmured, sneaking a hand under her T-shirt and cupping the breast furthest from the children. He pinched her nipple and her mouth went slack with desire.

'Muuuummmeee,' Craig set up a wailing, clambered to his feet and tried to push Marcus off his mother. He flailed wildly with his new red truck and managed to catch Marcus on the outer reaches of his left testicle. Not near enough to cause any real damage but enough to send eddies of nausea through his abdomen.

'Darling, you're going to have to learn to share,' Clodagh said softly.

'Don't want to!'

After an awkward pause, Clodagh said, 'Marcus, I was actually talking to Craig.'

56.

Lisa crouched on the floor, clutching her divorce petition. The wave of depression that had lapped and receded, lapped and receded since she'd first arrived in Dublin had finally broken over her head.

I'm a failure, she acknowledged. I'm a big, fat failure. My marriage is over, Crazily, she'd never really thought it was going to happen. She saw that now with painful clarity. It was why she'd never got herself a solicitor. Throughout the entire break-up with Oliver she'd behaved uncharacteristically: she'd always been proactive and dynamic. She got things done, and quickly. But, for whatever reason, not this.

Well, she'd better get herself a solicitor now.

But if she'd been in denial, then so had Oliver, she insisted, keen to stop feeling so... so...foolish. He'd left her in January and was paying rent elsewhere but continued to pay his half of their mortgage. That wasn't the behaviour of a man keen to sever links.

She caught a glimpse of herself crouched on the floor in all her pathos. Feeling silly, she clambered to her feet then immediately ran out of steam. She made it as far as her bedroom, fell into bed and dragged her duvet over her.

Something about the way the duvet wafted and softly wrapped itself about her burst open her swollen emotions, and she cried tears of loss, of failure and yes! of self-pity. She was entitled to feel sorry for herself, dammit. Look at all the shitty things that had happened. Being rejected by Jack though it wasn't up there with the pain of losing Oliver contributed to the mix. And Mercedes, if she's got a job at Manhattan Manhattan, I'll, I'll... Well, what could she do? Precisely nothing. She'd never been so keenly aware of her own powerlessness. And though she'd got Trix to make a thousand phone calls to the shop, her wooden blind still wasn't ready. Would probably never never be ready, at this rate. be ready, at this rate.

This was the emetic she needed. The ladylike weeping escalated until she was bawling like a baby.

'... In sickness and in health In sickness and in health...'

'... Ashlings had a bad shock Ashlings had a bad shock...'