Option one: I could go in and glean something about her IQ or lack of it. I know Ronan: zero IQ in a Formula One Ride has the same effect on his libido as a quick plunge in an ice bath. Intelligent women, nowthat's a different matter entirely. A high IQ and I swear Ronan would take her even if she looked like the Macgillicuddy Reeks in glasses.

I know my own husband: as soon as he gets tired of the sex he won't stay around for the personality because to him a woman without brainpower hasn't got got personality. I mean, why do you think he married me? Because I'm able to give him shit and it sounds intelligent to him, but then anything with shit in it generally convinces him of intelligent personality and seduces him into acquiescence. Besides, hey, I'm a lawyer! personality. I mean, why do you think he married me? Because I'm able to give him shit and it sounds intelligent to him, but then anything with shit in it generally convinces him of intelligent personality and seduces him into acquiescence. Besides, hey, I'm a lawyer!

Nicole doesn't look like the kind of person who's got the backbone to give Ronan shit.

And anyway, travel agent is hardly the correct image for a man for whom snobbery is a mental illness.

Option two: I could go in and make a scene. Say, go right up to her and ram my arm down her throat and pull out her entrails by the roots and pin them to the notice board and tell her she needs to take a good look at herself.

Option three: I could just stand here and bitch. Always an insanely attractive option.

I extract my pack of fags and light one up. Bad for babies, I know, but there you are. I start dragging intensely.

What do I know about this woman anyway? Apart from the fact that she's an unscrupulous, immoral, sluttish lust-dog?

Watching her deal with a customer now, her face lights up and she looks suddenly prettier. She has so much hair that all you can see is an oval opening at the centreher cute bunny-rabbit face. Her lips, I notice, are large and red. Ideal for phallic gastronomy.

She comes across as a bit of a blabbermouth. She's all smiles and shy expressions and profusions of helpfulness.

I mean, for God's sake, she's a travel agent.

I have to laugh. Travel agent. What do you bet she calls herself an excursion consultant? She's hardly board-of-directors material. Imagine! She lives out her days tapping on a keyboard, making bookings and phone calls, sending faxes, receiving e-mail, printing printouts, tidying files and smiling at customers. Oh, and brewing coffee.

Real glass-ceiling stuff.

Still, I'm worried. For a start, she paints. And she plays the piano. And she sings along. How cultivated! How civilized! How dignified! Doesn't go too well with the floozie-in-the-Jacuzzi image. Even if according to her partner she does have this voice you'd rush to bury underneath a manhole.

I can see the two of them right now. In our lounge. Lights dimmed, crimson wine sparkling from two Waterford crystal glasses and the wine decanter with its as yet unchipped stopper. She, straddled across our coffee table geographically below my couch-engulfed husband, in a bikini bursting at the top like two Virgin balloons about to pop under the razor glares of Ronan's drooling eyeballs, blowing his preferred melody on his favoured instrument, exemplifying effective embouchure, excellent vibrato and perfect finger technique, he melting into the leather beneath him like a helpless whale.

It concerns me that in such romantic circumstances, IQ is frankly irrelevant.

Oh God! I want to die.

She stands up now. She goes in behind. Must be on coffee and biscuits duty.

I enter the premises. It is average to plush. I grab a few brochures big enough to hide my muggins behind and I sit myself down on this soft spring-attached seat with armrests to keep you from bouncing off.

Five minutes later Nicole comes out carrying a tray with three steaming mugs of coffee on it, which she distributes to her colleagues. Then she retakes her seat and presses a buzzer for the next customer.

She won't recognize me, I know, because Ronan removed all pictures of me from the apartment. But it's wise to take precautions so I keep the magazine in front of my head. I have it opened at Greece, Cyprus and Rhodes, where a woman with long blonde hair is posing neo-naked on the beach, her head juxtaposed beside an inset of the Acropolis.

I flip the page. There's a white Greek church with those Spanish-type bells on top. But there is no old woman emerging, as you'd expect, dressed in black; there's no local wedding procession, no patriarch with robes and a funny top hat. Instead there's this perfect West-European couple, the girl carrying a map and the guy in these ridiculous floral shorts (neither is carrying a camerathat's how subtle it is). They're so good-looking, though, it makes you wonder why they don't just advertise the models and leave out the scenery.

Gradually, I lower my brochure. The customer sitting immediately in front of the Nicole woman has just stood up. Nicole says goodbye to her and gives her a nice, friendly smile. She picks up the phone now. Straining my ears, I can make out her voice. It is soft and soothing. Like Wella shampoo. It is keen and friendly, and worried and interested, and can't do enough for you.

I am feeling more nervous now than ever.

She's the nicest three-day lay I've I've ever seen. ever seen.

15 15.

I'm sitting in my car across the road from Clearway Travel, waiting for her to come out for lunch.

Sure enough, at twelve thirty she emerges from a nearby alleyway, a tall, slender figure in a brown velvet jacket and a tan skirt, wearing shades even though it's overcast. What with the burgundy envelope case under her arm and the high heels tap-tap-tapping against the pavement, she reminds me of an accountant in drag.

This isn't sour grapes. I'm not afraid of being fair-minded about her. I'm not afraid of admitting that she has nice long legs and a pleasant face and a great head of hair, for such a slut.

I get out of my car and follow her up the street.

She disappears into a newsagents.

I stop at a shop window.

She comes back out a minute later with a copy of Image Image magazine under her arm. And she's got this lollipop stuck in her gob, which makes watching her a treat. She drags me through the city centre, down O'Connell Street, towards the bird-shatted black statue of Daniel O'Connell. magazine under her arm. And she's got this lollipop stuck in her gob, which makes watching her a treat. She drags me through the city centre, down O'Connell Street, towards the bird-shatted black statue of Daniel O'Connell.

From a safe distance of one foot behind her I am trying to sniff out her brand of perfume. Such things tell a lot.

She stops suddenly to do some window shopping and I almost bump straight into her. I proceed past her and duck into a nearby porch. She is inspecting the posters of a competitor travel agency. Market research? This is impressive. And she the glorified coffee grinder.

A few minutes later she proceeds up the street past me and I fall into motion behind her again, still dying to locate the brand of perfume. I close in once again. I'm getting White Linen. No. Charlie? Hm, difficult one, that, when you're dealing with this end of the scale.

God, though, I am so tempted here and now to shove her off the pavement in the path of an oncoming CIE bus. And shadow Ronan to the funeral celebrations, surprising him over my Calvin Klein sunglasses with a graveside eyebrow smirk that reads: this is just a warning this is just a warning.

She turns her head to the right and I duck left. This is a dangerous business. I fall back. She leads me across O'Connell Bridge, thronged with tourists and prams, and mis-fed Dublin-ers. She muddles her way through the human blizzard, stopping and starting, and avoiding and hesitating, and moving forward by degrees.

A few minutes later we hit pedestrianized and busy Grafton Street. I'm on to my second cigarette. She leads me to the top of the street, through the gigantic entrance of Stephen's Green shopping centre on the corner, a huge rectangular edifice with three floors of absurdly white galleries, columns, arches and glass roofing that reminds you of a wedding cake.

She drags me through a succession of clothes shops. In the first, she dives head first into a loose lingerie bin, but the knickers and bras on offer are too cheap (decency-wise) for her likingwhich is curious. In the second she gets into this conversation with the shop assistant about bra-strap rashes, while I contemplate nightdresses behind a nearby pillar. In the third she purchases black stockings, suspenders, panties and a few Wonder brassieresnot a drop of lemon-yellow in sight.

I follow her to a fourth clothes shop, where she buys a long dark-red dress with a diamond pattern sewn in gold. In an adjacent shoe shop she splurges on a pair of light-brown (Ronan's colour) knee-high leather boots.

Now she trawls me through the interior-decoration section of Dunnes Stores. With cash she buys a white tablecloth and a medium-sized mirror, and several vases and a mantelpiece-type clock. I had no idea I destroyed her clock.

In a small furniture shop she delays for several minutes at the coffee table section, investigating some specials. Then she spends ten minutes in a television shop. This is getting to be fun. In a craft shop she buys a green silk batik scarf. Her eyes are green, if I remember correctly from the photograph.

Now she hauls me into a bookshop. She seems to know what she's looking for. From the non-fiction she chooses a book which I notice is entitled Taking Better Care of Your Indoor Plants Taking Better Care of Your Indoor Plants. From the best-sellers, she grabs a Catherine Alliott, a Jackie Collins and an American paperback about how to get in touch with one's hidden powers. From the alternative section she picks up a book bearing the large letters in pink: Feng Shui and Sacred Space Feng Shui and Sacred Space.

After making her biblio purchases with a credit card, she lugs me into this tiny, cluttered aromatherapy booth. It's so narrow that when she slips past me on the way out she brushes against my back, making me want to turn round and start a scrap.

One after the other, we ascend the escalator to the top of the shopping centre. She is burdened down by a lot of plastic bags. She reminds me of a well-to-do bag lady, only younger and in fashion. She goes straight into a jeweller's. With all her luggage.

I follow her in. There are eight or ten people inside this sleek, red-carpeted interior. She dumps her bagsapologeticallyon the floor beside the entrance. Sophistication for you. She goes over and peers down into a glass cabinet with a Raymond Weil placard on top.

I move discreetly in her direction, pretending to be fascinated by the gold and silver chains in the glass cases to her left. I edge closer to her. The floozie's legs are so long, she must be at least two inches taller than me.

Still, what use is being tall when you're crippled?

I sniff. I can get her scent better inside. She smells rather good. Seems like it might be Happy. I slide behind her and pause to gaze into the same Raymond Weil case, sparkling with men's watches from Geneva, the most expensive in the shop at just under a thousand pounds.

How could she possibly afford those?

She leans down for a better look. I am observing her carefully.

Expensive-looking gold chain round her neck, dangling in the air as she bends over. Long aquiline nose. Not unlike Ronan's. Enragingly lineless eyes. Some freckles. The lips again. Next time I kiss Ronan I'll be kissing them too. Next time I kiss Ronan I'll be participating in a threesome germ orgy.

Suddenly she raises her head and smiles towards one of the assistants and she points towards the display with a carefully hand-crafted fingernail. "Could I see this one, please?" she shyly asks in this sickly-sweet voice that tries to be full of girlie appeal.

While she's inspecting the watch on and off her wrist I move along, frowning deeply at some engagement rings.

"Do you have a nice box?" she wonders.

She's buying Harry a watch.

She's buying Harry a watch!

I was right! It was just a silly little fling.

Quietly I withdraw, flooded with relief.

Feeling ever so slightly foolish, I slip past Nicole's messy bundle of shopping bags by the door and leave the shop.

On the way I take out my mobile and dial Ronan's number.

I must see him. Now. I must go to his surgery, to prove to myself that everything is okay. To show himin deeds rather than in wordsthat I forgive him his little fling. That I still love him. To remind him that I'm the one he loves.

"Julie, are you free for lunch?" is the first thing he says.

I can't believe I'm hearing this. He's just asked me out to lunch. And his voice is gentle and soft and kind, nothing like it was before. He feels guilty. He's trying to make up.

Okay, he played around.

But can he help being male?

We arrange to meet in Dalkey in the King's restaurant-bar.

"But how will you get there, Ronan, with your car...out of circulation?"

"I'll take a taxi."

Sunstream beaming straight into my soul, I blissfully dance the remaining distance to my car, skipping along the beautiful litter-filled pavements of the city.

16 16.

Ronan doesn't seem too bothered about the fact that I'm spooning chocolate chip ice cream straight into his mouth at this time. Actually, neither of us is batting an eyelid despite the fact that we're sitting plonk in the middle of a busy bar.

This is an excellent sign.

Also, since I arrived here at three Ronan has been kind and sensitive, and utterly fantastic with me.

"Anyway, how have you been?" he says nicely, suddenly peering into my eyes.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"I've been fine," I reply, lowering my head.

"Are you sure?"

I nod.

"You've been behaving strangely since you got back," he says.

"How do you mean?" I ask, the Porsche suddenly flashing like a wailing police siren into my mind.

"Well, you haven't seemed yourself."

"Haven't I?"

He knows I suspect something. He is worried about the Nicole thing and its implications for our marriage.

"Everything's fine, Ronan. If I've seemed a bit tired, or argumentative, don't mind me."

Art and the Postmodern quadruple-flashes across my brain. quadruple-flashes across my brain.

"Are you sure?" he inquires again.

He's looking for reassurance. He wants to know things are okay with me, so that we can get back to the ordinary business of our marriage and put this whole thing behind us. I put my hand over his.

"What happened...it'll be fine, Ronan. Really it will."

He looks confused. "What happened?" He frowns.

"It doesn't matter." I stroke his hair. "At all. Let's just forget about it."

He sips his wine, staring at me. There's a hint of embarrassment. He must be so ashamed.

He plunges the eight-inch spoon into the bowl, scoops out a dollop of ice cream and feeds me with it. A waterfall of emotion gushes through me. I know it sounds sick, but I feel like I'm in eighth heaven: Haagen Dazs plus Ronan dispensing it, what more could a woman ask for?

"Oh, by the way, Julie, you were wondering about the sheets."

"Oh yes, those. Forget about them."

"I can explain what happened."

"I don't want to know."

"I'll tell you anyway."