‘I’ll just have a quick quadruple vodka-and-tonic, then we’ll go for a bite, OK? Are you ready for another pint?’

Marcus got to his feet. ‘Sit down, the hardest-working woman in magazines, I’ll get the drinks. Do you really want a quadruple?’

Ashling slumped gratefully into a chair. ‘Thanks. A double will do.’

When Marcus returned with the drink, he swung back into his seat and said, ‘Listen, I just wanted to remind you that I’m going to Edinburgh on the sixteenth. For the Festival.’

‘Sixteenth of August?’ Ashling was horrified. She had some vague memory of him having mentioned it ages ago. ‘But that’s only two weeks away… Look,’ she was craven and frantic, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Marcus, but I’m not going to be able to go with you. Really, you wouldn’t believe what work is like. We’re flat out and there’s so much work to be done on the launch party alone, never mind the magazine

Marcus assumed a wounded expression.

‘I could try to swing a weekend,’ Ashling offered breathlessly. ‘Even though Lisa says we’ll be working every weekend, if I ask nicely she might say…’

‘Don’t bother.’

She hated when he got like this. He was lovely most of the time, but whenever he felt insecure or unsupported he became cold and aggressive, and she couldn’t bear confrontation.

‘I’ll try,’ she said desperately. ‘Really, I will.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘Look,’ her voice quavered, ‘after the end of August, work will totally quieten down for me. Maybe we could even go away together, grab a late-availability week in Greece or something.

‘Cheer up,’ she softly urged his stony face. Still no reaction. ‘Ah, come on, funny-man,’ she cajoled. ‘One of Ireland’s top comedians, tell us a joke.’

Marcus almost catapulted from his seat. ‘Tell you a joke!’ he demanded, in shockingly unexpected rage. ‘It’s my fucking night off. I don’t ask you to write a magazine article about faking orgasms when you’re out for the night, do I?’

Ashling froze.

Then Marcus leant his forehead on his hand. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘I see,’ Lisa said, with icy politeness. ‘Yes, I’ll call back.’ Then she slammed down the phone and screamed, ‘Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers!’

Bernard tutted, ‘Language,’ but no one else even blinked.

‘Ronan Keating’s manager,’ Lisa yelled to an uninterested office, ‘is in a fucking meeting. For the quazillionth time. Nearly three weeks to D-Day and we still have no celebrity letter.’

In despair she lay across her phone, then noticed Jack watching her. He raised his eyebrows with are-you-OK? concern. He did that a lot. Ever since she’d cried in his office, a solid, silent support wafted from him. A kind of our-little-secret intimacy that no one else received.

But exactly what good were raised eyebrows to her? she thought irritably. It was other parts of his body she’d like raised for her, thanks very much. Fair enough, he was just out of a relationship and perhaps he needed time to recover. But he’d had, oooh, at least two weeks, how much longer did he need?

She smiled sadly to herself. She hadn’t been in great shape either, after the Oliver episode. She’d wanted to run back to London, get into bed with him and never leave again. He still hadn’t rung her, he clearly wasn’t going to, but life must go on…

‘The pressure getting to you?’ Jack came and sat on her desk.

She was mortally offended. ‘No, just, you know,’ she sighed. ‘Bastard celebrities.’

‘You never give up.’ His admiration could have been photographed. ‘D’you need some time out? How about we have sushi for lunch? On me.’

‘I wish.’ The words were out before she could stop them, prompted by the vision of eating sushi from his naked body.

‘Um, excuse me?’ His laugh was pleasantly dirty.

‘Nothing.’ She wall-eyed him, but couldn’t help a knowing smirk. For a long moment they locked eyes, then simultaneously the flirty tension dissolved into laughter.

‘You mean you’re going to take me out?’ she asked.

‘Aw, no, sorry, I can’t spare the time. But how about a takeaway, like the last time?’

‘Get someone else to do your dirty work,’ Trix snapped.

‘I’ll go.’ Jack surprised everyone. ‘Anyone else want some? How about you, Ashling?’

‘No, thanks,’ Ashling said huffily, suspecting she was being patronized.

‘Sure?’

‘Quite.’

‘Not even if I get you some of the less scary pieces, and take you through it all?’

‘No.’

‘Right, I’m off,’ Jack announced. ‘And take it easy,’ he advised Lisa. ‘Everything’s coming together nicely.’

Though she told everyone that their work was crap and that the magazine looked like ‘a piece of shit’, Lisa couldn’t deny that progress was being made. The books, film, music, video and net pages were in place. As were the horoscopes, Trix’ s ordinary-girl article, the sexy-hotel-bedrooms piece, Ashling’s salsa spread, a gorgeous food page from Jasper Ffrench, a profile of an Irish actress who’d starred in a controversial erotic play, a warts-and-all ‘My Day’ from the novelist, and Marcus’s ‘It’s a Man’s World’ article, which everyone loved. Plus, of course, that fashion spread.

Eight pages at the front of the mag were devoted to showcasing four achingly hip, up-and-coming Irish stars – a handbag designer, a DJ, a personal trainer and an articulate, sexy eco-warrior who was king of the soundbite. The ‘What’s Hot and What’s Not’ list was nearly ready. Lisa knocked most of it up in five minutes and gave it to Ashling to finish. According to Lisa’s list, hillwalking was ‘Hot’ and Hilfiger was ‘Not’.

‘Is hillwalking hot?’ Ashling enquired, in surprise.

Lisa shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue. But it goes nicely with Hilfiger.’

As well as the content, the magazine looked great. The colours, images and typesetting were slightly different to those of other women’s magazines and Colleen looked somehow edgier and funkier. Lisa had pushed Gerry to the outer limits of his patience before she got a look she was happy with.