One particular day was so frustratingly obstacle-ridden that both Ashling and Mercedes cried. Even Trix had a suspicious brightness about her eyes. (Then she stormed from the office into a nearby shop, where she stole a pair of earrings and returned in much better form.)

What added to everyone’s grief was that they didn’t have the luxury of giving the first issue their undivided time and attention. They were also working on October and November. Then, in the midst of all the mayhem, Lisa called an editorial meeting for the December issue.

But she wasn’t – despite the bitter resistance – being a ‘slave-driving bitch’. December films were previewed in August. If the star of the film was in town, the interview had to be conducted there and then, and not in a couple of weeks when Colleen’s workload had lessened and the star had long departed for another country.

Then, of course, there was the launch party, which Lisa obsessed about. ‘It’s got to make a statement, cause a splash. I want people to cry if they haven’t been invited. I want a spectacular guest-list, gorgeous gifts, genius drinks and great food. Let’s see,’ she drummed her fingers on the desk, ‘what food shall we do?’

‘How about sushi?’ Trix suggested, sarcastically.

‘Perfect.’ Lisa exhaled, her eyes glittery. ‘Of course, what else?’

Ashling was charged with the task of assembling a list of a thousand of Ireland’s movers and shakers.

‘I’m not sure Ireland has a thousand movers and shakers,’ Ashling said doubtfully. ‘And you want to give presents to all of them. Where are we going to get the budget?’

‘We get someone to sponsor it, probably a cosmetic house,’ Lisa snapped.

Lisa was even more bad-tempered than usual. Three days after the mini-snog from Jack, he’d gone to New Orleans for the worldwide Randolph Communications conference. For ten days! He’d apologized for abandoning them at such a busy time, but Lisa was more pissed off that his absence would disrupt the momentum of their romance.

‘Have a look at the party invite.’ Lisa tossed Ashling and Mercedes a plain silver card.

‘Er, lovely,’ Ashling said.

‘Words would be nice,’ Mercedes sneered.

Lisa sighed irritably. ‘They’re on it.’

‘Well, how about having them visible to the naked eye?’

Ashling and Mercedes bent and turned the card until the light caught it in a particular way, then the words were revealed – also silver, tiny and crammed into a corner.

‘That’ll intrigue them,’ Lisa said grimly.

Ashling was worried. It all seemed a bit clever. If it had arrived through her letter-box she’d have thrown it in the bin.

Lisa flew to London for the day to discuss party drinks with a ‘mixologist’.

‘What’s a mixologist?’ Ashling asked.

‘A barman,’ Mercedes said drily. ‘Something there’s hardly a shortage of in this country.’

Mercedes suspected she’d overheard Lisa making an appointment to have a Botox injection done while she was in London, and that that was her real reason for going there. Sure enough, when Lisa returned the following day, there was an armour-plated rigidity to her forehead. But she also had an elaborate list of too-cool-for-school drinks. The guests were to be greeted with a champagne cocktail, then served lemon martinis, followed by cosmopolitans, manhattans, go-go rums and, finally, vodka espressos.

‘Oh yeah, and I’ve also sorted the gifts,’ Lisa accused. Was she the only one who did any work around here? ‘As each guest leaves, we’ll present them with a bottle of wee.’

‘A bottle of what?’ Ashling was weary and perplexed – if this was Lisa’s idea of a joke, it was an extremely poor one.

‘Wee. A bottle of wee.’

‘You’re going to give a thousand of Ireland’s movers and shakers a bottle of wee?’ She didn’t have the energy to laugh. ‘That’s an awful lot of wee. Where are you going to get it? Do we all have to make a contribution?’

Open-mouthed, Lisa surveyed Ashling. ‘From Lancôme, of course.’

Immediately Ashling’s head flashed with an image of hundreds of Lancôme employees urinating into bottles, especially for Lisa. ‘That’s very decent of them.’ What was Lisa on about?

‘It’s only the fifty-ml bottle.’ Lisa persisted with her parallel-universe chat. ‘But it looks big enough, no?’ She held up a little bottle of Oui.

‘Oh,’ Ashling breathed in enlightenment. ‘You mean Oui!’

‘Yeah, wee. Why, what did you think I said?’

I need a break, Ashling realized.

She rang Marcus, who greeted her with, ‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Um, yeh, hahaha. Meet me for lunch?’

‘Can you spare the time? I’m honoured.’

‘Half-twelve at Neary’s.’ She couldn’t be doing with this.

‘C’ mere till I tell you something hilarious.’ Ashling was all set to launch into her wee/Oui story, when Marcus retorted, ‘Look, I’m the funny one, right?’

Astonished, Ashling gaped at him. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Nothing.’ Marcus was suddenly humble. ‘God, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s because I’m working so hard, isn’t it?’ Ashling grasped the nettle. They’d been having a few too many little spats of late, generated by his feeling ignored. ‘Marcus, if it’s any consolation, you’re the only person I see. I haven’t seen Clodagh, Ted, Joy or anyone else and I haven’t been to salsa in ages. But in two weeks this magazine will be launched and life will go back to normal.’

‘Right,’ he said quietly.

‘Come over tonight,’ she urged. ‘Please. You’re going to Edinburgh in a few days and I won’t see you for a week. I promise not to fall asleep.’

He conceded a half-smile. ‘You have to sleep at some stage.’

‘I’ll stay awake long enough for, um – I’ll stay awake long enough,’ she promised, with innuendo.

She had been neglecting him. She couldn’t actually remember the last time they’d made love. Probably only a week or so ago, but that was too long. She couldn’t help it though: she was so stressed, and knackered. It was actually a relief that he was going away.