‘Has something happened?’ Ashling asked. ‘That triggered all of this?’

‘No,’ he said thickly. ‘I’m just having a bad day.’

As Ashling wondered what to do, rain dripped off the spokes of her umbrella and dotted the back of her jacket with cold, wet blobs. She experienced a burst of frustration. Boo shouldn’t be her responsibility. She paid her taxes, the government should take care of people like him. How about letting him shelter in the lobby of her apartment block? But she couldn’t: she’d done that during a heavy thunderstorm earlier in the summer and some of the other residents had kicked up a fuss. So should she let him into her flat? She really ought to, yet fond of him though she was, she was nevertheless resistant. But he was so miserable…

She gave in. ‘Come on up to my place. Have a shower and a bite to eat. And you can stick your clothes in the washing machine.’

She was hoping he’d refuse and she could go on her way with a clear conscience, but he looked at her with forlorn gratitude. ‘Thanks,’ he gulped, then burst into tears again.

‘I won’t make a habit of this,’ he promised, as she led him up the stairs.

As soon as she saw him contrasted against her cleanish flat she realized just how filthy he was. His grimy jeans were flappy-loose against his pathetic, skinny frame, his pale impish face was smeared with filth and his knuckles were cracked with dirt.

‘I smell,’ he admitted, shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry.’

Something burst in her heart. A grief, a rage.

‘Towels.’ Her back teeth were clamped against each other as she plumped a soft bundle into his arms. ‘Shampoo, spare toothbrush. In here, the washing machine, washing powder. Over here, the kettle, tea, coffee. If you find anything edible in the fridge, you’re welcome to it.’ She palmed him a fiver. ‘I’ve got to go to work, Boo. I’ll see you later.’

‘I’ll never forget this.’

She closed the door on the sight of him standing in her hall, the knees of his sodden jeans Charlie-Chaplin-bandy, the bouffant bundle of towels dazzlingly white and marshmallow soft.

When Ashling arrived at the office, Jack Devine said, ‘Someone’s waiting for you.’ He indicated the man sitting punch-drunk at her desk.

The moment Ashling saw Dylan she knew something appalling had happened. Something truly dreadful. His features were so altered by shock that she almost didn’t recognize him, this man she’d known for eleven years. He looked faded, his skin and hair and eyes bleached of all life. He fastened his stunned, wounded gaze on to hers and announced for all to hear, ‘Clodagh’s having an affair.’

Realization slammed into Ashling with force. She believed him. A thought reeled through her consciousness: What terrible things people do to those they love.

She was honour-bound to go through the motions. There was no earthly way she could say to Dylan, ‘Actually I thought she might be playing away.’ Instead she had to pretend there was a possibility that he might be wrong. So she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

‘I caught them.’

‘When? Where?’

‘I came home from work at ten o’clock this morning. I’ve been worried about her,’ he said defensively.

Suspicious of her, more like. But Ashling understood.

‘And I caught them in bed.’ Dylan’s voice charted into sudden soprano and for the second time in a morning Ashling watched a grown man weep like a child. ‘And I know who he is,’ Dylan admitted. ‘You know him too.’

Dread and knowledge built in tandem. Ashling knew who Dylan was going to say.

‘It’s that comedian fucker.’

I know.

‘That friend of yours.’

Ted!

‘Marcus wankhead,’ Dylan gulped. ‘Whatever his fucking name is. Valentine or something – Marcus Valentine.’

‘No, you mean Ted, little dark Ted.’

‘No, I don’t, I mean that lanky friend of yours, Marcus Valentine.’

Ashling’s nightmare suddenly swerved off in a different direction.

‘He’s not my friend,’ her voice said from a distant room. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’

The few people who were in – Jack, Mrs Morley, Bernard – were immobile with amazement. The only sound was of Dylan’s sobs.

‘I suppose it’s not that surprising,’ he said thickly. ‘It’s not the first time she’s stolen a boyfriend from you.’

He looked at her long and hard and asserted, ‘I should have stuck with you, Ashling… I’d better get going.’ He picked up a holdall.

‘What’s that?’ Ashling mumbled.

‘Clothes, stuff.’

‘You’ve left her?’

‘Fucking right I have.’

‘But where will you go?’

‘My mother’s, for a while.’

Numbly, she watched him leave.

A weight arrived on her shoulders. An arm. Belonging to Jack Devine. ‘Come into my office.’

Lisa woke up, afflicted by the hollow anticlimax that follows a high. All the sparkling Stardust of the night before had gone. Yeah, the magazine was great, yeah, the party was a triumph, but it was only a thirty k circulation in a backwater. What was the big deal?

Her anticlimax was laced with a bigger disappointment. It was Jack. She’d been sure he’d come home with her. She felt she’d deserved it, her reward for working so hard and making everything happen.

Though they hadn’t gone out together since he’d returned from New Orleans, she’d assumed that they shared an unspoken agreement that they’d wait until the launch was underway. But last night when she’d gone to claim her prize, he’d disappeared.

At midday, her mood scraping the pavement, she arrived at work. She made straight for Jack’s office, partly to do a postmortem on the launch, partly to check the vibe from him. She opened the door…

And saw the most amazing scene. In an instant, primeval knowledge shot through her and rooted her to the spot.

It wasn’t that Ashling and Jack were alone in his office, it wasn’t that Jack was cradling Ashling like the most precious of china dolls. It was the look on Jack’s face. Lisa had never seen such an expression of tenderness.

She backed out, her disbelief turning the office into a dreamscape.