‘I’d be the first to admit my typing isn’t the best,’ Trix confided, as they went up. ‘But my lying is fantastic, easily sixty words a minute. I can say you’re in a meeting to anyone you don’t want to talk to and they’ll never suspect. Unless you want them to suspect. I can do intimidation too, see?’

Lisa believed her.

Though she was twenty-one and peachy-pretty, Trix had a toughness that Lisa recognized. From her own younger days.

The first shock of the day was that Randolph Media Ireland only took up one floor – the London offices filled an entire twelve-storey tower.

‘I’ve to bring you to see Jack Devine,’ Trix said.

‘He’s the Irish MD, isn’t he?’ Lisa said.

‘Is he?’ Trix sounded surprised. ‘I suppose he is. He’s the boss anyway, or so he thinks. I take no nonsense from him.

‘You’d want to have seen him last week.’ She lowered her voice dramatically. ‘Like a bear with a sore arse. But he’s in good humour today, this means he’s back with his girl. The carry-on of the pair of them – they make Pamela and Tommy look like the Waltons of Waltons’ Mountain.’

Further shocks were in store for Lisa – Trix led Lisa into an open-plan office with about fifteen desks. Fifteen! How could a magazine empire be run from fifteen desks, a boardroom and a small kitchen?

A horrible thought struck her. ‘But… where’s the fashion department?’

‘There.’ Trix nodded at a rail shunted into a corner on which was hanging a dreadful peach jumper that obviously had something to do with Gaelic Knitting, a bridesmaid’s dress, a wedding meringue and some men’s clothing.

Jesus Christ! The fashion department at Femme had taken up an entire room. Crammed with samples from all the high-street shops, it meant that Lisa hadn’t had to buy new clothes for several years. Something would have to be done! Already her head was buzzing with plans to get on to her contacts in fashion-land but Trix was introducing her to the two members of staff who were already in. ‘This is Dervla and Kelvin, they work on other magazines, so they’re not your staff. Not like me,’ she said proudly.

‘Dervla O’Donnell, pleased to meet you.’ A large, forty-something woman in an elegant smock shook Lisa’s hand and smiled. ‘I’m Hibernian Bride, Celtic Health and Gaelic Interiors.’ Lisa could tell at a glance that this woman was an ex-hippy.

‘And I’m Kelvin Creedon.’ A painfully fashionable, peroxide-haired man in black-framed Joe Ninety spectacles grabbed Lisa’s hand. She knew immediately that the specs were only for show and the glass in them was clear. Early-twenties, she reckoned he was. He radiated cool, youthful energy. ‘I’m The Hip Hib, Celtic Car, DIY Irish-style and Keol, our music magazine.’ His many silver rings hurt Lisa’s hand.

‘What do you mean?’ Lisa asked in confusion. ‘You edit all of these magazines?’

‘And research and write them.’

‘All by yourself.’ Lisa couldn’t stop herself. She looked from Kelvin to Dervla.

‘With the help of the odd freelance,’ Dervla said. ‘Sure all we have to do is regurgitate press releases.

‘It hasn’t been so bad since The Catholic Judger went to the wall.’ Dervla misjudged Lisa’s shock for concern. ‘That gives me Thursday afternoons to work on something else.’

‘Are they weekly or monthly publications?’

Dervla and Kelvin turned to each other, their mouths open but silent in a synchronization of uncontrollable laughter to come. They’d never heard anything so funny in their lives.

‘Monthly!’ Dervla heaved, in disbelief.

‘Weekly!’ Kelvin went one better.

Then Dervla noticed Lisa’s frown and hurriedly calmed down. ‘No. Twice a year, mostly. The Catholic Judger was weekly, but everything else comes out in Spring and Autumn. Unless there’s some sort of disaster.

‘Remember Autumn 1999?’ She turned to Kelvin. Kelvin obviously did because the laughter started anew.

‘Computer virus,’ Kelvin explained. ‘Wiped everything.’

‘It wasn’t funny at the time…’

But, clearly, it was now.

‘Look.’ Dervla steered Lisa towards a rack on which various glossies were displayed. She handed her a slender volume that declared itself to be Hibernian Bride, Spring 2000.

That’s not a magazine, Lisa thought. That’s a pamphlet. A leaflet, in fact. Nothing more than a memo. Hell, it’s barely a Post-it.

‘And this is Spud, our food magazine.’ Dervla handed another pamphlet to Lisa. ‘Shauna Griffin edits that as well as Gaelic Knitting and Irish Gardening.’

Another member of staff had just arrived. Too boring to qualify as even nondescript, Lisa thought in disgust – medium height, balding and wearing a wedding ring. Human wallpaper. She could hardly be bothered to say hello to him.

‘This is Gerry Godson, the art director. He doesn’t talk much,’ Trix said loudly. ‘Sure you don’t, Gerry? Blink once for yes, twice for fuck off and leave me alone.’

Gerry blinked twice, and maintained a stony face. Then he smiled widely, shook Lisa’s hand and said, ‘Welcome to Colleen. I’e been working on the other magazines here, but now I’m going to be working exclusively for you.’

‘And me,’ Trix reminded him. ‘I’m her PA, you know, I’l be giving the orders.’

‘Jayzus,’ Gerry muttered good-naturedly.

Lisa tried hard to smile.

Trix rapped lightly on Jack’s door, then opened it. Jack looked up. In repose, his face was slightly mournful and hang-dog and his sloe-black eyes held secrets. Then he saw Lisa and smiled in recognition, even though they’d never met. Everything lifted.

‘Lisa?’ The way her name sounded when uttered by him stirred something warm in her. ‘Come in, sit down.’ He skirted around his desk and came to shake her hand.

Lisa’s lead-heavy foreboding gave her some breathing space. She liked the look of this Jack. Tall? Tick! Dark? Tick! Well-paid? Tick! He was a managing director, even if it was only of an Irish company.

And there was something slightly unorthodox about him that excited her. Though he wore a suit, she sensed it was under duress, and his hair was longer than would have been considered acceptable in London.