Then Lisa outlined a ‘fun’ feature that she’d thought of that very minute. A review of the sexiest hotel beds in Ireland. Graded according to crispness of bed linen, firmness of mattress, size of bonking space, and ‘the handcuff factor’ – wrought iron bedheads or the limbs of four-poster canopies were ideal.

‘God, whatever they’re paying you, you’re worth it!’ Trix overflowed with admiration.

‘Mercedes?’ Lisa challenged.

‘We’re going to Donegal on Friday to shoot an exclusive of Frieda Kiely’s Winter collection,’ Mercedes said smugly. ‘We should get a twelve-page spread from it.’

Frieda Kiely was an Irish designer who sold very well abroad. She made wild, gorgeous confections; rough Irish tweed matched with feather-light chiffon; sheeny Ulster linen married with squares of crocheted silk; knitted sleeves that reached the floor. The whole effect was romantic and untamed. A bit too untamed for Lisa, actually. If you were paying those kind of prices – not that she ever would, of course – she’d prefer the sleek tailoring of Mr Gucci.

‘How about an interview with her?’ Lisa suggested.

Mercedes laughed. ‘Oh no, she’s bonkers. You wouldn’t get a word of sense from her.’

‘Exactly,’ Lisa barked. ‘It would make for interesting reading.’

‘You don’t know what she’s like…’

‘We’re showcasing her Winter collection, the least she can do is tell us what she has for breakfast.’

‘But –’

‘Impress me,’ Lisa glinted, in a parody of Calvin Carter. Which might have amused Mercedes had she known what Lisa was doing. But she didn’t, so her only option was to flash Lisa a nasty glare.

Jack turned his attention to Gerry. ‘How are we getting on with the cover?’

Lisa watched anxiously. Gerry was so quiet that she paid him no attention and consequently she hadn’t a clue if he was any good at his job. But Gerry whipped out several cover prototypes – three different girls overlaid with a selection of typefaces and text. The mood he’d created was remarkably sexy and fun.

‘Excellent,’ Jack enthused.

Then he turned to Lisa. ‘And how are we getting on with the celebrity column?’

‘Working on it,’ Lisa smiled smoothly. Bono and the Corrs were refusing to return her calls. ‘But more interestingly, even though we’re a women’s magazine and our audience will be ninety-five per cent women, I think there’s a real case for having a column by a man in Colleen.’

Just a minute, Ashling thought, her brain bruising with shock, that was my idea…

Her mouth worked, making silent ‘Oh’s and ‘Ah’s, as Lisa continued blithely, ‘There’s a stand-up comedian and my sources tell me he’s about to go stellar. Thing is he won’t do anything for a women’s magazine, but I’m going to convince him otherwise.’

You bitch, Ashling thought. You fucking, fucking bitch. And didn’t anyone else remember? Hadn’t anyone else noticed… ?

‘I…’ Ashling managed.

‘What?’ Lisa shot, her golden face terrifying, her grey eyes as hard and cold as marbles.

Ashling, never the best at standing up for herself, mumbled, ‘Nothing.’

‘It’ll be a great coup,’ Lisa smiled at Jack.

‘Who is he?’

‘Marcus Valentine.’

‘Are you serious!’ Jack was genuinely animated.

‘Wh – who?’ Ashling asked, shock heaped upon shock.

‘Marcus Valentine,’ Lisa said impatiently. ‘Have you heard of him?’

Ashling nodded mutely. That freckly bloke hadn’t looked like a man ‘about to go stellar’. Lisa must be mistaken. But she seemed so sure of her facts…

‘He’s on on Saturday night in a place called the River Club,’ Lisa said. ‘You and I will go, Ashling.’

‘The River Club?’ Ashling had gone nearly as hoarse as Trix. ‘Saturday night?’

‘Yesss.’ Lisa writhed in impatience.

‘My friend Ted is on too,’ Ashling heard herself say.

Lisa narrowed her eyes appraisingly. ‘Oh yeah? Great. We can get a backstage introduction.’

‘Good job I haven’t any plans for Saturday night,’ Ashling heard spilling from her normally meek mouth.

‘That’s right,’ Lisa agreed, coolly. ‘Good job.’

As everyone filed out of the boardroom, Lisa turned to Jack. ‘Happy?’ she challenged.

‘You’re amazing,’ he said, with simple sincerity. ‘Quite amazing. Thank you. I’ll talk to them in London.’

‘How soon will we know?’

‘Probably not until next week. Don’t worry, you’ve come up with some great ideas, I suspect it’ll be fine. Six o’clock OK with you to go and see the house?’

Raw and raging with injustice, Ashling returned to her desk. She was never going to be nice to that bitch again. To think she’d felt sorry for her, friendless in an unfamiliar country. She’d tried to forgive Lisa her constant bitchy put-downs on the basis that she must be unhappy and frightened. Sometimes to Ashling’s shame she’d even half-laughed when Lisa had implied that Dervla was fat, Mercedes hairy, Shauna Griffin in-bred, herself pathetically clingy. But now, Lisa Edwards could die of loneliness for all she, Ashling Kennedy, cared.

Slapped on her George Clooney screen-saver was a yellow Post-it, saying that ‘Dillon’ had rung. She peeled it off, the screen crackling with static. Surely it wasn’t October already? Dylan rang Ashling twice a year. In October and December. To ask what he should get Clodagh for her birthday and for Christmas.

She rang him back.

‘Hi Ashling. Time for a quick drink tomorrow after work?’

‘Can’t. I’ve got a horrible article to write – maybe later in the week, OK? Why, what’s up?’

‘Nothing. Maybe. I’ll be away at a conference. I’ll give you a shout when I get back.’

15

‘Ready, Lisa?’ Jack asked, appearing at her desk at ten past six.

Watched silently by their gossip-hungry colleagues, they left the office and got the lift down to the car-park.

The second they were in the car, Jack ripped his tie from his neck and flung it into the back seat, then tore open the first two buttons on his shirt.