‘Chablis or Chardonnay?’

‘Oh – ah, Chardonnay.’

She lit a cigarette and scanned the throng. By the time she’d finished the cigarette and glass of wine, Ashling still hadn’t appeared.

Perhaps her watch was wrong. Lisa saw a group of lads standing nearby, selected the best-looking one and asked, ‘What time is it?’

‘Twenty past nine.’

‘Twenty past?’ It was worse than she’d thought.

‘Been stood up?’

‘No! But the arrangement was for nine.’

The boy heard her accent. ‘You’re English?’

She nodded.

‘They’ll be here soon enough. Definitely before ten. But you see, round here, nine o’clock is only a figure of speech.’

Lisa felt her black demon stir. This fucking country. She fucking hated it.

‘But we’ll talk to you until they come,’ he offered with a gallant smile. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, gave a piercing wolf-whistle and beckoned back the friends who’d drifted away.

‘No need…’ Lisa attempted.

‘No bother,’ he assured her. ‘Lads,’ he told his five pals, ‘this is –’ He flourished his hand at Lisa, waiting for her name.

‘Lisa,’ she said sulkily.

‘She’s from England. Her friends are late and she feels like a thick standing on her own.’

‘Well, stick with us,’ a small, ferrety boy urged. ‘Get her a drink there, Declan.’

‘Irish hospitality,’ Lisa muttered contemptuously.

The six boys nodded with enthusiasm. Though if they were honest, it had nothing to do with legendary Irish hospitality and everything to do with Lisa’s caramel hair, slender hips and long, smooth brown shins sticking out of the end of her artfully ragged jeans. If Lisa had been a man, she’d be staring into her pint, completely ignored.

‘Deal’s off, here she is.’ In relief, Lisa saw Ashling coming through the door.

As soon as Ashling saw Lisa, the glory of her new clothes disappeared and she felt lumpish and diminished. Nervously she introduced Joy and Ted, then to Ashling’s horror, Joy turned to Lisa and said, her chin tilted challengingly, ‘Jim Davidson, Bernard Manning or Jimmy Tarbuck – and you must sleep with one of them.’

‘Jo-oy!’ Ashling shoved her. ‘Lisa’s my boss.’

But Lisa got it immediately. She went into thoughtful mode and after detailed consideration, said, ‘Jim Davidson. Now, let me see. Des O’Connor…’

This took Joy aback no end.

‘… Frank Carson or… or… Chubby Brown.’ Lisa’s eyes were narrowed with glee and malice as Joy flinched.

After some thought, Joy sighed heavily, ‘Des O’Connor, then.’

‘She’s not so bad,’ Joy muttered to Ashling, as they bagged some seats.

Ted was on first, and although it was only his third public appearance, there was a crowd of people already firmly on his bandwagon. His earlier emotional episode in Ashling’s flat had been quite unnecessary. When he opened his act by shouting into the audience, ‘My owl has gone to the West Indies,’ a hard-core of about six studenty types yelled back, ‘Jamaica?’

‘No,’ Ted replied, and several people chorused along with the rest of the gag, ‘She went of her own accord.’

Ted had added loads of new owl stuff, all of which went down a bomb.

‘What do you call a funny owl? – a hoot!… What do you call a stupid owl – a te-wit!… What do you call a stupid owl who’s coming on to a girl who isn’t into him – a te-wit to woo!… Now for some political stuff. That Charlie Haughey – I mean, where did he get all them owls from?’

Though most of the room was in kinks of laughter, Lisa saw straight through Ted. ‘I know he’s your friend, but this is a clear case of the Emperor’s New Hugo Boss suit,’ she said scathingly.

‘He’s only doing it to get a girlfriend,’ Ashling explained humbly.

‘Perhaps that’s all right then.’ Lisa knew about the end justifying the means.

There were two other comedians on after Ted, then it was Marcus Valentine’s turn. The chemical make-up of the air seemed to alter, becoming charged with piquant anticipation. When he finally took the stage the audience went hysterical. Ashling and Lisa both sat up and paid attention, but each for very different reasons.

For a male stand-up Marcus Valentine was a strange sort of beast. His act contained no references to masturbating, hangovers or Ulrike Johnson. Most irregular. Instead his skill was being A Man Perplexed by Modern Life. The kind of person who pops into a supermarket because he’s run out of butter and goes into a tailspin because he can’t decide between spreadable butter, unsaturated butter, polyunsaturated butter, salted butter, unsalted butter, reduced-fat butter, low-fat butter and stuff that wasn’t butter at all and was only pretending to be. He was charming and likeable, in a freckly kind of way. Baffled and vulnerable. And he had a very nice body. Ashling catalogued all this in alarm.

Hastily she enumerated the reasons she’d rejected Marcus Valentine. One – his enthusiasm. There was nothing sexy about bright eyes and lack of cynicism. Sad, but true. Two – his freckles. Three – his keenness on her. Four – his stupid name.

But as she stared up at him, long-legged and broad-chested, she realized she was in mortal danger of falling foul of the man-on-a-stage rule. Coupled with the fact that he’d said he’d ring her and hadn’t. It was a fatal combination. I’m not going to do this, she told herself, I’m just not going to do this… The mental equivalent of sticking her fingers in her ears and going, ‘LALALALA I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you…’

‘Snowflakes!’ Marcus declared, his eyes wide and guileless as he scanned the room. ‘They say that no two are alike.’

He let a pause build, then bellowed, ‘But how do they know?’

As people writhed with hilarity, he asked in bewilderment, ‘Have they compared each of them? Have they checked?’

Then he moved on to his next piece.

‘There was a young lady I wanted to ask out,’ Marcus told his besotted audience.

Maybe that’s me? Ashling found herself wondering.

He strolled across the stage, as if deep in thought. The overhead lights hit the hard planes of his thighs.