And there was that surprise twist – he seemed to fancy Ashling. Between both women, they could launch a pincer approach. The column was as good as in the bag.

But best to move fast and get it all sewn up before he dumped Ashling. Because he would dump Ashling. Lisa knew his type of old. Catapult a nondescript man to a form of stardom and he can’t help availing himself of the extra-curricular girls.

It could get messy – Ashling seemed like one of those pathetic women who took heartbreak hard and the last thing Lisa needed at this busy time was an assistant editor going off the rails. She couldn’t understand weak people who cracked up. It was the sort of thing she’d never do. Of course, this was all based on the assumption that Ashling would go out with Marcus. Perhaps she wouldn’t, and who could blame her? In Lisa’s opinion, he was gross. Those freckles! And making a roomful of pissed people laugh did not cancel them out.

‘Lisaaa, see yaaa. Bye Lisaaa.’ The lads who’d ‘minded’ Lisa at the beginning were waving to her. ‘Bye.’ To her surprise, she smiled.

At the door, she passed Joy, deep in argument with a man with a grey streak through the front of his long, black hair. On a wild whim Lisa whispered as she passed, ‘Russ Abbott, Hale or Pace, and you must sleep with one of them.’

Joy whirled around, but Lisa was headed for home. As she strode through the streets, she was aware that there had been something about tonight. She had felt… it had been… Suddenly she knew. Fun! It had been fun.

20

And then Lisa woke up the next morning and felt that she couldn’t go on. Just like that. She’d never felt so hopeless. Even in the terrible ugly dying days with Oliver she hadn’t felt so full of despair – back then she’d flung herself into her work, taking bitter comfort that one area of her life was still working.

The thing was that Lisa didn’t really hold with depression as a concept. Depression was a feeling other people got when their lives were insufficiently fabulous. Same as loneliness. Or sadness. But if you had enough nice shoes and ate in enough amazing restaurants and had been promoted over someone who deserved it more than you, there was no need to feel bad.

That was the theory, in any case. But as she lay in bed she was shocked by the extent of her depression. She blamed the curtains and the plethora of pine – it was enough to send any style-conscious person over the edge. She hated the stillness beyond the gauzy light of the room. Fucking garden, she thought savagely. What she wanted was the purr of taxis, the slamming of car doors, the sounds of well-dressed people coming and going. She wanted life outside her window. She had a hangover from the night before – she’d lost count of the number of white wines she’d had and ensuring that every second drink is a mineral water tends to lose its benefit when you’re on your twentieth round. She blamed that Joy.

But the real hangover was emotional. She’d enjoyed herself, had fun, and something had been triggered by the high-spiritedness of the night before, because she just couldn’t stop thinking about Oliver. She’d been doing so well until now. Always managing to block out thoughts of him in the last – she let herself count back – nearly five months. In fact, once she wasn’t resisting thinking about it, she actually knew how many days it had been. One hundred and forty-five. It’s easy to keep track when someone chooses New Year’s Day to leave you.

Not that she’d done much to persuade him to stay. Too proud. And too pragmatic – she’d decided that their differences were irreconcilable. There were some things that she wouldn’t – couldn’t – back down on.

But on this terrible morning, all she could remember were the nice bits, the early days, bubbling with hope and love-to-be.

She’d been working at Chic, and Oliver was a fashion photographer. On the Way Up. He’d bounce gracefully into the office, his little dreads flying, usually carrying an enormous kit-bag, his bulging shoulder dwarfing it. Even when he was late for an appointment with the editor – in fact, especially when – he’d always stop for a chat with Lisa.

‘How was New York?’ she asked, in one conversation.

‘Rubbish. I hate it.’

‘Oh, really?’ Everyone else seemed to love it, but Oliver never bought into the received wisdom.

‘And did you photo any supermodels while you were there?’

‘Oh, yes. Lots.’

‘Yeah? Dish the dirt then, what’s Naomi like?’

‘Great sense of humour.’

‘And Kate?’

‘Oh, Kate is very special.’

Though Lisa was disappointed that he didn’t share insider stories of tantrums and heroin taking, the fact that he was impressed by no one impressed her very much.

Even before you saw him, you always knew when he was in the office. He was perpetually surrounded by commotion – complaining that they’d screwed up his expenses, protesting that they’d printed his beloved shots on too-cheap paper, arguing and laughing energetically. His voice was deep and would have been chocolatey-seductive, except he was too vibrant. When he laughed in public, people always turned to look. If they weren’t already looking, that is. The beauty of his big hard body coupled so incongruously with his rippling grace was bamboozling. When he used to come into the office, Lisa would study him discreetly. ‘Black’ was the wrong word, she used to think. It was far more complex and subtle than that. Everything gleamed – his skin, his teeth, his hair. Not to mention sweat on the editor’s brow. What sort of fuss was he going to kick up today?

Though he was still making a name for himself, he was honest, opinionated and difficult. He never crawled to anyone and when people pissed him off he let them know. It was this confidence, as much as his beauty, that made Lisa decide she wanted him. That his star was very much in the ascendant didn’t hurt either, of course.

Since she’d first started going out with boys, Lisa had always dated strategically. She just wasn’t the type of girl who went out with an insurance clerk. Not that it ever felt quite that cold-blooded. She never made herself go out with a well-connected man whom she didn’t like. Hardly ever, anyway. But she had to admit there were men whom she’d fancied that she knew she’d never take seriously: a charmingly grave court clerk by the name of Frederick; Dave, the sweetest plumber; and – the most unsuitable of all – a sparky petty criminal called Baz. (At least that was the name he told Lisa, but there was no guarantee it was his real one.)