‘And that’s all you wanted to talk to me about?’ Ashling needed to check.

‘What else would there be?’ Clodagh sounded surprised.

‘Nothing.’ Ashling could have smacked Dylan, getting her worked up into a state of high anxiety, when it was clear that all that was wrong with Clodagh was boredom. ‘So what kind of job were you thinking of?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ Clodagh admitted. ‘Don’t really mind. Anything… Although,’ she added ruefully, ‘whatever it is, it’ll be hard to go back to taking orders from other people. People who aren’t my children, that is.’

As Ashling rearranged her mood to fit in with this unexpected turn of events, Clodagh fell into a reverie. She was always reading books where housewives started their own business. Where they turned their great baking skills into a cake industry. Or set up a health club for women. Or channelled their pottery hobby into a thriving enterprise, employing, oh, at least seven or eight people. They made it sound so easy. Banks lent them money, sisters-in-law minded children, neighbours converted the garage into an HQ, everyone rallied round. When the café flooded, the world and its granny mucked in to clear up: customers, postmen, innocent passers-by and someone the heroine had had a bad argument with. (This usually signalled the end of the disagreement.)

And these fictional enterprising women invariably bagged a man into the bargain.

But you have a man, Clodagh reminded herself.

Yes, but….

So could she set up her own business? What could she do?

Nothing, if she was honest. She sincerely doubted that anyone would pay to eat something she’d cooked. In fact, with Craig and Molly she almost had to pay them to eat their meals. She couldn’t see people shelling out good money to come to her restaurant and eat Petit Filous and microwaved Pot Noodles – even if she did offer a free food-cooling service by blowing on everything before she served it. And allowed the customers to rub their leftovers into their hair.

As for handicrafts – she’d rather give birth than do pottery. Nor had she any idea how to go about setting up a health club.

No, it seemed as if a more conventional route to earning a living was on the cards for Clodagh. Which is where Ashling came in.

‘So I wondered if you’d type my CV for me?’ Clodagh asked. ‘And listen, I don’t want Dylan to know about this. Not yet, anyway, his pride might be hurt. If he wasn’t the sole breadwinner, do you know what I mean?’

Ashling wasn’t entirely convinced, but she decided to let it go. ‘OK. What hobbies will I put you down for? Hang-gliding? S&M?’

‘White-water rafting,’ Clodagh giggled. ‘And human sacrifices.’

‘And you’re sure you feel OK?’ Ashling still needed to have it underlined.

‘I do now. But to be honest, I’d been very down for a while, it was really starting to get to me.’

Maybe Dylan wasn’t being a total drama queen, after all, Ashling decided. Perhaps he’d had some reason to worry.

‘But now I know what to do,’ Clodagh said cheerfully, ‘everything’s going to be all right… Hey.’ She suddenly remembered something. ‘Dylan tells me you’re babysitting for us on Saturday night.’

So Operation Cheer-Up-Clodagh was still going ahead?

‘We’re going to L’Oeuf,’ Clodagh shivered in delight. ‘It’s ages since I’ve been out.’

‘Listen, what if Ted babysat with me?’ Hopefully Clodagh would blow that idea out of the water.

‘Ted? The small dark one?’ Clodagh considered. ‘OK, why not? He looks harmless.’

27

Ashling got in early to type up Clodagh’s CV, then got Gerry to arrange it, all fancy. As she waited for him to print it out, she was shocked to find herself doodling ‘Ashling Valentine’. Grow up! Better do some work. Instead she did something even more unpleasant. She rang her parents. Her father answered.

‘Dad, it’s Ashling.’

‘Ah, hello!’ He sounded overjoyed to hear from her. ‘How are things?’

‘Oh, good, good. And you’re all well?’

‘Never better. So when are we going to see you? Any chance of you coming down for a weekend?’

‘Not just yet.’ She shrivelled with guilt. ‘You see, I sometimes work weekends at the moment.’

‘That’s a pity, mind you don’t overdo it. But the job’s going well, is it?’

‘Very well.’

‘Hold on, your mother wants a quick word.’

‘Listen, Dad, I can’t really talk, I’m at work. I’ll ring some evening. I’m glad you’re all good.’

Then she hung up, feeling a little bit better, a little bit worse. Relieved that she’d rung and wouldn’t have to do it again for a couple of weeks, guilty because she couldn’t give them what they really wanted. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Lisa was late.

‘Where were you?’ Trix asked. ‘Everyone’s been looking for you.’

‘You’re my PA,’ Lisa said, impatiently. ‘You’re supposed to know. Look in my appointment book.’

‘Oh, your appointment book,’ Trix said. ‘Of course.’ She turned to the appropriate page and read out, ‘“Interviewing mad Frieda Kiely.” That’s where she was, lads.’

‘That’s right,’ Lisa announced, loud enough for everyone – particularly Mercedes – to hear. ‘I visited Frieda Kiely at her atelier this morning. She’s a sweetie. An absolute sweetie.’

Actually, she’d been a nightmare. A grotesque nightmare. Unpleasant, crazily hyper and so far up her own bum there was a chance she might never reappear. Which would be no bad thing, Lisa thought.

When Lisa had arrived, Frieda had been stretched on a chaise longue, dressed in one of her own over-the-top frocks, her long grey hair tumbling to her waist. She was half-lying on bundles of fabric and tucking into a McDonald’s breakfast. Though Lisa had confirmed the interview with Frieda’s assistant that very morning, Frieda insisted there was no such arrangement.

‘But your assistant…’

‘My assistant,’ Frieda overrode her in bellowing tones, ‘is a useless moron. I shall sack her. Julie, Elaine, whatever your name is – YOU’RE FIRED!… But as you’re here,’ Frieda conceded. She was in the mood for a little fun.