‘Can you tell me about yourself?’ Lisa tried to grasp the reins of the interview. ‘Where were you born?’

‘Planet Zog, darling,’ Frieda drawled.

Lisa eyed her. She was inclined to believe her. ‘If you’d prefer to talk about the clothes – ’

‘Clothes!’ Frieda spat. ‘They’re not clothes!’

Weren’t they? But if they weren’t clothes, then what were they? Lisa wondered.

‘Works of art, you moron!’

Lisa did not respond well to being called a moron. She was finding this very, very hard. But she had to think of the good of Colleen.

‘Perhaps – ‘ She swallowed away rage. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why you’re so successful.’

‘Why? Why?’ Frieda’s eyes popped with disgust. ‘Because I’m a bloody genius, that’s why. I hear voices in my head.’

‘Perhaps you should see a doctor.’ Lisa couldn’t stop herself.

‘I’m talking about my spirit guides, you idiot! They tell me what to create.’

A ratty Yorkshire terrier wearing a miniature stovepipe hat scampered into the room, yapping with horribly shrill barks.

‘Ooooh, come to Mommy.’ Frieda gathered the dog to her enormous bosom, dragging him across squares of tweed and an egg McMuffin. ‘This is Schiaperelli. My muse. Without him, my genius would simply disappear.’

Lisa began to hope that a horrible accident would befall the dog. This sentiment increased when Schiaperelli effected introductions by clamping his sharp teeth around Lisa’s hand.

Frieda Kiely was appalled. ‘Ooooh, did the nasty journalist put her dirty hand in your mouth?’ She glared at Lisa. ‘If Schiaperelli becomes ill, I shall sue you. You and that rag of a newspaper you represent.’

‘It’s not a newspaper. It’s Colleen magazine. We did a shoot in Donegal of your – ’

But Frieda wasn’t listening. Instead she heaved herself up on to her elbow and roared through the door at her assistant. ‘Girl! Someone in this building smells of turnip! Find out who it is and get rid of them. I’ve told you before I won’t stand for it.’

The assistant appeared from the outer office and said calmly, ‘You’re imagining things, no one smells of turnip.’

‘I can smell it. You’re fired!’ Frieda shrieked.

Lisa stared at her hand. The little bastard had left his teethmarks on her skin. She’d had enough. There was no way they could run a piece on this madwoman.

In the outer office, the assistant – who was actually called Flora – rubbed Lisa’s wound with arnica ointment that was obviously there for that very purpose.

‘How many times a day does she sack you?’ Lisa asked.

‘Countless. She can be difficult,’ Flora soothed. ‘But that’s because she’s a genius.’

‘She’s an insane bitch.’

Flora cocked her head to one side and considered. ‘Yes,’ she mused, ‘that too.’

Lisa caught a taxi to the office. Under no circumstances would she give Mercedes the satisfaction of knowing she was right, that Frieda Kiely was a maniac.

‘Frieda was a charming woman,’ Lisa told the staff of Colleen. ‘We really bonded.’

She watched Mercedes for her reaction, but her dark eyes gave nothing away.

Half an hour later, Jack came out of his office, marched straight over to Lisa and said, ‘London rang.’

She turned her expertly made-up grey eyes on him, her throat too full of anxiety to permit speech. Jesus Christ, what a morning!

Jack stalled for impact, before slowly saying, with dramatic effect, ‘L’Oréal… have placed… a four-page ad… every issue… for the first… six… months!’

He took a moment to let the news hit home. And then he smiled, happiness flooding across his generally troubled face. His curly mouth kinked upwards, displaying his cheeky chipped tooth, and his eyes were bright and delighted.

‘What kind of discount?’ Lisa’s numb lips mumbled.

‘No discount. They’re paying full ratecard. Because we’re worth it, ha ha.’

Lisa remained still, watching his face with a kind of wonder. It was only now that they were back on track that she let herself feel the full extent of the terror that had been present for the past week. Jack didn’t need to tell her that L’Oréal’s vote of confidence would probably be enough to convince other cosmetic houses to buy space.

‘Good,’ she managed.

Why did he have to tell her in front of everyone? If they’d been closeted in his office she could have flung herself into his arms and given him a hug.

‘Good?’ He widened his eyes playfully.

‘We should celebrate.’ Lisa began to gather herself and let the relief in. ‘Have lunch.’

Her happiness levels continued to rise when Jack agreed, ‘We should.’

They locked eyes and exchanged a moment of dizzy euphoria.

‘I’ll book a table. Trix,’ Lisa called, joyously, ‘cancel my lunch-time hair appointment!’

It was nearly like the old days.

‘While you’re here, Jack, take a look at this.’ Lisa waved something at him.

From three desks away, Ashling – who’d been following everything with interest anyway – saw that Lisa was showing Jack her salsa article.

‘Told you I’d knock this magazine into something fabulous,’ Lisa laughed up at him.

‘You certainly did,’ he agreed, skimming over the piece, nodding with approval. ‘This is excellent stuff.’

Impotently, Ashling watched. Somehow Lisa had appropriated all the credit for her work. It wasn’t fair. But what was she going to do about it? Nothing. Too scared of confrontation. All at once she heard herself call, ‘Glad you like it!’ Her voice was shaking. She was trying to come across as casual, but she knew she sounded stilted and strange.

Surprised, Jack jerked his head towards Ashling.

‘I wrote the piece,’ she said, apologetically. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she added, without conviction.

‘And Gerry typeset it,’ Lisa scolded. ‘And I came up with the concept. You’re going to have to learn about team-work, Ashling.’ Lisa directed her rebuke to Ashling directly at Jack.