‘That’s not very good,’ Jack said.

Trix nodded smugly.

‘I’ve a better one,’ Jack surprised everyone. Then strutting with surprising grace towards his office, he sang loudly, ‘I’m a SOLE man. Bababopbabop. I’m a SOLE mah-han.’

The office door closed, but they could still hear him making faint trumpet noises within.

Everyone exchanged astonished looks. ‘What the hell’s up with him?’

‘Am I herring things?’ Trix could hardly speak. ‘Was he singing –?’ She stopped in alarm. ‘Shite, even I’m doing it now.’

Ashling’s face drained of animation. She’d only just remembered the drunken relationship advice she’d given to Jack on Friday evening. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, covering her hot cheeks with her hands.

‘Am I that bad?’ Trix looked hurt. She expected a slagging from most of the others but not from Ashling.

Ashling shook her head. She could smell nothing now, it had all been wiped out by the tide of mortification. She had to apologize.

‘This office is a state.’ Killjoy Lisa began to impose order. ‘Kelvin, can you gather up the empty bottles, and Ashling, can you wash the cups?’

‘Why should I? I always wash them,’ Ashling said vaguely, too trapped in the horror of what she’d said to Jack Devi – Christ, she’d even called him JD!

This jolted Lisa into astonished silence. She glowered threateningly at Ashling, but Ashling was miles away, so she turned viciously on Trix. ‘Right then, fishgirl, you do them.’

Astounded at being spoken to thus by Lisa, who’d treated her up to now as most-favoured, Trix mulishly, resentfully clattered the cups on to the tray, treated each of them to half a second beneath a running tap in the ladies’, then pronounced them washed.

Ashling waited for everyone to settle down to work before she trembled across to Jack’s office, the nerves around her knees jumping.

‘Morning Miss Fix-it.’ Jack was almost skittish as he welcomed her in. ‘Is it cigarettes you’re looking for? Because I’d kind of intended last week’s to be a one-off. But if you insist…’

‘Oh no! That’s not why I’m here.’ Then she stopped, abruptly snagged by his tie. It was covered with bright yellow Bart Simpsons. He didn’t usually wear such frivolous ties, did he?

‘So why are you here?’ His dark eyes twinkled merrily at her. Funny, his room didn’t seem as brooding and gloomy as it usually did.

‘I wanted to say that I’m very sorry for giving you advice on your relationship on Friday. There was, ah…’ she tried for a light-hearted smile, but it came out as a bloodless rictus instead. ‘There was drink taken.’

‘Not a problem,’ Jack said.

‘Well, if you’re sure –’

‘You were right, you know. Mai is a lovely girl. I shouldn’t be fighting with her.’

‘Well, er, grand.’

Ashling left, feeling – perplexingly – almost worse than before she’d gone in. As she emerged, Lisa stared hard at her.

Shortly afterwards a courier arrived bearing the photos from the Frieda Kiely shoot. Mercedes tried to grab them, but Lisa intercepted her. She tore open the jiffy bag and out fell a heavy, floppy pile of glossy shots of models with turf stains on their faces and straw in their hair, prancing around the bog.

Lisa flicked through them in ominous silence, separating them into two unequal piles.

The smaller pile contained a picture of a dirty, dishevelled girl wearing a slinky evening gown teamed with muddy wellies, her bare legs streaked with mud. The same girl clad in an exquisitely tailored suit, sitting on an upturned bucket, pretending to milk a cow. And another model in a short, tight, silver dress, allegedly driving a tractor. The larger pile contained airy-fairy shots of girls in airy-fairy frocks dancing about an airy-fairy landscape.

Lisa picked up the much smaller of the two bundles. ‘These are just about usable,’ she coldly told Mercedes. ‘The rest are pants. I thought you were a fashion journalist.’

‘What’s wrong with them?’ Mercedes asked, with menacing calm.

‘There’s no irony. No contrast. These…’ she indicated the pictures of the floaty dresses. ‘… should have been shot in an urban setting. The same girls with the same dirty faces and mad frocks, but this time getting on a bus or getting money from a cash-point or using a computer. Get on to Frieda Kiely’s press office. We’re going to shoot this again.’

‘But…’ Mercedes glowered blackly.

‘Go on,’ Lisa said impatiently.

Everyone else in the office suddenly found their toecaps very, very interesting. No one could look at the humiliation, it was too horrible.

‘But…’ Mercedes tried again.

‘Go on!’

Mercedes stared, then grabbed up the photos and banged to her desk. As she passed, Ashling heard her mutter, ‘Bitch,’ semi-under her breath.

Ashling had to agree. What was Lisa like?

The atmosphere was toxic with tension. Ashling had to open a window, even though the day wasn’t warm. Some fresh air was needed to cleanse the ugly mood.

The only person in good form was Jack. Occasionally he emerged from his office, blithely oblivious to the tension, conducted his business, bestowed grins all round, then disappeared again. Slowly the poison dissipated, until everyone except Mercedes felt almost normal again.

At twelve-thirty, Mai arrived. She gave a general greeting then asked to see Jack.

‘Go on,’ Mrs Morley nodded perfunctorily.

Everyone sat up in glee as the door closed behind her.

‘That’ll wipe the smile off his face,’ Kelvin observed.

Trix almost went around selling hot dogs, so festive and ringside was the air.

But no fighting broke out and they emerged serenely, very much together, Mai smirking beside Jack’s bulk as they left the office.

Everyone exchanged startled looks. ‘What was that all about?’

Lisa, about to leave to inspect the bedrooms at the Morrison for their ‘sexiness’ factor, was abruptly stricken with privation. She had to sit down and swallow hard to try to dislodge the cold, hard sensation of loss. But what was the problem? She’d known he had a girlfriend. It was just with all the squabbling they’d done, she’d never fully taken it seriously.