When Dylan had said that all they talked about was the kids, it had panicked her. But if she was honest she’d admit it was partly true. They soldiered together, side by side, childcare workers – almost colleagues. And what was so wrong with that, she thought, seeking justification. They had two children, what else were they meant to do?

There was a good turnout at the new playgroup. As Clodagh walked through – and winced slightly at – the day-glo-painted jack-in-the-box doors, the first person she met was Deirdre Bullock, who had a black belt in Mothering. Her daughter, Solas Bullock, was the world’s most talented child.

‘You’ll never believe it!’ Deirdre exclaimed. ‘Solas is speaking in complete sentences now.’ She left a grisly little pause before enquiring, ‘Is Molly?’ Solas was three months younger than Molly.

‘No.’ Then Clodagh added airly, ‘Molly prefers to communicate with us in writing.’

She’d probably be drummed out of the coffee-morning circuit, but it was worth it to see the horrified look on Deirdre’s face.

On Monday, Clodagh came up with a great idea to lift her out of her gloom. She’d go out tonight with Ashling. They’d go on the piss like the old days, maybe even go to a club, and she’d get a chance to wear some of her lovely new clothes. Maybe the palazzo pants and tunic – but what shoes did you wear with them, she wondered. She suspected chunky platforms might be expected of her, but could she go through with it without feeling like a complete dick? Hard to know, it was so long since she’d worn fashionable clothes.

All excited, she rang Ashling at work.

‘Ashling Kennedy speaking.’

‘It’s Clodagh. Oh –’ She’d just remembered something. ‘That Ted called round on Friday to collect his jacket.’

‘So he said.’

‘He’s nice, isn’t he? I always thought he was a bit of a fool, but he’s actually not so bad once you get to know him, is he?’

‘Um.’

‘He was telling me about being a stand-up comedian. He showed me his posters.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’d love to go and see him. He said he’d let me know the next time he’s on, but will you keep me posted?’

‘Ah, right.’

‘Now, why don’t we go out for a few drinks tonight? Get plastered, maybe even go for a dance. Dylan can babysit.’

‘I can’t,’ Ashling apologized. ‘I’m going out with Marcus. My new boyfriend,’ she explained.

‘Your what?’

‘Boyfriend.’ The pride in Ashling’s voice was startling. ‘We’ve only seen each other a couple of times, but we spent all day yesterday in bed, and he wants to see me tonight.’

A gap in time opened, hurtling a whoosh of nostalgia at Clodagh. The first buzzy flush of love was right with her, surprising her with its crazy clarity. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it receded, leaving inexplicable yearning in its wash.

‘Can’t you cancel him?’ she attempted.

‘No,’ Ashling said awkwardly. ‘I said I’d help him with his act. He’s a stand-up comedian, you see –’

‘Another one!’

‘And he needs me so he can try out some new stuff.’

‘How about tomorrow night then?’

‘I’ve got salsa.’

‘Wednesday night?’

‘I’ve to attend the opening of a new restaurant.’

‘Lucky you.’ The contrast between Clodagh attending the opening of a new playgroup and Ashling attending the opening of a new restaurant wasn’t lost on her.

‘How’s Dylan?’

Clodagh clicked her tongue scornfully. ‘Working day and night. He’s going to be away on Thursday night. Again! Going to another bloody conference. Will you come over? We could have wine and something to eat?’

‘Sure. A girls’ night in.’

‘That’s the only kind of night I ever seem to have. But you’ll let me know about Ted?’

39

A week passed. Then another, and another. The pace of work remained frantic. Even though everyone was working rabidly on the September issue, Lisa had already begun work on the flat-plan for the October, November, even the December issues.

‘But it’s only June now,’ Trix complained.

‘Actually, it’s the third of July and in the real world magazines have a lead time of six months,’ Lisa said loftily.

Obstacles abounded. Although they’d made literally hundreds of phone calls to dozens of agents, Lisa hadn’t been able to bag one celebrity for her celebrity letter. It was maddeningly frustrating and she was bitterly aware that that wouldn’t be the case if she was still working for Femme. Then a hotel in Galway got wind that they were being included in the sexy-bedroom piece and threatened to sue.

Morale soared briefly when freelancer Carina secured an in-depth interview with Conal Devlin, a beautiful Irish actor who was all cheekbones and stubble. Then morale plummeted when he cropped up in the July issue of Irish Tatler, telling their interviewer all about his childhood abuse – which he was supposed to have given Carina an exclusive on.

‘We’ve been scooped!’ Lisa was raging. ‘That bastard! No one treats my magazine like second best!’ Not only did the piece have to be killed, but it had the knock-on effect of the film page having to be rewritten. They’d given his new movie a glowing recommendation. ‘Slate it,’ Lisa now ordered. ‘Tell everyone it’s pants. You, Ashling, you do it.’

’But I didn’t even see the film!’

‘So?’

Any achievements were hard won. The one thing – probably the only thing, in fact – that everyone agreed on was that Lisa was a total nightmare to work for. She was very definite about what she wanted. Then three hours later, when a piece was half written, she was just as definite that she didn’t want it. Until a day later when she was adamant that she wanted it again. Pieces got slaved over, binned and cried over, reinstated, killed once more, then cut in half and stuck back in. Ashling’s lovely no-matter-what-you-want-from-your-hair article had been dropped, cropped, rewritten and reinstated so many times that she actually wept when Lisa reprieved it one more time. ‘Will you rewrite it?’ Ashling hiccuped at Mercedes. ‘If I have to look at it ever again I’ll set myself on fire.’