‘But you haven’t written a book,’ Ashling said, keen to soothe.

‘They describe him as one of Ireland’s top comedians.’

‘But you’re much better than him. You are,’ she insisted. ‘Everyone knows it.’

‘So how come it’s not in the paper?’

‘Because you haven’t written a book.’

‘Go on,’ he said coldly. ‘Rub it in.’

‘But…’ She was at a loss. She’d seen previous glimpses of insecurity, but nothing on this scale. She couldn’t understand it, but was desperate to fix it. ‘You’re the best,’ she repeated earnestly. ‘You must know that. Why else did Lisa want you to do the column? She didn’t even mention anyone else. Look at how people love you.’

He shrugged moodily, and Ashling knew she was getting through to him.

‘I’ve never seen such devotion at anyone else’s comedy gigs,’ she laboured on.

‘Was Lisa really worried that I wouldn’t do the column?’ he asked sulkily.

‘Out of her mind!’

He said nothing.

‘She said you’re about to go stellar.’

He took her hand and kissed her for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘Sorry. It’s not your fault. But comedy is a cut-throat business, you’re only as good as your last gig. Sometimes I get spooked.’

After the shoot Lisa was on a high. Her instinct – always reliable – was telling her that these pictures were rather special and likely to cause a stir.

She’d managed to keep phenomenally busy over the past month, and those bizarre bouts of depression that had dogged her early weeks in Dublin seemed to have abated. Any time the blackness began its insidious crawl, she thought up a new article for the magazine or someone else for them to interview or another product to plug. She didn’t have time to be depressed, and she’d experienced small pockets of satisfaction with how the magazine was coming together. They weren’t there yet in terms of advertising revenue, but she suspected that today’s pictures would round up the last few cosmetic houses that were still holding out. Jack would be pleased.

Instantly, her clear, clean spirits clouded. Jack and Mai continued to behave like the perfect couple. They hadn’t had a public row in a month, and overnight, the sparks of sexual tension between Jack and Lisa had entirely vanished. At least they had on Jack’s part. Not that there had been much sexual tension, Lisa admitted, ever the realist. But there had been enough to give her hope. When she’d tried to reclaim lost ground with a spot of mild flirting, it provoked no response from Jack. He remained polite and professional and Lisa realized she had to let this thing with Mai run its course. And hopefully it would run its course – into the sand.

In the meantime she was on the lookout for a half-decent man. Tonight she was having drinks with Nick Searight, an artist famous more for his good looks than for the artistic merit of his canvasses. Lisa suspected he was more of a Milky Way man than a real one, but sex is sex is sex, and right now, it would have to do.

When Lisa reached home, Kathy was just letting herself out. Her hair was so frizzy it looked like it had been deep-fried.

‘Howya Lisa, all done, ironing and everything. Er, and thanks for the nail varnish.’ Kathy’s life didn’t have much call for yellow-glitter nail varnish, but Francine was bound to like it. ‘D’you want me to come next week as usual?’

‘Yes, please.’

It’d be filthy again by next Saturday, Kathy acknowledged as she walked home. Apple cores rotting under the bed, the bathroom splattered with all kind of gloop, the sink higgledy-piggledy with a week’s worth of dishes. Unbelievable really. For such a well-turned-out girl, Lisa kept a very dirty house.

In a house in a bleak, sea-facing corner of Ringsend, over the tin-foil cartons and remains of their Indian takeaway, Mai turned to Jack and finally said the unsayable.

‘You don’t care enough to fight with me any more.’

Jack fixed his still, sombre eyes on her, and waited a long time before delivering the undeniable truth. ‘But people who care about each other shouldn’t be constantly at each other’s throats.’

‘Bollocks,’ Mai said, spiritedly. ‘If you don’t fight, you don’t get to make up. All the door-slamming and shouting keeps the passion alive for us.’

Jack chose his next words very carefully. With unbearable gentleness, he suggested, ‘Or maybe it just disguises that there isn’t much there in the first place.’

Mai’s eyes filled with angry tears. ‘Fuck you, Jack… Fuck you.’ But her heart wasn’t in it.

He wrapped his arms around her and she sobbed a little against his chest, but found she couldn’t really get too worked up.

‘You bastard,’ she accused, breathlessly.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, sadly.

‘Is it over?’ she finally asked.

He drew back to look at her. He nodded slightly. ‘You know it is.’

She sobbed a little more. ‘I suppose,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never had so many bust-ups with anyone.’ She made this sound like a good thing.

‘We’ve had more come-backs than Frank Sinatra,’ he agreed, even though he’d never enjoyed the rows.

They laughed shakily, their heads close together.

‘You’re a superb woman, Mai,’ he said, with tender, dark-eyed regard.

‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ she sniffed. ‘You’ll make some nice girl very miserable. That Lisa, maybe.’

‘Lisa?’

‘The hard, shiny one? God,’ Mai lapsed into inappropriate giggles, ‘that makes her sound like an M&M. She should be well able for you. Or if not Lisa, the other one.’

‘What other one?’

‘The Latina babe.’

‘Oh, Mercedes. Apart from anything else, she’s married.’

‘Huh.’ Mai hid her upset behind gruffness. ‘You’re so contrary you’ll probably pick her. Drive me home, will you?’

‘Ah, stay a while.’

‘No, I’ve wasted enough time on you.’ She flashed him a watery consolation of a grin.

Without words, they drove through the night-time streets, Mai reducing her loss until it became something manageable. Jack was a special man: big and hard and clever and challenging. Initially she’d loved the game-playing. But she’d fallen badly for him and suspected that Jack would have run a mile if he’d known.