Back in Jack’s office she was saying something. Over and over, her voice muffled. ‘I’ve worked so hard,’ she insisted, into her hands. ‘I’ve worked so hard.’

She was barely aware of Jack, as he pawed around in his pockets. There was the rustle of cardboard, the click of a lighter, the acrid whiff of nicotine.

‘Can I have one?’ She lifted her tear-mottled face briefly.

‘It’s for you.’ He passed her the lit cigarette which she accepted meekly and sucked on as if it was saving her life. She smoked it in six hungry pulls.

Jack continued pawing. Passively, uninterestedly, she watched him pull a scratchcard from one pocket, a receipt from another. Finally, in his desk drawer, he found what he was looking for. A wodge of paper napkins bearing the SuperMac logo, which he pressed into her hand.

‘I wish I was the kind of man who carries a big, clean white hanky for this sort of eventuality,’ he said softly.

‘’s all right.’ She rubbed the shiny paper over her salt-tender cheeks. With each hit of nicotine, her weeping lessened, until the only sound she was making was a sporadic tearful gasp.

‘Sorry,’ she eventually said. Everything had slowed down; her heart rate, her reactions, her thoughts. She could go on sitting in this office for ever, too stupefied to be embarrassed, too sleepy to question what was happening to her.

‘Another one?’ Jack enquired as she stubbed out her cigarette. She nodded.

‘You know that they only picked you for this job because you’re the best,’ Jack said, passing her a lit cigarette, then lighting one for himself. ‘No one else could set up a magazine from scratch.’

‘Funny way to reward me,’ she said, another wheezy gasp jumping from her.

‘You are amazing,’ Jack said earnestly. ‘Your energy, your vision, your ability to motivate staff. You don’t miss a trick. I wish you could see how much we value you. You’ll get to the shows. Maybe not this year, but soon.’

‘It’s not just the job or the shows.’ The words spilled from her mouth.

‘Oh?’ Jack’s dark eyes were interested.

‘I saw my husband…’

‘Your… um?’ The sideshow of emotions on Jack’s face interested her. He was bothered. Though she couldn’t feel it yet, she knew this was a good thing. ‘I didn’t know you were married,’ he settled on.

‘I’m not. Well, I am, but we’ve split up.’ Painfully, she added, ‘We’re getting divorced.’

Jack looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘Christ! I’ve never been through it, so I’m not going to patronize you with advice or stuff… I mean, I’ve split up with people, which is rough, but not the same, I’d imagine. But, anyway, well, it sounds…’ He searched around for the appropriate word and couldn’t find anything dramatic enough. ‘Rough, it sounds rough.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’ With a sudden show of control and efficiency, she blew her nose, rummaged in her bag, then flipped open a mirror. ‘I’m a horror-show,’ she said briskly.

‘You look fine to me…’

After a quick repair job with Beauty Flash and All About Eyes, she said, ‘I’d better get back. Ashlings to shout at, Gerries to row with.’

‘You don’t have to…’

Slowing down, she momentarily took off her mag-hag persona. ‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ she admitted. ‘Thank you.’

42

‘Him, there, the tall one.’ Ashling pointed through the crowds at the River Club.

‘That’s your boyfriend?’ Clodagh asked incredulously. ‘He’s lovely, a bit like Dennis Leary.’

‘Ah, he’s not really,’ Ashling demurred, thrilled.

All of a sudden she felt nearly as good as Clodagh. OK, Clodagh obviously needed glasses, but so what! And wait until she saw Marcus perform!

It was Saturday night and there was a star-studded cast on at the River Club. As well as Marcus and Ted, Bicycle Billy, Mark Dignan and Jimmy Bond were also playing.

‘Quick, spread your jacket and your bag across as many chairs as possible.’ Ashling threw herself towards a vacant table. The comedians were doing the great honour of sitting with them, and Joy and Lisa were also coming. Even Jack Devine had said he might drop in.

From across the room, Ted had spotted Clodagh and came running. ‘Hello,’ he exclaimed, pathetically aglow. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Clodagh said graciously.

Ted pulled up a chair and sat next to Clodagh in a way that proclaimed they were ‘special’ friends.

Ashling anxiously watched the interplay. The dogs in the street knew that Ted fancied Clodagh. But what of Clodagh? She had insisted on coming without Dylan.

With wild animation Ted chatted away until suddenly he realized that he might have to vomit. His usual nerves were wildly exacerbated by Clodagh’s presence. White-faced, he made his excuses and lurched towards the gents’.

Ashling watched. Clodagh did not follow him with her eyes as he zigzagged off. Good. She managed to rein in her ridiculous anxiety. Clodagh and Ted, as if!

‘Hiya.’ Joy arrived and gave Clodagh a wary nod.

‘Hiya.’ Clodagh nervously attempted a smile. Joy made her feel even more deficient than usual. But according to Ashling, Joy had recently been dumped by her fella, so was to be treated with tenderness.

Then Clodagh’s eye was caught by someone approaching their table. A woman so shiny and gorgeous, trendy and funky that Clodagh tumbled down a well of inadequacy. She’d agonized over what to wear for tonight, this desperately yearned-for treat, and had been rather pleased with the results, but one look at the fabulous clothes and quirky accessories of this woman conspired to make Clodagh feel rather pathetic. As if the way she’d assembled her appearance was naïve and clueless. It looked as if the woman was going to join them. She was taking off her jacket, saying hello to Ashling. Fuck! She must be…

‘My boss, Lisa,’ Ashling introduced.

Clodagh managed a mute bow of her head, then watched with jealousy as Lisa greeted Joy like an old friend. ‘Michael Winner, Prince Edward or Andrew Lloyd Webber. And you must sleep with one of them!’

‘Prince Edward, I suppose.’ Joy was rather subdued. ‘David Copperfield, Robin Cook or Wurzel Gummidge?’