‘Thanks,’ he gulped, with the enthusiasm of the as-yet-unestablished. Perhaps it had been worth getting togged out in these terrible clothes after all.

As they moved away, Lisa murmured, ‘See? Just remember, they’re more frightened of you than you are of them.’

Ashling nodded thoughtfully and Lisa commended herself on her kind patronage. Helped, probably, by the copious quantities of vodka she was sipping. Speaking of which… ? Instantly a waitress appeared at her side.

‘Vodka is the new water.’ Lisa raised her glass to Ashling.

When Lisa had eaten and drunk her fill, it was time to leave.

‘Bye.’ Lisa wafted past the stick-insect on the door.

‘Thank you,’ Ashling smiled. ‘The clothes were lovely and I’m sure Colleen readers will love them –!’ Ashling’s sentence ended in a gasp as someone pinched her arm very, very hard. Lisa.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Stick-insect pressed a plastic-wrapped parcel into Lisa’s hands. ‘And please accept this little goodwill gesture.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ Lisa said vaguely, trailing away.

Then one was pressed into Ashling’s eager hands. Her face aglow, she dug her nail into the plastic to tear it open. Then gasped anew as someone pinched her arm again.

‘Oh, er, yeah, like, thanks.’ She tried and failed to sound casual.

‘Don’t touch it,’ Lisa muttered, as they strolled across the lobby to collect Ashling’s jacket. ‘Don’t even look at it. And never, ever tell a PR girl that you’ll give them coverage. Play hard to get!’

‘Rule number seven, I suppose,’ Ashling said sulkily.

‘That’s right.’

After they’d left the hotel, Ashling flicked Lisa an enquiring look, then glanced at her present.

‘Not yet!’ Lisa insisted.

‘When, then?’

‘When we get around the corner. But no hurrying!’ Lisa upbraided, as Ashling almost started to run.

The minute they were round the corner, Lisa said, ‘Now!’ And they both tore the plastic off their parcels. It was a T-shirt, with Morocco emblazoned across the front.

‘A T-shirt!’ Lisa spat in disgust.

‘I think it’s beautiful,’ Ashling said. ‘What will you do with yours?’

‘Bring it back to the shop. Change it for something decent.’

The following day both the Irish Times and the Evening Herald ran a front-page picture of the Tara and Lisa clinch.

17

At quarter to seven on Saturday morning, Clodagh was woken by Molly. Head-butting her.

‘Wake up, wake up, wake up,’ Molly invited, fractiously. ‘Craig is making a cake.’

There were some benefits to having children, Clodagh thought wearily, dragging herself from the bed – for instance, she hadn’t had to set an alarm clock for five years.

She was meeting Ashling in town. They were going shopping.

‘And I think we should start early,’ Ashling had said. ‘To miss the crowds.’

‘How early?’

‘About ten.’

‘Ten!’

‘Or eleven, if that’s too early.’

‘Too early? I’ll have been awake for several hours by then.’

After she’d cleaned up the cake mess, Clodagh gave Craig a bowl of Rice Krispies, but he wouldn’t eat them because she’d poured too much milk into the bowl. So she made him another bowl, this time getting the milk-cereal ratio just right. Then she gave Molly a bowl of Sugar-Puffs. As soon as Craig saw Molly’s breakfast, he took violently against his Rice Krispies, declaring that they were poisonous. With much spoon-banging and milk-splashing, he loudly demanded Sugar-Puffs instead. Clodagh wiped a splatter of milk from her cheek, opened her mouth to begin a speech about how he’d made his choice and that he had to learn to live with it, then couldn’t be bothered. Instead she picked up his bowl, tipped the contents into the bin and grimly banged the box of Sugar-Puffs down in front of him.

Craig’s delight dimmed. He didn’t really want them now. Getting them had been too easy, yet not quite right.

As Clodagh tried to get ready for her trip into town, the children obviously sensed she was trying to make good her escape. They were more clingy and demanding than usual and when she got into the shower, they both insisted on accompanying her.

‘Remember the days when I was the one who used to get into the shower with you,’ Dylan observed wryly when she emerged, trying to dry herself, children hanging on to her.

‘Yeees,’ she said, nervously. She didn’t want him remembering how raunchy their sex-life once used to be. In case he asked for his money back. Or worse still, tried to reactivate things.

‘Here, dry her.’ She pushed Molly towards him. ‘I’m in a hurry.’

As Clodagh reversed her Nissan Micra out of the drive, Molly stood at the front door and bawled, ‘I want to go!’ with such agony that several of the neighbours rushed to their windows to see who was being murdered.

‘So do I!’ Craig screeched in harmony. ‘Come back, oh Mummy, come back.’

Contrary little bastards, Clodagh thought, as she sped down the road. They spent most of the week telling her that they hated her, that they wanted their daddy, then the minute she tried to have a couple of hours for herself, she suddenly became flavour of the month and immersed in guilt.

At quarter past ten both Ashling and Clodagh turned up outside the Stephen’s Green centre. Neither of them apologized for being late. Because they weren’t. Not by Irish standards.

‘What’s wrong with your eye?’ Ashling asked. ‘You’re like your man out of Clockwork Orange.’

In alarm, Clodagh scrambled to get a mirror from her bag. One of Molly’s Petit Filous fell out.

‘Here.’ Ashling had beaten her to it with the mirror.

‘It’s my make-up,’ Clodagh realized, surveying herself. ‘I’ve only done one eye. When Craig saw me putting on my slap, he made me do his and I must have just forgotten to finish mine… You’d think Dylan would have told me! Does he ever look at me any more?’

At the mention of Dylan, Ashling felt awkward. She was due to meet him on Monday night for the quick drink he’d requested, and for some reason she felt funny about mentioning it to Clodagh. And funny about keeping it from her too. But until she knew what it was about she sensed it was better to keep her mouth shut. Maybe Dylan was planning a surprise holiday for Clodagh – it wouldn’t be the first time.