‘I’ve told Molly that he’s dead.’

Ashling roared laughing.

‘Told her he’d been knocked down by a lorry,’ Clodagh continued grimly.

Ashling’s smile faded. ‘You didn’t… really?’

‘I did, really,’ Clodagh said smartly. ‘I’d had quite enough of that big purple fucker and all those awful irritating brats, delivering morals and telling me how to live my life.’

‘And was Molly upset?’

‘She’ll get over it. Shit happens. Am I right?’

‘But… but… she’s two and a half.’

‘I’m a person too,’ Clodagh said defensively. ‘I have rights too. And I was going mad from it, I swear I was.’

Ashling considered in confusion. But maybe Clodagh was right. Everyone just expects mothers to sublimate all of their own wants and needs for the good of their children. Perhaps that wasn’t very fair.

‘Sometimes,’ Clodagh sighed, heavily, ‘I just wonder, what’s the point? My day is filled with ferrying Craig to school, Molly to playgroup, Molly home from playgroup, Craig to his origami lessons… I’m a slave.’

‘But bringing up kids is the most important job anyone can do,’ Ashling protested.

‘But I never have any adult conversation. Except with other mothers, and then it’s all so competitive. You know the sort of thing – “My Andrew is much more violent than your Craig.” Craig never hits anyone, while Andrew bloody Higgins is a junior Rambo. It’s so humiliating!’ She fixed Ashling with a bleak look. ‘I see magazine articles about the competitiveness of the workplace, but it’s nothing compared to what takes place in the mother-and-toddler group.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve been worried sick all this week because I’ve to write an article on a salsa class,’ Ashling provided. ‘It’s literally kept me awake at night. You don’t have to deal with that kind of worry.’ To finally bring her round, Ashling finished softly, ‘And above all, you have Dylan.’

‘Ah now, marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

Ashling wasn’t convinced. ‘I know you have to say that. It’s the rule, I’ve seen it in action. Married women simply aren’t allowed to say that they’re mad about their husbands, unless they’re just married. Get a group of married women together and they compete to see who can diss their husband the most. “My one leaves his dirty socks on the floor,” “Well my one never noticed that I got my hair cut.” I think you’re all just embarrassed by your good fortune!’

Back out on the sunlit street, Ashling heard a familiar voice shout, ‘Salman Rushdie, Jeffrey Archer or James Joyce?’

It was Joy.

‘What are you doing up so early?’

‘Haven’t been to bed yet. Hiya.’ Joy nodded warily at Clodagh. Clodagh and Joy didn’t really like each other. Joy thought Clodagh was too spoilt and Clodagh resented Joy for her closeness with Ashling.

‘Go on, then,’ Joy urged. ‘Salman Rushdie, Jeffrey Archer or James Joyce?’

‘James Joyce alive or decomposing?’

‘Decomposing.’

Ashling considered her gruesome choice and Clodagh’s face was a picture of leftoutness. ‘James Joyce,’ Ashling finally decided. ‘Right, you cow. Gerry Adams, Tony Blair or Prince Charles?’

Joy winced. ‘Ooooh! Well obviously not Tony Blair. And not Prince Charles. It’s going to have to be number one.’

Ashling turned to Clodagh. ‘Your turn.’

‘What do I do?’

‘You pick three horrible men and we have to choose which one we sleep with.’

Clodagh hesitated. ‘Why?’

Ashling and Joy glanced at each other. Why indeed?

‘Because it’s… um… fun.’

‘I have to go.’ Joy rescued the situation. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to die. See you later. What time are we going to the River Club?’

‘I said I’d meet Lisa there at nine.’

‘You have all these friends that I don’t know.’ Clodagh stared resentfully after her. ‘Her, and that Ted. I’m buried alive.’

‘Well, why don’t you come out with us? I keep inviting you.’

‘I could, couldn’t I? Dylan can bloody well babysit for a change.’

‘Or Dylan could come too.’

18

Ashling had been wrong – Marcus Valentine didn’t ring her. She could hardly believe her luck. All week her answering machine had crouched in her flat with the menace of an unexploded bomb. If she came in from work and the light was flashing red, her heart leapt into her mouth. But, though there was a message from Cormac saying that a skip for the dead branches would be delivered on Tuesday and another to say that the skip would be collected on Friday, there was not a word from Marcus Valentine. By Saturday evening, when she got home from her day’s shopping with Clodagh, she knew there wouldn’t be.

But as she painted her fingernails (and a fair portion of her surrounding fingers also) light-blue in honour of the gig at the River Club, she realized there was a small chance Marcus would notice her in the audience. She hoped he wouldn’t, she really hoped he wouldn’t. The spoils from her day’s shopping were spread out on her bed – light-blue Capri pants, killer sandals, white waist-tied shirt. Maybe she shouldn’t wear them tonight – after such a lucky escape wouldn’t it be foolhardy to look nice?

But she’d only be cutting off her nose to spite her face. There’d be other people there – she had to think about them.

Around nine o’clock, Ted and Joy showed up. Joy complimented Ashling on her funky pastel glamour, but Ted was agitatedly whispering, ‘My owl has got no wife. Shit, that’s wrong! My wife has got no nose. No! Shit, shit, shit!… We might as well stay at home,’ he said tearfully. ‘I’m going to be atrocious. People have expectations of me now. It was different when I didn’t have a following. My owl has got no nose…’

Already Ashling was plopping a drop of rescue remedy on his tongue, rubbing lavender oil on his temples and shoving the Serenity Prayer under his nose. ‘Read that, and if it doesn’t do the trick, we’ll move on to the Desiderata.’