‘And a right skinnymalinks,’ said Boring Bernard, who had no idea what she looked like but who liked a good bitch as much as the next mummy’s boy. ‘There’d be more meat on a tinker’s stick after a good row.’

Trix looked at him scornfully. ‘That’s a compliment, you gobshite. You haven’t a clue!’

Insult after insult was heaped upon Frieda Kiely, except from Ashling who had heard somewhere that she really was mad. Apparently she was mildly schizophrenic and disinclined to take her medication.

‘But,’ Ashling interrupted, feeling someone should defend her, ‘don’t you think before we give out about her, we should walk a mile in her shoes?’

‘That’s right,’ said Jack, who’d emerged to see what all the commotion was. ‘Then we’d be a mile away from her and we’d have her shoes. Sounds good to me.’ He shot Ashling a jeering smile, then barked, ‘For God’s sake, Ashling, act your age, not the speed limit.’

Lisa was amused. ‘What is the speed limit in this country?’

‘Seventy,’ Jack said, slamming back into his office.

Ashling hated Jack again. Things were back to normal.

Even though Marcus Valentine didn’t have her work number, Ashling’s whole being gulped when, at ten to four, Trix handed her the phone and said, ‘A man for you.’

Ashling took the receiver, waited a moment to compose herself, then cooed, ‘Heeeyyy.’

‘Ashling?’ It was Dylan and he sounded puzzled. ‘Have you a cold?’

‘No.’ In disappointment she reverted to her normal voice. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

‘How about that drink this evening? I can come into town at whatever time suits you.’

‘Sure.’ It would keep her from her phone vigil at home. ‘Call into the office around six.’

Then, very quickly, she rang home to see if there were any messages. It was only fifteen minutes since the last time she’d checked, but you never know.

Or maybe you do, because no one had phoned.

At quarter past six, Dylan caused a mild stir when, blond hair flopping into his eyes, he showed up in a well-cut linen suit and an immaculate white shirt. As he stood at Ashling’s desk, there seemed to be something wrong with him, a lopsidedness as if his shoulder was dislocated.

‘Are you OK?’ Ashling got up, walked around him and found that the reason his whole body was twisted was that he was trying to conceal an HMV bag behind his back.

‘Dylan, I won’t tell that you’ve been buying CDs.’

‘Sorry,’ he shrugged sheepishly. ‘This is what comes of working in the wilds of Sandyford. Whenever I come into town, I go berserk in music shops. The guilt kinda gets to me.’

‘Your secret is safe with me.’

‘New jacket?’ Dylan asked, as Ashling switched off things.

‘Actually, yes.’

‘Let me see.’

Insisting that she stood still, he ran a glance along her shoulders, nodded and said, ‘Yeah.’ Ashling tried, in vain, to suck in her waist, as he skimmed a look down the side-seams, nodded and said, ‘Yeah’ again, even more approvingly, then looked up. ‘Suits you,’ he finished with a smile. ‘Really suits you.’

‘You’re nothing but a rogue.’ Ashling’s pleasure had mounted while the examination continued. Dylan was always outrageously lavish with compliments. Yet despite knowing that he flung them around like snuff at a wake, it was hard not to half-believe him, harder still not to glow with delight. ‘You’re dangerous,’ she radiated.

‘Come on.’ She turned to go and saw that Jack Devine was nearby, moodily flicking through a file on Bernard’s desk. She smiled a nervous goodbye and for an alarming second thought he was going to ignore her. Then he exhaled heavily and said, ‘Goodnight, Ashling.’

*

Lisa had been in the ladies’ refreshing her make-up in honour of that evening’s outing with a famous Irish chef whom she hoped to convince to do regular cookery features. As she hurried back into the office to get her jacket, she rounded the door too quickly and smacked into a blond man she hadn’t seen before. She bumped her shoulder against his chest, and felt, briefly, the heat coming through his thin shirt.

‘Sorry.’ He placed his big hands on her shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I think so.’ As she straightened herself up, they took a long, keen look at each other. Then she saw Ashling at his side. Was he her boyfriend? No, surely not.

‘Who was that?’ Dylan asked, when the lift doors had closed behind them.

‘You’re a happily married man,’ Ashling reminded him.

‘I only asked.’

‘Her name is Lisa Edwards, she’s my boss.’ But Ashling was reminded of the conversation she’d had with Clodagh about all the conferences Dylan attended. Is he faithful to her? Quickly she asked, ‘Where’ll we go for this drink?’

He took her to the Shelbourne, which was thronged with post-work revellers.

‘We’ll have to stand,’ said Ashling. ‘We’ll never get a seat.’

‘Never say never,’ Dylan twinkled. ‘Hold on.’

Next thing he’d swooped down on a tableful of people, had a quick, smiley chat, then returned to Ashling. ‘Come on, they’re leaving.’

‘Since when? What did you say to them?’

‘Nothing! I just noticed they were nearly finished.’

‘Hmmm.’ Dylan was so charmingly persuasive, he could sell salt to Siberia.

‘Hop in there, Ashling – bye, thanks very much.’ All smiles, he bid farewell to the table donators. Then, with suspicious speed, he tussled through the masses at the bar and returned with drinks. Good things had a habit of just happening to Dylan, and as he placed her gin-and-tonic in front of her, Ashling wondered, as she occasionally did, what it must be like to be married to him. Utter bliss, she suspected.

‘Tell me everything, everything, about this great new job,’ Dylan ordered, energetically. ‘I want to know all about it.’

Ashling was swept along on his contagious enthusiasm. Thoroughly enjoying herself, she outlined all the different personalities at Colleen and how they interacted – or didn’t, as the case may be – with each other.