Lisa and Ashling exchanged a moment’s aghast rivalry.

‘I knew that,’ Lisa said lightly, gliding carelessly from the room, her grip claw-tight around the goody bag. Possession was nine-tenths of the law, leastways it was last time she’d checked. Out into the hall she went, and across the lobby, not breaking stride as she stepped over the still prone Dan Heigel.

‘Nice knickers,’ he murmured.

‘Why d’ya have to wear trousers?’ he asked as, a second later, Ashling hopped over him.

When Lisa judged that they were far enough away from the hotel, she slowed down. Ashling caught up and gave the freebie an anxious look.

‘It depends on what’s in it,’ Lisa said, tight-lipped. She’d just remembered why she liked to work alone. When you don’t, you might have to share – make-up, praise, stuff. Opening the doctor’s case, she said, ‘You can have the eye-shadow. Hey, it’s shimmery!’

But it was also a funny sludge colour that neither of them would wear.

‘And you can have the lip-gloss for the browbone too. I’ll keep the neck-cream and the eye-liner.’

‘And the lipstick?’ Ashling asked, a knot of longing in her stomach. The lipstick was the real prize, a wonderful muted brown, with a perfect matt finish.

‘I get the lipstick,’ Lisa said. ‘After all, I’m the boss.’

Don’t we know it? Ashling thought, resentfully.

26

On Tuesday night Ashling went to her salsa class. As before, the women outnumbered the men by about ten to one. Ashling had to dance with another woman, who asked her if she came here often.

‘It’s the first class,’ Ashling pointed out.

‘Oh right, I forgot. Anyway, isn’t it nice to have a hobby?’

After the class, pink-cheeked and glowing, Ashling belted home to check her answering machine, but the moment she opened the door, she saw the long, unblinking baleful stare of the red light. Ah well, there was still Wednesday night. All wasn’t lost.

As she rooted in the kitchen cupboards, looking for something to eat, she fretted, wondering if perhaps Marcus had lost her phone number. But no. He’d shoved it deep in his pocket and said he’d keep it close to his heart. Besides, it was the second time she’d given it to him, which lessened the chances of him mislaying it.

She surveyed the spoils: half a bag of tortilla chips, slightly soft; a carton of black olives; four Hobnobs, also slightly soft; a dented can of pineapple; eight slices of stale bread. A poor turnout, she’d have to go to the supermarket tomorrow.

She was dying for something hot, so she shoved two slices of stale bread into the toaster. As she waited she experienced a burst of impotent frustration with Marcus. For knocking a hole in her life and opening the way to let anticipation come creeping in. She’d been fine before he’d started pestering her.

Why was he pestering her, anyway? Now that she’d seen him on stage her entire opinion had changed. Instead of being a man that she wouldn’t go near, Marcus Valentine was a desirable commodity and she wasn’t sure if she was worthy of him.

Halfway through a slice of toast, the phone rang, rocketing her adrenalin levels. Brushing buttery crumbs from her face, she crossed the room and snatched it up. ‘Hello?’ All breathless expectation. Which instantly died away. ‘Oh Clodagh, hi.’

‘Are you at home?’ Clodagh asked.

‘Um, what do you think?’

‘Sorry. What I mean is, can I come over?’

Oh no. Ashling’s mood bottomed out. Bad stuff ahead. Immediately she wrote off her plans to ring her parents – she had only so much endurance. ‘Come on round,’ she assured Clodagh. ‘I’m in for the evening.’

‘I’m just popping over to Ashling’s for an hour,’ Clodagh called to Dylan, who was watching telly in the half-papered front-room.

‘Are you?’ he asked, in surprise. This was a break from the norm, Clodagh rarely went out in the evenings. And never without him. But before he could question her further, she was already slamming the door and reversing the Nissan Micra out into the road.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Clodagh announced, as Ashling let her into the flat.

‘So I gather,’ Ashling said, dismally.

‘And I need you to do me a favour.’

‘I’ll do my best’

‘Hey, do you know there’s a homeless man sitting in your doorway?’ Clodagh abruptly changed tack. ‘He said hello to me.’

‘That’s probably Boo,’ Ashling said, idly. ‘Young, brown hair, smiley?’

‘Yes, but…’ Clodagh faltered. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Not intimately, but… well, we have the odd chat in passing.’

‘But he’s probably a drug addict! He might mug you with a syringe – that’s what they do, you know. Or break into your flat.’

‘He’s not a drug addict.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He told me.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘You can tell.’ Ashling was suddenly irritable. ‘If someone is drunk or stoned you can tell just by talking to them.’

‘So how come he’s homeless then?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ashling admitted. It had seemed rude to ask. ‘But he’s very nice. Normal, actually. And I wouldn’t blame him if he did drink or take drugs – being homeless looks horrible.’

Clodagh pushed her lower lip out mutinously. ‘I don’t know where you get these people from. But just be careful, will you? Anyway, I need to talk to you. I’ve made a decision.’

‘What is it?’ Going on anti-depressants? Leaving Dylan?

‘The time has come,’ Clodagh lowered herself down on to the couch. Getting herself comfortable she repeated, ‘The time has come…’

‘For what?’ Nerves made Ashling snap.

‘… for me to go back to work,’ Clodagh finished.

This wasn’t what Ashling had been expecting. She’d been braced for something a lot uglier. ‘What? You? Go back to work?’

‘Why not?’ Clodagh was defensive.

‘Er, exactly. Why not? But what triggered this?’

‘Ah, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It probably isn’t healthy to pour all my energies into my children.’ Privately Clodagh reckoned that that was where the terrible, itchy-uncomfortable feelings of dissatisfaction were coming from. ‘I need to get out of the house more. Have adult conversations.’