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Enthusiastic again. The walk home took ten minutes—at least the rain had stopped. Pale and slight, clutching onto his thick grubby orange blanket, he looked barely more than a child. Rummaging in her rucksack, she found a pound and placed it silently beside his head.

Then, stepping over him, she let herself in. Then she went out and bought bread, orange juice, cigarettes, and newspapers—one scurrilous tabloid and one broadsheet to cancel out the rag.

She drew the line at polishing, but she sprayed Pledge around the room, and the smell instantly made her feel virtuous. Cautiously she sniffed her bed linen. It was still hanging in her wardrobe, beside a clean top. Big day tomorrow. Very big day tomorrow. In fact, it had been over eight years and she was horribly nervous.

What now? Vacuuming, she decided, because if you did it right it was great exercise for the waist. Out came her magenta-and-lime-green Dyson. Money that she could just as easily have spent on handbags or bottles of wine.

Which was funny because in her head she was still sixteen and trying to decide what to do when she left school. But how she loved it. At the time it had seemed like an admission of failure. But not now. Apart from the essentials like an iron and a pile of threadbare towels, mismatched sheets and pillowcases, everything had to be bought from scratch. Which caused Ashling to throw a rare tantrum. She fumed with seething resentment at the thought of diverting month after month of clothes money to download all sorts of stupid things.

Like chairs. downloading a bed for her was no hardship. And that, she resolved, would be that. For over a year she refused to download blinds. But somewhere along the line her priorities had changed. There was a knock at the door. Joy, white as a ghost, sidled in. But how will I cope? You know what mothers are like. I wonder if he will.

The Empress? What does that mean? Keep taking your pill. How did you get on last night?

Meet anyone nice? Not with Joy around. New job, new beginnings. Did you see any sexy men when you had your interview? A handful. A skilled nerve-shredder. Ashling split the deck and held a card up. Loan me money for a taxi? And they were pants! They seemed to consist of nothing but pictures of fat, broken-veined politicians, oozing bonhomie and backhanders. She lit yet another cigarette and scuffed moodily about the room. They saw their mates, they went to the pub, or the gym, or shopping, or decorating, or they hung out with their blokes.

She remembered that much. But something was stopping Lisa from picking up the phone. She was embarrassed, she realized.

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And something like resentful. Though their careers had run almost parallel, Lisa had always been farther up the ladder. Oliver, Lisa gasped, happiness suddenly slotting into place.

But the warm honey tide of good feeling immediately turned to acid. In the end, she rang her mum—probably because it was a Sunday and therefore traditional—but she felt like shit afterward. Why did she always have to ring her? In fact, she and Oliver had barely spoken since the split, but, inexplicably, she wanted to hurt her mother by saying it.

Pauline sighed unhappily. Colored man, African-American man, whatever the correct phrase was. She had nothing against them, it was just the unexpectedness of it. To put it mildly. A huge ebony prince with smooth, lustrous skin, pulled tight over slanting cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and thin, swingy dreadlocks that ended at his jawline. He walked as if he was dancing and he smelled of sunshine.

Pauline also suspected—though she would never have been able to consciously formulate it—that he was hung like a donkey. A nice-looking boy like him. We were ever so happy. Lisa could hear her breathing over the phone. Did you get that parcel I sent you? Very nice, thanks. Lisa showered Pauline with expensive perfumes and cosmetics that she got in the course of her job. Desperate for her to have a bit of luxury. Unless it was a parcel of books. In the poky little rooms crammed with dirt-cheap furniture, she felt shiny and foreign, with her false nails and glossy leather shoes.

Uncomfortably aware that her handbag probably cost more than the dralon couch she was sitting on. She should have dressed down on her visits, to try to narrow the gap.

She hated it all, then hated herself. All sweet and. He placed the banana on his groin facing downward, then when Clodagh looked, he faked a gasp and swung the banana upward, like a quivering erection.

That good-looking man was her husband, Clodagh realized, and suddenly, oddly, she barely recognized him. Familiarity generally dulled the impact of his sunny blond hair, the smile that rippled his skin into layers of parentheses around his mouth, the hazel eyes that were nearly always full of fun.

She was surprised and unsettled by his good looks. What was it Ashling had said yesterday? Recapture the magic. Her mind produced an image: God, she sighed, that had been brilliant. Back to Dylan, the early magic.

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Ah yes. Five years older than Clodagh, he made all the other boys look like spotty, wet-behind-the-ears youths. He smiled, he charmed, his very presence was warming, uplifting—and reassuring: And he was so yummy! She was twenty years of age, dazzled by his blond good looks and giddy with her good fortune.

He was so right for her that there was no doubt but that he was the one she was going to marry. Dylan was the one for her, she was the one for Dylan. It was only then that Clodagh noticed that Molly had poured half the saltcellar into the sugar bowl. After lunch they drove to the beach. It was a bright, blustery day, just warm enough to take off their shoes and paddle in the waves.

Start as you mean to go on. But to her disgust the building was locked. She hung around in the damp air for a while and eventually went to get a cup of coffee. Even that took some doing.

Her arm over her hair, she hurried along, her four-inch heels skidding on the slick pavement. She was a rash of goose pimples in a little seethrough slip dress and was jigging from high clumpy foot to high clumpy foot to keep warm. When she saw Lisa, her face lit with admiration and she hastily ground her cigarette out. Over here, the lift is this way. Unless you want them to suspect. I can do intimidation too, see? Though she was twenty-one and peachy-pretty, Trix had a toughness that Lisa recognized.

From her own younger days. I take no nonsense from him. The carry-on of the pair of them—they make Pamela and Tommy look like the Waltons. A horrible thought struck her. Jesus Christ!

The fashion department at Femme had taken up an entire room. Something would have to be done! Already her head was buzzing with plans to get on to her contacts in fashionland—but Trix was introducing her to the two members of staff who were already in.

She knew immediately that the specs were only for show and the glass in them was clear. Early-twenties, she reckoned he was. He radiated cool, youthful energy. She looked from Kelvin to Dervla. Twice a year, mostly. The Catholic Judger was weekly, but everything else comes out in spring and autumn.

Kelvin obviously did because the laughter started anew. She handed her a slender volume that declared itself to be Hibernian Bride, Spring Nothing more than a memo. Too boring to qualify as even nondescript, Lisa thought in disgust—medium height, balding, and wearing a wedding ring.

Human wallpaper. She could hardly be bothered to say hello to him. Blink once for yes, twice for fuck off and leave me alone. Lisa tried hard to smile. Jack looked up. In repose, his face was slightly mournful and hangdog and his sloe-black eyes held secrets.

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Everything lifted. She liked the look of this Jack. Well paid? He was a managing director, even if it was only of an Irish company. And there was something slightly unorthodox about him that excited her. Though he wore a suit, she sensed it was under duress and his hair was longer than would have been considered acceptable in London. So what if he had a girlfriend? When had that ever been an impediment? But Lisa heard a nugget of weariness at the heart of his statement. His smile had disappeared and he was once more serious and broody.

Lisa waited for him to tell her about another eight or so staff. Five members of staff? At Femme her secretary had had a secretary! How had she ended up here, in this awful situation? Lisa Edwards—Ashling Kennedy. We could all let our hair hang there, being neither curly nor straight, if we were so inclined, Lisa thought scornfully.

With Trix, although her makeup was a little less than subtle, at least she showed willingness. She was sleek and silent, dark and sinuous as licorice.

Morley, gathered in the boardroom for a get-to-knoweach-other session. Lisa was surprised that Mrs. Jack had inherited her, Lisa subsequently discovered, when he took over from the previous managing director. He could have hired a new person, but for whatever reason decided not to, and consequently Mrs. Morley was highly devoted. Too devoted, popular opinion had it. As Mrs. Morley took the minutes, Jack reiterated the brief—Colleen was to be a sexy, sassy read for Irish women aged eighteen to thirty.

It should be open-minded, sexually overt, and fun. Everyone was to have a good, hard think about features. Ashling gave a wobbly smile. But Lisa was back in the horrors. To set up a completely new magazine in an unfamiliar country! Everyone had done it, but no one was going to admit to it. Trix noticed immediately and recovered with aplomb. A his-and-hers piece? Then Jack showed Lisa her freelance budget, but something was wrong with it—it seemed to be missing a zero.

At least one. That was it. To her surprise she found that she was heaving and sobbing. Plain and simple Ashling, her hands behind her back. Interfering bitch! Lisa felt like smacking her.

They were all mad here. A packet of tissues. Then her right hand. A bottle of rescue remedy. She was lucky. At least she had a home to go to, she realized—Lisa had to go out and hunt one down. The red light winked lasciviously and joyously Ashling hit play.

She was wild keen for company and connection, to help her process her strange, challenging day. But to her disappointment, all it was was a strange message from someone called Cormac, who would be delivering a ton of mulch on Friday morning. Wrong fecking number. It must be quite a stomachache. He sounded like he was being disemboweled. Apparently, Mummy was mean. In fact, it seemed that Mummy was horrible.

She turned away from the phone. Ugh, nasty, pah! What could I do? Are you going to be quiet? Are you? Male crying. Fucking Dylan—home early and upset at being sworn at by his wife and daughter? Ashling wondered wryly. No, from the whingey, whiny complaints about a tummy ache, it had to be Craig.

That was how phone conversations with Clodagh usually ended. She needed to speak to someone. Luckily, Ted was due any minute—she could usually set her watch by his arrival. At half past she rang him. To her surprise he was home! Somehow he looked less delicate, more twinklingly robust. Usually he invaded the space of others like an unstoppable force, but there was a straight-backed jauntiness about his posture that was new.

Half-Man-Half-Badger will never ring if I wait by the phone. Right then! Well, each to their own. Congrats on the new job. Ashling tried to formulate her thoughts. Joy jogged her. How could someone not like Ashling? You were only trying to help. The door whores let them in free because they were local. Too casually. Come on, just one drink. And in the middle of a terrible nightmare. The young man continued: Then she rang a taxi on the Randolph Media account to take her around them.

It had sounded lovely in the paper—right price, right post code, right facilities. Already she could imagine herself living here. Then she saw it. The only house in the road that looked like it was inhabited by squatters: She counted along the house numbers from where she was now, wondering which one was forty-eight. Forty-two, forty-four, forty-six, fortyei. Sure enough, number forty-eight was the house that looked like it had had a demolition order slapped on it.

That it was a series of disappointments, each one more crushing than the previous. Back in her joyless room, her soul gaped in a howl of misery. Everything was made even more hellish by tiredness and lack of food.

Though back then it had seemed to be a lot more fun. At sixteen she left home and went to London for good. She and her friend Sandra—who achieved instant streetcred by changing her name to Zandra—met up with three gay boys called Charlie, Geraint, and Kevin and moved into their squat in a tower block in Hackney.

Where a life of wild fun began. Doctoring their out-of-date bus passes, getting the night bus home, listening to the Cocteau Twins and Art of Noise, meeting people from all over. In Camden Market, Geraint made her download a red, stretchy-tight Body-Map dress with a cutout on the thigh, which she wore with red-and-white candy-striped tights.

Her handbag was a little hard white case with a red cross on it. Which he got to her only just in time, because he was sacked the following day. On her head Lisa wore a knitted pirate-style hat covered with safety pins—a homemade pastiche of a John Galliano, knocked together by Kevin, who wanted to be a fashion designer.

And Charlie was in charge of her hair. One night at Taboo, I-D magazine took her photo. Though they bought it religiously for the following six months, the picture never appeared, but still.

The squat had almost no furniture, so there was great excitement when they found an armchair in the trash. Likewise, cups of tea had to be had on a rota basis, because they owned only two mugs between them. But it never occurred to anyone to download extra ones—a terrible waste of money. The small amounts of cash they had were earmarked for downloading clothes, paying into clubs if there was no way of avoiding it , and downloading drinks.

A wonderful barter system got going. Geraint would let them into Taboo for nothing, Zandra would give them free tequila sunrises at the restaurant where she worked. None of them would spend money on food—like cups and furniture, that, too, was a waste. Or else go on a shoplifting spree at their local Safeway.


Life continued like this for eighteen months, until the wonderful intimacy began to disintegrate into squabbles and rows. The novelty of having a rota for cup use had begun to wear thin.

Seconds after something had appeared in Vogue, Lisa was arrayed in a cut-price version of it, and most importantly of all, dressed with conviction. Lisa sported hers with aplomb. But the difference was that back then having a shit job on a magazine was thought to be fantastic—being employed by a magazine at all was what was important.

Those were circumstances to be savored. A source of pride, not embarrassment. Even though she was at the bottom of the heap, she was still the success story of Five Live in a Squat in Hackney. B ack in the nightmarish present, Lisa climbed into her hotel-room bed and smoked cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the Rohypnol to deliver four hours of merciful oblivion.

She was appalled at the huge task ahead of her on Colleen and hated being here. But there was no way out. She picked up the foil card of Rohypnol and suddenly suicide seemed gloriously tempting. Would sixteen tablets be enough to kill herself? Probably, she decided. Go out on a blaze of glory, while her name was still a byword for successful, high-circulation magazines.

Preserve her reputation for all eternity. No burnout here, no sir! Not being able to stay the pace was the worst crime in magazine publishing. A glamorous tragic accident, she amended. Forget falling under a low-rent Irish bus; that would be even more embarrassing than topping herself. Actually, I heard it was Balmoral Castle. At the personal request of you-know-who. Fabulous in death as in life. Fantasy back on track, Lisa eventually fell asleep, comforted by thoughts of her society-pages death.

Lisa moved through her graybordered life like a sleepwalker. Albeit a welldressed, bossy one. On Friday, the rain stopped and the sun came out, which caused great excitement among the staff—they were like children on Christmas morning. As they arrived into work, there was a stream of comments. Everyone except Lisa. Lisa had expected some pale, freckly Irish girl, not this coffee-colored little piece of exotica. Ashling, standing at the photocopier, copying several million press releases for distribution to every clothes designer and cosmetic manufacturer in the universe, paid attention also.

Morley drew herself up to her full four foot eleven, intimidatingly extending her enormous bosom. Morley trundled away.

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Then Mrs. Morley was back. Morley said grimly. Morley turned away with a disgusted sniff. I feel rigor mortis kicking in. It usually breaks down after two copies. She decided to press on with her list of the hundred most sexy, interesting, talented Irish people. Everyone from DJs to hairdressers to actors to journalists. Lisa smiled scornfully.

Mai made a violent attempt to slam the exit door behind her, but it was wedged permanently open, so she had to satisfy herself with giving it an angry kick. Seconds later, Jack came out, also going at high speed. His eyes were dark, his face was like thunder, and his long legs were gaining fast on Mai. The photocopier was working again! The others followed suit.

Instantly, he looked like a different person— younger and nicer.

Ashling quite agreed. Jack hovered uncertainly. Should he follow Mai or. Except for Boring Bernard, who surrounded himself with thank you for not smoking signs.

Ashling followed all of his movements, unable to look away. She was proud of her clever, bitchy tongue and the power it gave her. The streets were thronged and the setting sun was dazzling. Picking her way through the good-humored revelers spilling out of pubs onto the streets of Temple Bar, she headed determinedly for Christchurch. But memories tugged faintly at her. Of other sunny Friday evenings. Sitting with Oliver by the river in Hammersmith, sipping cider, peaceful and free after a hard week.

Had that really been her? The good weather had obviously put Ashling in mind of defoliating her legs, too, because Lisa had overheard her booking a lunchtime leg wax.

It seemed she was just going to go in as a civilian and pay the going rate. There had never been much chance that Lisa would be friendly to someone as ordinary as Ashling. But because Ashling had caught her crying and treated her as though she needed tenderness, Lisa disliked her immensely. She disliked Mercedes, too, for totally different reasons. Mercedes, silent and self-possessed, rattled her. Unless, of course, gorilla legs are in this summer.

To piss off both Ashling and Mercedes, Lisa was extra sweet to Trix. Select a pet, shower her with intimacy, then suddenly abandon her in favor of another.

Except for Jack. She was going to be nice to him all the time. He was the only thing in her life that was giving her hope. He was amused by Trix, polite to Mercedes, and seemed to positively dislike Ashling. But to Lisa he was respectful and solicitous. Admiring even. And so he should be. Lisa was clear-eyed about her looks. As well as the usual attention to hair, nails, skin, makeup, and clothes, she popped huge amounts of vitamins, drank sixteen glasses of water a day, only snorted cocaine on special occasions, and every six months had a Botox injection in her forehead—it paralyzed the muscles and gave a lovely wrinkle-free appearance.

So hungry that she barely noticed it now. Sometimes she dreamed about eating a three-course meal, but people do the oddest things in dreams! Lisa had blithely assumed that she was being pitted against an Irish girl, which would be a cakewalk. Tearing Jack away from his passionate, exotic girlfriend was currently one of the least taxing aspects of her life.

Before the constant looking over her shoulder at the hordes of younger, smarter, tougher, more ambitious girls swarming up behind her had distilled her life to a focused treadmill. And tomorrow she was showcasing a couple of hairdressers, getting her color done in one and having it cut in another. A fter three speedy postwork drinks, Ashling got up to leave, but Trix implored her to stay out. While Ashling certainly had bitchy thoughts, she rarely gave vent to them because she had an edgy suspicion that what goes around comes around.

Ashling jostled through the Friday night throng and hailed a taxi. I just mean I envy his, his. Have an affair? Or the occasional anonymous, away-from-home shag?

Fast, furious, and faceless? But in a strange little way, the thought of Dylan having sex with someone else turned her on. Would they do it like she and Dylan did? Or would it be more inventive? More passionate? As she visualized the porn-movie scenarios, her breathing quickened, and when she was ready, she gave herself a couple of quick, intense orgasms, then fell into a deeply content sleep until she was woken by Molly needing to do a wee-wee.

What she actually wanted, though she was only dimly aware of it, was to look like Lisa. They had airbrushed him out of their reality. She had to pass within inches of him to get to her front door and was uncomfortably unsure of what the correct etiquette was, but felt she should say something.

After all, they were neighbors. He was missing a front tooth.

As she walked past him, he nodded at her glossy shopping bag. Just a couple of things for work, you know. Is that right?

I work hard for my money, she fumed. There but for the grace of God go I, she thought. I could have ended up on the streets. And then she scolded herself for such melodrama. Things had never been that bad. And now she was expected to put on her party clothes and go out with Joy. Being a thirty-something was like experiencing adolesence in reverse. Her body was changing and often she was struck by strange, sometimes shameful urges.

Exciting, she corrected. And glamorous. And it was a great laugh working with so many new people—in her old job there had only been three other full-time staff. No awkward types like Lisa or Jack Devine. Now was not the time to go all nostalgic and pathetic.

No chance. Though she was more fragile than usual. Worth it, though. But he was supposed to ring me today and—oh no, this milk tastes sour. Running a yogurt factory? And have you eaten? Architecture students. One of them does a bit of stand-up, so some of the comedians should be there.

And where there are comedians, Half-Man-Half-Badger is usually to be found! How much expenses have we? Until he started to dance. Sinuous and lithe, graceful and sure, he was suddenly beautiful. The steps were basic enough. Most of the class were lumpish and clumsy—Joy in particular from lack of sleep and a hangover—and Alberto seemed genuinely distressed by how atrocious everyone was.

Ashling, however, picked up the moves smoothly. After the class, the club began properly. Ashling homed in on one couple. Below the waist their limbs were a blur, but above the waist they barely moved.

Groin to groin, chest to chest, his left hand held her right one above their heads, the soft skin of their inner arms joined along the full length. Their heads remained still. Ashling had never seen anything so erotic in all her life. A bud of yearning yawned open within her and it felt like pain. Stirred by a nameless need, she watched the dancers, her mouth bittersweet with longing.

But for what? Jolting her from her introspection, a man asked Ashling to dance. He was short and going bald. It gave her some inkling of what it must be like to be able to do it well. Not a man in sight. Just one dance with a short-arse slaphead to show for our trouble. It had the obligatory high ceilings, original features, peeling paint, and overpowering smell of damp. She slipped her moorings and was gone. Suddenly alone, Ashling gave Bellez-Moi a cheesy, sweatyapologetic grin.

Unexpectedly, she had it. How about that for a watertight excuse? But he had his pen out and his eyes were keen and warm. She swallowed away the rage of being put in such a spot. Pushed it down, buried it.

The moment took forever. Something silly. Cupid, or something. Why did the awful ones always ring and the good-looking ones never? Good, now she could go home. She was too old for this studenty-type shite.

On the way out she tripped over Ted, talking to a gamine redhead. Even his body language had altered. Instead of bending forward, he tilted away slightly, so the girl had to lean toward him.

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Greetings having been exchanged, he turned to the little redhead. She was into you. She and Ted used to take it in turns to be the walking wounded. Ashling hesitated. Married to a rich fella, hangs around with a horsey crowd, and I get the impression her job is only a hobby. Yesterday he called me Little Miss Fixit just because I offered him two aspirins for his headache.

O ye of little faith.

Guilt compelled Clodagh to pay her six. In a couple of strokes she drew a vacuum—an upstanding rectangle with a twirly lead snaking from it. Then she sketched a few squares and drew rainfall coming down on top of them. Then she drew two arrows—one pointing to the pile of shirts on the table, the other pointing to the duster and Pledge next to them.

Anything else? Clodagh did a quick zoom around her head. And the minute Molly and Craig saw him they fell in love and roared crying when the cat was promptly escorted off the premises. Molly duly returned, offering a blunt, yellow pencil and a Banana in Pyjamas. If you want anything done properly, you have to do it yourself.

Surely Flor would understand that?

Her last drawing done, Clodagh sighed heavily. Cleaning women were like gold dust. Even the crap ones. Not to mention that Clodagh had no faith in her own ability to command respect in this situation.

Dylan had what they called Good People Skills. Between the guilt and the drawings, it almost seemed easier to do the housework herself.

Almost, but not quite. Despite everything, Clodagh savored the one morning a week when the pressure was off her. She was never on top of things, and the minute something was done it needed to be done again. Not because it was nice.

But she was absolved from having to do anything about it until Molly and Craig were grown up. Just as well. After several false starts—Molly wanted to wear her hat, Craig had to go back in and get his Buzz Lightyear— Clodagh hurriedly piled them all into the Nissan Micra. Back they went to the car again and away they went. Usually on Mondays, she dumped Molly in playschool and took herself off to the gym for a couple of hours.

But not today. Molly had been suspended for a week from playschool for biting another child, and the gym had no day care. Clodagh decided to go into town and go around the shops until it was safe to go home. Passersby smiled indulgently at the beautiful Molly, cute and ludicrous in her pink, furry, deerstalker hat, attempting to do Riverdance. As they made their way up the street Clodagh was in a pocket of besottedness, her heart swollen and sore with love.

The paper seller openly admired the short, shapely woman trailing a small girl in her wake. Clodagh looked at it with regret. She knew he was watching her and it felt surprisingly good. His bold, roguish stare stirred memories of when men used to look at her like that all the time. But what was she doing? Getting excited because a newspaper seller had given her the glad eye? Yeah, she answered wryly, married alive. Clodagh tried to pull her up, but Molly wriggled like an octopus.

Scores of hard-faced mothers passed, laden with children, whom they cuffed and hit on an automatic rota. Going to bed early, my foot. Clodagh and Dylan had made a decision never to hit their children. It seemed as if the whole of Dublin gasped.

Everyone around her looked like they worked for the child abuse hot line. A wave of crimson shame slapped her in the face. What was she doing, assaulting a defenseless little girl? What was wrong with her? Except the ice cream started to melt and Clodagh was asked to leave a fabric shop after Molly rubbed her cone carefully along a bolt of curtain muslin, patterning it with a thick white trail. On paper everything was perfect—she had two healthy children, a good husband, no money worries.

But lately everything felt like unrelenting drudgery. Had done for quite a while, actually. The thought of this mind-set crystallizing into anything like permanence was terrifying. But something had changed. Not so long ago she was fueled by anticipation and optimism. What was different, what had gone wrong? A shop run was done twice a day, morning and afternoon. This was separate from the lunch run and the hangover-cure run.

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I knew you had it in you! You see what you can achieve when you put your mind to it. Trix wrote it all down on her list and moved on to the next person. Jack roamed among the desks and no one would meet his look. Those who could inched and hid their cigarettes behind something. Lisa had a box of Silk Cut open beside her mouse pad, but though Jack wavered and seemed like he might stop, he sped up again and passed by. Safe, for a while. Silently he tilted his head at her box of Marlboros.

He was so unpleasant to her, but she seemed to be the only one he cadged cigarettes from. Jerkily, she passed him her box of matches, taking care not to touch him. Inclining the cigarette upward, he pulled deep.

Jack Devine, Working-Class Hero. Like an education. Then he gets an M. And why he has all those macho hobbies. Or any evening. Not a bad idea. She believed none of it herself—taking the line that her happiness was very much in her own hands—but that was no reason not to peddle it to the masses. In the short time Ashling had been working at Colleen, constant anxiety about her lack of ideas had gnawed at her.

Could it be that he was going to ask her out? When he instructed her to shut the door her excitement mounted. This had never happened before. And as everyone in magazines knows, the income generated from selling ads is far in excess than that garnered from cover price sales. At least it should be. Panic swept up Lisa in a prickly wave. How would she ever live down the failure of a stillborn magazine? Published in: Full Name Comment goes here. Are you sure you want to Yes No.

Be the first to like this. No Downloads. Views Total views. Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. Book details Author: Independently published Language: English ISBN Description this book Please continue to the next page 4. If you want to download this book, click link in the last page 5. You just clipped your first slide!

Clipping is a handy way to collect important slides you want to go back to later. Now customize the name of a clipboard to store your clips. Visibility Others can see my Clipboard. Cancel Save.Now they could just sack her instead of having to shell out a redundancy payment. Which, hopefully, would be soon. A real job? A new magazine? S hould we let her in yet?

ALONZO from Melbourne
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