



WOMAN TO WOMAN

CATHY KELLY

HEADLINE

Cathy Kelly is a feature writer and film critic for the Sunday World
newspaper in Dublin, where she also writes the Dear Cathy agony column.
Woman to Woman is her first novel and it spent eight weeks at Number
One on the Irish Times bestseller list.  Cathy Kelly lives in Dublin
and is busy writing her second novel.

Praise for Woman to Woman:

"All the ingredients of the blockbuster are here ... Kelly satisfies
the most important requirement of the writer ... her book is a
page-turner' Sunday Independent, Madeleine Keane "The funny and clever
tale of two modern women struggling with life and love ..."  Sunday
World "This is a powerful story for the Nineties woman... sharp, sexy
and witty with a large dose of real life thrown in ... so realistic you
really feel you're in on the action yourself Star, Olivia McMahon "A
good read' Woman's Way, Deirdre O'Flynn "A tour-de-force of the Jilly
Cooper genre, a must as a pool-side companion' Lifetimes, Tim O'Brien
"It's a good read to bring on your holiday or just to relax with in the
evenings' Evening Herald, Lara MacMillan "An unprecedented success
story for a debut novel' Sun Also by Cathy Kelly She's the One
Copyright 1997 Cathy Kelly The right of Cathy Kelly to be identified
as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 1998 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING 40 39 38 All rights
reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without
the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise
circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it
is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 6052 4

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St.  Ives pic

HEADLINE BOOK "PUBLISHING

A division of Hodder Headline PLC " Fusion Road 338 Euston Road London
NW1 3BH To Mum, with all my love

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To John, who told me to stop talking about writing a book and to just
do it, and for encouraging me all the way when I actually did.  To
Lucy, who gave me so much support, made the coffee, poured the gin and
brought Tamsin out to meet her boyfriends while I typed.  To Mum, who's
been saying I could do it ever since we started that ill-fated Mills &
Boon, and who has helped me in so many ways, always.  To Dad for
minding the zuppies, to Francis and Anne for their endless
encouragement, and to Laura, my godchild, for being so absolutely
adorable and a complete bookworm at the age of two.  And of course, to
Tamsin, who was here for all of it.  Thanks to Saran Hamilton for being
a wonderful friend and for coming up with the title, thanks to Moira
Harmon, Joanne McElgunn and Lisa McDonnell for reading bits and not
telling me it was brutal.  Thanks to the Sunday World's editor, Colm
MacGinty and deputy editor, J. P. Thompson for making this a fantastic
time in my life career-wise.  And thank you to all my friends and
colleagues in the Sunday World who are too numerous to name and who
encouraged me, asked how it was going, helped me with computer
nightmares and never asked if I was writing a sequel to War and Peace
because it was taking so long.  You know who you are.  Thanks also to
my fellow movie critics for the same thing.

Thanks to Padraig O'Reilly for amazing poster shots and lots of advice
for the next book, and to Siobhain McClafferty or Cover Shots and her
team for the others.

Last, but by no means least, thanks to everyone at Poolbeg for their
enthusiasm, hard work and sheer professionalism.  To Joe Bruise O'Brien
for being a marvelous editor, who was endlessly encouraging when I was
down in the dumps with brain rot, who helped me learn the difference
between writing a book and writing for a newspaper and who gave me lots
of wine (thanks, Joe.) to cheer me up.  I couldn't have done it without
you, Kate.  To Philip MacDermott, Paula, Kieran, Sarah, Nicole and
everyone else at Poolbeg for their hard work.  And thanks to Jilly
Cooper whose wonderful novels kept me going through all the dreadful
bits.  CHAPTER ONE 

Aisling stared at the crumpled-up receipt in her
hand and tried desperately not to cry.  A credit card counter foil with
smudged writing, it lay forlornly on the palm of her hand with the
words "Lingerie de Paris' plainly printed on the left-hand side.

Her hand trembled slightly as she pulled out a chair and sat down by
the kitchen table, blind to the fact that her sleeve was resting on an
island of marmalade and toast crumbs left by the boys' usual breakfast
commando raid.  She closed her eyes and crunched the receipt into a
ball, willing the words to have changed when she looked again.

Just moments before, Friday had stretched out in front of her in a
comforting and familiar routine.  A visit to the dry-cleaner's with
Michael's suits, a quick detour to the hairdresser's to get her hair
blow-dried for the party and coffee with Fiona in the Merrion Centre
for a thoroughly enjoyable gossip over a slightly too-big slice of
carrot cake smothered in cream.

No carrot cake, she admonished herself automatically.  A brown scone
with a tiny bit of Flora and a cup of black coffee with no sugar.  Got
to stick to the diet.  The first week was always the hardest but you've
got to stick to it, or so the diet gurus repeated endlessly.

Dieu What am I thinking about bloody diets for, she wailed out loud.
What was the point of living on dry toast and two ounces of lean turkey
with a mini-Kit Kat treat a day when your entire life had just
disintegrated.

Suddenly her regular trip to the dry-cleaner's and the itching session
with Fiona seemed a million miles away.  Michael never remembered to
leave his suits out for dry cleaning and she'd stopped reminding him
since it was easier to bring them downstairs herself than listen to
him stomp around the bedroom muttering about women with premenstrual
tension and complaining about being late for work.

She had also given up telling the twins to put their dirty football
jerseys in the laundry basket.  They copied their father slavishly in
everything and, if he managed to escape from all things domestic, they
followed suit.  Aisling was used to finding remnants of tissues and
receipts glued to every wet item of clothing when she emptied the
machine.  She had finally realised that she was stuck with two
ten-year-old fledgling domestic incompetents along with a card-carrying
anti-housework husband.  She simply cleaned out the pockets herself.

That morning had been no different.

"Don't forget to bring my navy suit, Aisling, and tell them about the
red wine stain on my yellow silk tie, will you?"

Michael had shouted downstairs.

"Yes, my lord and master she muttered from the depths of the downstairs
coat cupboard where she was riffling through, duffel coats, soccer
boots and the bits of the vacuum cleaner that she never used.  She was
looking for the boys' tennis rackets.  The three-week summer camp in
UCD always seemed like a good idea at the time because it certainly
kept the boys out of trouble during the too-long holidays.  But it
meant three times as much organisation as it took to get them off to
primary school.  The camp timetable was a bit erratic and the boys
always forgot to mention that they wanted some vital bit of equipment
until five minutes before they were due to go.

Yesterday, it had been swimming goggles.  Today, tennis rackets.

"I know I left them there, Mum," wailed Phillip, hopping from one leg
to the other in agitation, his dark eyes huge with anxiety.

"Somebody must have moved them!"

Somebody was responsible for a lot of things in the Moran household,
Aisling thought darkly as she rummaged through old papers and a
battered plastic toy box she thought she'd thrown out.

Somebody regularly ate all the chocolate biscuits, broke dishes and
lost school jumpers.  She'd just love to shake somebody.

Michael's voice, even more agitated than Phillip's, broke into her
reverie.

"Aisling, where did you put my linen jacket?  I want to wear it tonight
and I can't see it in the bloody wardrobe!  I'm going to be late, for
God's sake!"

Triumphantly dragging two battered rackets out of the cupboard, Aisling
handed them to a delighted Phillip and shouted back up the stairs, "I
put it in the spare bedroom wardrobe because your wardrobe is so full
it would end up totally creased before you'd put it on."

Two minutes later, Michael rushed the boys out the door to drop them at
UCD before driving to work.  Peace reigned again.  The nine o'clock
news blared loudly in the background.

She left the breakfast dishes on the table to go upstairs and collect
the suits, trousers and ties she was bringing to the cleaner's,
scooping up her handbag and keys at the same time.

She draped the dry-cleaning pile on the back of a kitchen chair as she
had dozens of times before and reached absently into every pocket.

Among the bits of pocket fluff and unused match books Michael always
seemed to have stashed in his pockets, she found it.  Tucked into the
inside pocket of the fine wool navy suit that looked so good with his
yellow Paisley tie, was an ordinary credit card receipt, the sort of
thing she wouldn't usually look at.  But today was different. 
Something made her smooth it out and look.  Fifty pounds' worth of
goods from one of Dublin's most exclusive lingerie shops had been
purchased with their joint credit card but had somehow never made it
into her underwear drawer.

Unbelievably, her loving husband had been lying through his capped
teeth when he muttered that expensive lunches with his newspaper
colleagues and important contacts had sent his Visa card bill
sky-high.

The receipt in Aisling's hand made her think that the hefty bill he'd
complained about had nothing to do with lunch at Le Coq Hardi.  Instead
of buying bottles of pricey Rioja and the best smoked salmon to loosen
his political friends' tongues, the deputy editor of the Sunday News
appeared to have been splashing out on goodies of another kind.
Luxurious silky goodies.

Fifty pounds.  Aisling marvelled.  And in Lingerie de Paris at that.
She had never even stood inside the door of the plushest underwear shop
on Grafton Street.  She'd seen enough adverts for the shop's dainty
silk knickers and bras to realise that they were ruinously expensive.

Aisling felt a sliver of anger pierce the gloom in her heart.  She'd
been brought up to believe that spending money on clothes was
practically sinful and she'd never spent more than fifteen pounds on a
bra in her life.

Apart from the lacy crimson teddy the girls at work had bought for her
honeymoon twelve years ago, and a few s.

frivolous satin bits and pieces which never felt comfortable under her
jeans, Aisling's lingerie collection consisted of the type of plain
cotton knickers and sensible bras that wouldn't look out of place on a
Mother Superior.

If she was knocked down by a bus, nobody was ever going to think she
was a sexpot once they'd ripped off her sensible navy cardigan and
long, full skirt to reveal underwear about as erotic as suet pudding.
It would all match, of course, saggy off-white knickers, saggy
off-white bra and saggy off-white body.

No amount of lycra underwear could conceal her spare tyre and
cellulite-covered bum.  Why waste money looking for sexy lingerie?
Anyway, the sort of bras that could contain a well-endowed 38C
generally looked as if they could also accommodate a few basketballs at
a push and were, therefore, passion-killers of the most effective
kind.

Passion-killers, hah.  She laughed out loud, a little rasping noise
that turned into a sob at the thought of Michael walking into a
lingerie shop to buy something for another woman.

Had he given the salesgirl a blank look when she asked what size he
wanted?  Splaying out his hands as though cupping a couple of oranges
for the bra measurements?

Men never managed to check their wives' existing underwear before these
shopping expeditions, Aisling had read in a magazine once.  Instead,
they muttered about small waists, ordinary hips and blushed when they
said "About your size' to shop assistants who'd seen it all before.

Had he asked for the best lingerie money could buy, keen to impress
her!  Or was she with him, smiling as he coughed up for knickers she
knew he'd rip off later?  Aisling couldn't bear to think about it.

Michael wouldn't cheat on her.  He wouldn't, she was sure of that.  He
barely had time to play with the kids these days, for God's sake.  He
spent every spare moment working on the newspaper supplement which
would '... push the circulation figures of the paper to the top!"  as
he was so fond of saying.

She was sick to the teeth of hearing about the last-minute problems,
about how he nearly fired the darkroom technician who somehow managed
to botch printing an entire roll of film from the fashion spread, shot
at great expense in Cannes.

The newspaper had taken over their lives during the past year.  Endless
meetings and brainstorming sessions resulted in cancelled evenings out
and lots of lonely weekends where Michael only appeared for bed and
breakfast like a hotel guest who didn't fancy his room that much.  He'd
even missed the twins' Easter play where they played St.  Peter and St.
Paul in matching beige striped robes.  Aisling had spent hours sewing
the night before.

"I'm afraid I can't leave for another two hours at least," he said
apologetically when he rang moments before Aisling left for the
school.

"I'm sorry.  Give them my love, though, won't you?  Tell them I'll
bring them to McDonald's at the weekend,

OK?"

Daddy had to work, darlings," she comforted her two small apostles when
the applause had died down and the cast were being hugged and kissed by
proud parents.

Thinking about the boys, two mirror images of their darkhaired father,
she began to feel better.  Michael loved the boys with all his heart,
he wouldn't cheat on them.  He wouldn't cheat on her.  She just knew
it.

There had to be an explanation for the Visa receipt.  Yes, of course
there was.  She felt better now, on firmer ground when she thought
about their family and what it meant to him.  There was no way he'd
risk losing his family for a fling with some floozie.  Hell, she
couldn't even imagine Michael in a bloody underwear shop.  He hated
shopping.

He'd always urged her to spend money on herself, to splash out on lacy
little camisoles and those French knickers she'd bought years ago when
her flat mate Jo, had dragged her into Clerys for a rummage around the
bargain bins.

"You never wear anything like that any more, darling," Michael used to
say when he spotted a sexy underwear feature in a magazine or paper.
But he'd never gone into a lingerie shop to buy her a present himself
in their entire marriage.

"How am I supposed to know you want sexy underwear if you don't tell
me?"  he demanded one Christmas Day when Aisling laughed out loud as
she ripped the wrapping paper off another Delia Smith cookbook.  Tog
heaven's sake, it takes you two hours to buy one bloody shirt!  How am
I supposed to pick out something you'd like?  And underwear at that!"

Aisling never pointed out that she knew exactly what he'd like for
Christmas because she listened to him and carefully planned her gifts
in October.  But then she had time to meander around Henry Street,
slipping in and out of shop after shop.  Michael was always too busy
for that.

Instead of turning up with the wrong size blouse or the wrong colour
jumper, he simply thrust money into her hand.

"Go on, spoil yourself, Ash, and buy some nice clothes, won't you?
Bring Fiona with you; she has great taste."

Accepting the implied criticism meekly, Aisling duly ventured off on
those hateful shopping trips with her svelte and aerobically toned
neighbour.  She blindly rattled through rails of lovely clothes
looking for something that Michael would like and that would actually
flatter her figure.

Just when she had steeled up the courage to try it on, a size ten
salesgirl with a degree in arrogance would sidle over and ask did she
need any help.  Aisling was sure that these nasty nymphets waited until
there were at least ten other people in the shop before loudly asking
the girl at the cash register if they had the pink shirt or whatever in
a size sixteen.

Crimson with embarrassment, Aisling would then stand there
self-consciously as the assistant looked her up and down with an
expression of superiority written all over a face free of crow's feet
and laugh lines.

Sometimes Aisling felt like slapping those girls across their insolent
little faces and yelling that she had been a sexy size ten herself
once.  Before two kids and ten years of day-long access to the fridge
had changed her figure.  But what was the point?

Instead, she kept silent while an enraged and loyal Fiona went into
Bitch Shopper overdrive, demanding to see their good stock since she
'... couldn't possibly wear this sale rubbish'.  Fiona could find
snagged threads and missing buttons on anything the increasingly
harassed assistants produced for her supercilious gaze.

Thank God for Fiona, Aisling thought when the sight of buttons
straining reproachfully on tailored trousers and elegant blouses
plunged her into gloom and they had to abandon the shopping expedition
for a consolatory doughnut in Bewley's.

"Belfast."  announced Fiona, after one depressing afternoon when
everything Aisling tried on looked either tent-like or too tight.

"That's where we should go.  I love the shops there, they have lots of
marvelous shops in the Castle Court centre and you'd love it.  We could
drive up on Monday, what do you think?"

Brilliant!"  Aisling felt better already.

"I'll start a diet tomorrow, she vowed with sugar on her top lip and a
cup of frothy cappuccino in front of her.  But when tomorrow came, and
she was serving up Michael's favourite shepherd's pie, she couldn't
resist having a bit along with the Weight Watchers baked beans she'd
cooked for herself.  And well, a bit of Black Forest gateau would
hardly hurt.

She'd always loved Black Forest gateau.  In fact, she'd insisted on
having it as her wedding cake despite her grandmother's outraged
disapproval.  She could still hear that frail voice grimly prophesying
disaster for the young couple who had ignored tradition in favour of
modern ideas.

Aisling could have laughed at the irony of it all.  Granny Maguire had
no doubt been smirking at her granddaughter's predicament from
whichever outpost of the dearly departed she'd been sent to.  Straight
to Hell, Michael always joked after listening to a few minutes of
Granny's vicious gossip.

Aisling thought of Michael and the Paul Costelloe silk tie she'd
proudly left on his side of the bed for their anniversary the week
before.  She put the Visa receipt carefully on the table, sank her head
onto her hands, and closed her eyes.

Twelve years ago this month, on a glorious sunny morning, Aisling
Maguire had carefully dressed in a white lace gown and placed a coronet
of white roses on her hair for her marriage to Michael Moran, the
ambitious young journalist she'd adored since the first time she set
eyes on his handsome

It had been a wonderful wedding.  Mam had held her tight, tears in her
eyes as she whispered, "I hope you'll be happy, darling."  She and her
new husband had run out of the hotel to find Michael's rusty old
Renault carefully decorated with toilet rolls and tin cans, courtesy of
his pals on the paper's soccer team.

That had been the best day of her life, until the crisp November
morning Phillip and Paul had been born after ten difficult hours of
labour.  Exhausted and drained, she lay back in the bed with her babies
in her arms while Michael smiled down at her, an expression of
amazement on his face.

When Phillip's tiny hand curled around his father's little finger,
Michael had actually cried before sitting down on the 'bed and putting
strong arms around his family, his wet cheek against Aisling's.  Babies
grasped fingers instinctively.  She knew that.  She'd read reams of
mother-and-child literature.  But she didn't say a word and let her
husband believe that Phillip was holding his father's hand.

Just a few days before, she had dusted the ornate silver frame holding
a group picture of the wedding.  Her parents stared stonily at the
camera in contrast to Michael's father and mother who had both
developed a fit of the giggles during the photographs.  Who'd have
guessed that the Morans would stick it out for only twelve years
instead of "til death us do part'.  Yes, death, or another woman.

"I knew you'd make a mess of your marriage," she could hear her father
saying maliciously, his gaze contemptuous as he looked at the daughter
who never.  quite managed to please him.

"You never could do anything right."

Tears welled up in Aisling's eyes and spilled down her cheeks onto her
faded blue sweatshirt.  It had belonged to Michael and she could
remember him wearing it the summer he laid the patio himself after
getting expensive French windows installed.  She could see him now,
sweat dampening his dark hair, a look of concentration on his face as
he lifted another slab into place, expertly tapping it in with a
hammer.

Maybe this is all a mistake, she thought helplessly.  She got up to
clear the breakfast table as she did every morning.

Mechanically she wiped the toast crumbs onto a plate and carefully
pushed the expanded packet of Rice Krispies back into their box.  No
matter how hard she tried to convince the boys to eat porridge, they
insisted on Coco Pops or Rice Krispies day in, day out.  Don't forget
to buy cereal, she reminded herself, her mind slipping into
housekeeping mode.

Once, she knew more about motor insurance than breakfast cereals, more
about the age loading on a ten-year-old Porsche than on the dietary
requirements of ten-year-old boys.  Thirteen years ago, in the bustling
insurance company on O'Connell Street, she had practically run one
section of the motor department for months.  When the department
supervisor left abruptly for a better job, Aisling was asked to take
over and she didn't hesitate.

Now, she sometimes wondered how she'd done it all.  How she'd run her
division calmly and capably, responsible for twelve people and
thousands of accounts.  She'd actually enjoyed it into the bargain.  It
had been a challenge for Aisling Maguire, career girl, but a terrifying
prospect for Aisling Moran, housewife.  She had always planned to go
back to work when the twins were old enough but somehow, the longer she
stayed at home, the harder it was to think about entering the job
market again.

Delighted with his well-run home, beautifully cooked meals and happy,
well-turned-out boys clamouring for fatherly attention when he got home
from work, Michael never gave Aisling the push she required to get her
back at work.  As the years went by and their money problems shrank,
there was enough money to pay for a child minder should Ash want to get
a job.  But why bother?

The boys need you, darling he'd said every time she mentioned getting a
job.

"Just because they're at school doesn't mean they don't need their
mother when they get home, does it?  Anyway, my secretary never stops
moaning about leaving her three to her mother and every second Monday
she's in late because one of them has a temperature or a cold or
something.  Be grateful you don't have to work!"

he'd invariably add, obviously not counting running a house as work.

He was probably right, Aisling would sigh, familiar with the problems
of working mothers courtesy of the magazines she loved to read.  Every
second page had a different story about women stuck in the endless
cycle of work, kids and housework, with Saturdays spent cooking giant
las agnes to jam into the freezer.  Michael was right.  She was lucky
he earned enough so she didn't need to work.

They only argued about it once, when Aisling's sister Sorcha,
unbearably smug thanks to a recent promotion in the London bank where
she worked, asked why Aisling was letting her brain rot by sitting at
home every day.

"I can't believe she said that to me," Aisling said angrily in the car
on the way home.

"She treats me like a second-class citizen because I'm not managing a
bank or something.  How dare she say that!  I'd like to see her running
a home and looking after the boys.  I was working when that little
bitch was still in primary school!"

"Don't mind her," Michael said evenly.

"She's just jealous because you've got a husband, two lovely sons and a
nice home.  She'd kill to be married, not that any man would be stupid
enough to take her.  Anyway.  he took a hand off the steering wheel to
pat Aisling's knee, 'you'd hate to go out to work.  Everything's
changed since you worked.  I mean, where would you start?"

Aisling was incensed.

"What do you mean "where would you start"?"  she demanded.

"You couldn't expect to just walk into a good job after seven years of
housekeeping," he said bluntly.

"You haven't any office skills any more, have you?  Being able to make
a perfect quiche isn't much good when you need a degree to get any job
these days."

She didn't speak all the way home, silently fuming.  Michael waited
until she climbed into bed before attempting to make up.

"Darling, you know the twins would hate a child minder don't you?  Just
because they're at school, doesn't mean they don't need their mum."  He
nuzzled her neck, planting soft kisses on her collarbone before moving
down to kiss the sensitive skin between her breasts.

"You don't need to work, darling," he murmured.

"I'll look after you."

Aisling resigned herself to being a full-time housewife.

When the twins were older, she dedicated herself to a series of gourmet
cooking courses until she could whip up salmon en croiite with the best
of them and make strawberry millefeuilles with her eyes closed.  When
she'd had her fill of cookery, she turned her hand to needlework and,
within a year, the dining-room chairs boasted intricate tapestry seat
covers of golden sunflowers glowing in a midsummer sun.

By the time she'd finished the decorating techniques course, the house
was a riot of rag-rolled walls, sponged radiators and ivy-leaf
stencilling.  Michael liked to joke that she'd stencil him if he sat
still for long enough.  Short of doing a brain surgery course, there
wasn't much else that the adult education syllabus could offer her.

And here she was, still stuck in the kitchen with a mountain of
ironing, the breakfast dishes to do and the knowledge that her husband
was cheating imprinted on her brain.  Being a dab hand with hollandaise
sauce didn't stop your man from straying.

Please let it be a mistake, God.  Of course, it could be some silly
misunderstanding.  I mean, I'd know if he was seeing someone else,
wouldn't I?

He could have bought the underwear for her as a late anniversary
present.  He could be planning a surprise and, maybe, he meant her to
find the receipt as a teaser.  Then she remembered the flowers and the
large box of chocolates he'd given her.

Flowers from a garage shop.  He'd thrust them into her hands with a
quick kiss on the cheek.  Those multicoloured, bouquets with not enough
chrysanthemums or carnations to make a decent arrangement were always
stacked outside garages for last-minute gifts.  And that's just what
her anniversary present had been a last-minute gift.

Well, she could certainly arrange even the most stingy bouquet
beautifully with the help of her last Christmas present, a large book
on flower arranging which had obviously been at the top of the
Christmas-gift-for-Granny pile in Eason's when Michael had raced in to
do his last-minute shopping.

"Flowers!  They're lovely," she said, not even vaguely surprised that
her husband had only remembered it was their anniversary when he was
filling the car with petrol on the way home from work.  He'd never been
much of a man for carefully thought-out presents.  So how had he
overcome this particular blind spot so spectacularly in Dublin's most
expensive underwear shop?

It was unbelievable.  Aisling shook her head as she thought of Michael
with another woman, his naked body in someone else's arms, his mouth
kissing another woman's lips, his eyes dark with desire.  Did he murmur
her name in the same husky voice he used when it was Aisling in his
arms?

Who was this other woman?  What did she look like?

Questions bubbled in her mind as she tried to picture her rival.  She
was probably slim, beautiful and clever, with a high-profile job and
conversational abilities beyond the special offers on bananas in Crazy
Prices that week.

How did this happen to them?  Never in a million years would she have
dreamed that Michael could sleep with another woman, could betray their
marriage.

Passionate affairs happened to people in Fiona and Pat Finucane's world
where getting divorced and finding another partner was as easy as
ordering a bottle of champagne at the most expensive restaurant in
town.

But she didn't want to look for another man, a younger version of
Michael.  She had fallen in love with him thirteen years before and
didn't want to replace him.  But what if he wanted to replace her?

She squirted washing-up liquid into the sink and let a jet of hot water
create a froth of soft bubbles.  Plunging her gloveless hands into the
sudsy warmth, she rinsed cups, plates and bowls from the boys'
breakfast.  It was the same routine every weekday; she listened to the
Gerry Ryan radio show as she dried the dishes and stacked them away.
But today it made her heart sink to the pit of her stomach.

Every part of her life, every mundane task in the family home, was
suddenly threatened by the existence of some other woman, someone
Michael had gone to bed with.

Aisling stopped clearing up and tried to focus her muddled thoughts.
No, this could not be happening.  He loved her.  They were married!  He
couldn't go off with someone else, wouldn't go off with someone else.
For God's sake, he roared with laughter when she told him Fiona's
latest gossip about her cheating acquaintances.

Michael wouldn't betray her.  She was jumping to conclusions.

That was it.  There was probably some perfectly reasonable explanation.
Suddenly hopeful again, Aisling realised that there was one way to find
out what was going on.  If Michael bought anything with his credit
card, he filed away the statement.  He kept several accordion folders
in his wardrobe where he kept bills, bank statements, birth certs and,
of course, credit card statements.

Aisling untied the ribbons at the top of the first folder with
trembling hands and rifled through the alphabetical sections looking
for credit card receipts.  At first she found nothing but bank
statements and paid gas and electricity bills, neatly filed with a red
pen marking "Paid' on every one.

She tackled the second file, searched quickly through the Cs for credit
cards and then onto V for Visa.  And there they were, wedged in between
a sheaf of medical insurance forms.

Aisling carefully removed the familiar credit card statements and
spread them onto the soft beige bedroom carpet.

The bloody cat was shedding hair again, she thought absently.

It didn't take long to find the debit for Lingerie de Paris.

Unfortunately, it was nestled in between other, equally damning
expenses which brought a lump to Aisling's throat.

Silk knickers followed numerous debits for costly meals in?

Dublin's trendiest restaurants, places she'd never been to.  And!

then she found a debit to Jurys Inns, the plush hotel built near!

Christ Church Cathedral.  The date, two days before their!

anniversary.

She stared at it blankly.  Michael was never any good at remembering
dates, but the tenth of June stood out in Aisling's mind.  Phillip had
picked up some sort of stomach bug and came home from school with a
temperature.  She had spent most of the afternoon bringing him to the
bathroom where he tried to be sick sitting on his mother's lap like a
fractious four-year-old.  Typically, Michael had been in London.  He
was meeting bosses of the newspaper group's sister paper for
discussions on the supplement.  He wasn't due home until the next
evening.

By the time the doctor had arrived at the house, Paul had started being
sick and Aisling wasn't feeling too good herself.

Three Maxalon injections later, the boys were sleeping soundly under
their matching Manchester United duvet covers.  She was curled up on
the settee feeling washed out, miserable and with a sore arm, courtesy
of Dr.  Lynch and his syringe.

"Look on the bright side," Fiona said encouragingly when she phoned
after spotting the doctor's car parked outside the Morans'.  "A
twenty-four-hour bug is better than a weekend in a health farm, you're
bound to lose a few pounds."

"Fiona, you're mad, do you know that?"  laughed Aisling. 
"Only you would think about losing weight when you're staring at the inside of
the toilet bowl."

"But I made you laugh, didn't I?"  her friend demanded.

"Laughing is essential for helping people recover from all sorts of
illnesses.  That's why I always phone up Pat's bitch of a sister when
I'm sick.  She's a complete hypochondriac.  Ten minutes of listening to
her blather on about colonic irrigation or the latest disorder she
thinks she has after reading one of those health magazines has me in
stitches.

"It's a psychological thing, it's the thought of sounding like a
hypochondriac that does it.  I think, "Do I sound like that?"  and I
feel better immediately!"

"Maybe I should give her a ring," Aisling remarked.

"The twins aren't terribly talkative tonight and even the cat has gone
out scouting for boyfriends."  "Where's Michael?"

"In London with the editor and the managing director.

They're discussing the supplement with the UK paper's and in between
eating in the sort of restaurants that sends Egon Ronay into spasms of
delight.  He rang me earlier to say he'd just stopped off in the hotel
to change his clothes before they went out to eat.

"He said they were going to that really plus restaurant, Sans
Lorenzo's," she added. "Lucky old Michael," remarked Fiona.  They're
always A.W.O.L. for the messy bits of child-rearing, aren't they?  Pat
practically vanished when Nicole had that awful gastroenteritis a few
years ago, in case he might be called upon to do something involving
nappies."

"I know," Aisling muttered, her mind on Michael's brusque phone call.

"I just wish he'd sounded a bit more sympathetic, though.  Here I am
stuck at home with the kids sick and he's off having a whale of a time.
He couldn't talk to me for more than two minutes on the phone."  She
broke off abruptly, suddenly feeling that she was being childish.

"You poor old thing," Fiona answered, in the soft tone she reserved for
her adored six-year-old daughter, Nicole.  "I'm going to pop down to
the video shop and get you a nice, slushy, romantic film so you can sit
in comfortable misery, all right?  And when you're talking to Michael
later, tell him you expect a bit of pampering and a huge bottle of
perfume from the duty-free to cheer you up."

"Well, I don't think he'll be ringing because he said I should go to
bed early and that he mightn't be in 'til late," Aisling answered.

"Leave a message for him, Ash.  Most of those business hotels have an
answering machine for each room.  You can tell him you're miserable,
make him feel guilty, he'll ring you back."

"I don't know where he's staying," Aisling realised.

"I forgot to ask."  Immediately she regretted saying it.  She didn't
want Fiona to know that Michael could go away without telling her where
he was staying.  It made it sound as if she and Michael didn't talk.
And of course they did.

"Never mind," Fiona said a little too briskly.

"He'll probably be in so late that he'd just wake you up if he rang.
I'll get that video for you.  I won't be long."

An hour later, Aisling was watching Sleepless in Seattle.

Flossie sat Buddha-like on her lap and a hot whiskey, courtesy of
Pat's twelve-year-old Scotch, was in her hand.  She didn't sleep much
that night, lonely in the big double bed.

She spent a feverish night, tossing and turning, dreaming of mad
surgeons racing after her waving syringes the size of hockey sticks.
She woke up with the feeling of unease her nightmares always brought.
She lay exhausted in bed watching the red digits on the bedside
clock-radio tick inexorably towards seven.  Why hadn't Michael phoned
her from London?

But he didn't phone and, when he returned home that evening, he was so
moody and quiet that she simply assumed some calamity had befallen the
supplement.

"Everything's fine," he answered testily when she dared to ask.

"I'm just tired after a day of meetings and a long business dinner."

The effortless way he had lied hit her now like a punch in the stomach.
No stuttering or stumbling.  He'd lied with the calm of an accomplished
liar.  He hadn't even told her what hotel he was staying in and she'd
never even thought to ask.

Of course, if she had asked, he would, no doubt, have pointed!

out that she shouldn't bother trying to ring him because he was out at
a business dinner.

Some dinner, she thought, dropping the credit card statement and
scanning the next one.  Who had he snuggled up with in Jury's when she
was holding their ten-year-old twins' heads over the downstairs toilet?
A few entries further down she came across a bill from Interflora which
was for enough flowers to fill a stadium if the price was anything to
go by.

Then it hit her.  Fiona knew.  She had to.  Why else would she have
asked where Michael was staying that night?  Why would she have tried
to gloss over the whole incident so quickly?

And why else would she have started that strange conversation about a
couple of friends who were splitting up, even though Aisling had never
met them?  It had been the previous week when they had been grocery
shopping together after lunch in the Merrion Inn.

They were wheeling their shopping trolleys past the frozen food
department when Fiona started talking about the latest husband she knew
who was straying from the marital path.

"I can always tell pronounced Fiona.

"That man never did a day's exercise in his life and suddenly he was
jogging around the track in UCD three times a week.  What does that
tell you,

She didn't wait for an answer.

"And the clothes.  God, you should have seen him at that party in the
Ryans' place last Christmas.  He was wearing jeans at a cocktail party,
can you believe it?  I asked him had he joined Bon Jovi, but he wasn't
at all amused."

Fiona had paused long enough to fling a brace of Lean Cuisine's into
her trolley before continuing.

"Wives never notice, you see.  All that extra grooming, workouts and
new bikini underpants go totally unnoticed at home and, before you can
say "affair", that's another marriage down the tubes."

She had given Aisling a long, meaningful look as she spoke, a
can't-you-read-between-the-lines look, Aisling realised

Tat would never dream of playing away Fiona said once in an unguarded
moment.

"He knows which side his bread is buttered she added.  Fiona knew her
husband would never stray in case he risked his partnership in her
father's lucrative law firm.

As she smoothed out another statement and searched for yet more proof
of her husband's lies, Aisling numbly realised that Michael had always
buttered his own bread.

Her father had worked for an accountancy firm for twenty years and
retired with just enough money to keep himself and her mother.  Even if
he had been able to help her husband in his meteoric rise to the top,
Michael would never have accepted that help.  He was a brilliant young
journalist with his eyes firmly set on the top of the ladder and he had
never needed family links to give him an entree into the corridors of
power.

Now, at the age of forty, he was deputy editor of one of the most
successful Sunday newspapers in the country and, if his star continued
to rise, he could soon be editor of one of the paper's sister titles. 
I But she might not be the woman by his side when he did it!

Who would? She dropped the last of Michael's statements onto the
floor and rose to her feet slowly.  She picked up the telephone by his
side of the bed, not really seeing the empty orange juice glass he'd
brought upstairs that morning and left for her to clear away.  Under
normal circumstances, she would have made the bed by this time and
would probably be busy hoovering out the twins' room, tidying the
books, comics and toys they carelessly abandoned on the floor.

Right now she didn't care if the whole house fell apart.  She simply
had to know what was happening, who Michael was seeing.  And, maybe,
find out that it was all some horrible mistake.  

CHAPTER TWO 

Fiona answered on the second ring.

"I was just about to phone you she exclaimed, 'to see if you fancied a
trip into Dun Laoghaire to check out the shops.

There's this lovely John Rocha suit I noticed in a magazine at the
weekend and I've decided to splash out.  We could have our coffee
there, couldn't we?  Or are you on bread and water for tonight?"

"I can't go shopping now, Fiona."  Aisling's voice quivered.

She'd planned to be stoical, but Fiona's warm and friendly voice made
her want to sit down and sob.

"I don't know what to do .... It's about Michael," she managed to say
hoarsely.

"You knew, didn't you?"

Aisling could hear her friend's sharp intake of breath down the phone
and for a brief moment she held her breath, hoping there was some
reasonable explanation for the hotel bill, the flowers and the
underwear.

"Knew what?"

"That he's having an affair."

"Oh God, Ash.  I wish you'd never found out."

As she looked out the window at Fiona's perfectly manicured garden
across the road, Aisling was amazed to see everything looking exactly
the way it had the day before.  The grass neatly shorn like a barber's
number one cut, the petunias spreading out greedily in between the tiny
fragrant lavender bushes.  How could everything look so damn normal
when her life had just suffered a cataclysmic upheaval?

"I'm sorry, so sorry," repeated Fiona.

"I just didn't know how to tell you, how to find the words.  I hoped it
would blow over before you found out.  That's the best way, he gets it
out of his system and you never find out," she added prosaically.

"I

thought it was better not to say anything.  But I kept wishing I'd
never seen them, because I felt so disloyal to you."

"Just tell me who it is," Aisling interjected, her tone pleading.

"Just tell me ..."

Fiona paused and then spoke again, her voice strong and calm, as though
reassuring a small child.

"It doesn't mean anything, Ash, honestly.  They all do it, and then
they get over it.  Remember that, OK?"

"They all do it," repeated Aisling hysterically.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No.  It's just supposed to make you feel less alone," Fiona

"You don't know her she continued in the same calm vein.

"Her name is Jennifer Carroll and she works in an advertising agency. 
I only recognised her because she's at every bloody party we go to. 
You know the type, goes to the opening of an envelope if she thinks
she'll get her picture in the social columns.  Are you all right,
Ash?"

"Yes.  Go on."

"I went out to dinner with the girls from the tennis club when Pat was
away last autumn."

Fiona hesitated for a moment before continuing.

"Michael was in Le Caprice with this dark-haired woman.  I thought it
was something to do with the paper.  Well, he meets so many different
people.  I didn't think anything of it at first, really."

"What happened?"  Aisling's voice was remarkably steady as she spoke.
Fiona couldn't see her digging her nails into the palm of her right
hand, clenching her fist as though her life depended on it.

They were sitting at an out-of-the-way table, but I could still see
them," explained Fiona.

"He kissed her and it just wasn't a platonic type of kiss, you know?
When I thought about what she was wearing, I put two and two together.
You don't go out for a business dinner wearing a dress with slits
practically up to your navel.  God, men are all the same, aren't
they?"

She paused and Aisling knew she was lighting a cigarette, those long,
dark menthol cigarettes that looked faintly ridiculous and smelled like
burning Polos.  Michael always laughe dat them, calling them poseurs'
cigarettes and asked why she didn't smoke real ones, like the Marlboros
he was trying to give up.

"Fiona, why didn't you say something?"  Aisling asked.

"I didn't know how to tell you.  What could I say?"  her friend
answered quietly.

"That your bastard of a husband was cheating on you as publicly as he
could?  That he didn't seem to care who saw him and his bloody
girlfriend because he knew that you'd never find out, stuck in your
little wifey world?"

Aisling sat with the receiver in one hand as she stared blankly
outside.

"I'm coming over," Fiona said quickly.

"We need a huge cup of tea and a good talk."

The phone clicked in Aisling's ear and she put it down slowly before
turning automatically towards the dressing table to put some lipstick
on.  As she twisted up the tube of pink lipstick she stopped and looked
at herself in the mirror.  A pale face with serious eyes stared back,
the startling blue irises diminished by pupils enlarged with misery.
Her eyes had always been her best feature, but lately she hadn't
bothered with make-up.  Without mascara to darken her fair lashes, her
eyes were undefined and pale in her bare face.

As always nowadays, her unruly light brown, long hair was tied back
with a red scrunchie.  The combination of no make-up, starkly tied-back
hair and a loose sweatshirt, which did nothing to flatter her generous
curves, made her look tired and worn.  She stared long and hard at
herself in the mirror.

She remembered the summer she had first met Michael, when her hair was
long and bleached with strands of gold from ten days on an idyllic
Greek island and her skin glowed thanks to hours basking in the
glorious Mediterranean sun.

He had called her beautiful then and never stopped wanting to touch her
skin and kiss her lips, putting his arms possessively around her golden
shoulders when they walked through the streets of Corfu town.

As she held her lank hair away from her face, Aisling wished she could
recapture that distant Greek summer and feel young and pretty again.
Wouldn't it be wonderful not to feel thirty-five and boring, another
frumpy housewife with no prospects, no waistline and a preoccupied
husband.  God knows, there were plenty of women like her out there. 
She saw them all the time in the supermarket, listlessly pushing
trolleys full of fuel for teenagers and husbands who were never home.

She'd never wanted to become one of them, one of the women who sat on
the edge of the sofa at parties trying hard to listen and blend in,
trying to think of something funny to say while their more confident
sisters fitted in perfectly.

"Hit me if I ever turn out like that, won't you?"  she'd told Michael
after their engagement party.  His matronly cousin had bored her to
tears with advice about the right washing machine.

"Don't worry, darling," he'd laughed, 'you're never going to turn into
an Elsie, I promise."

But she had.  Well, sort of.  Maybe she didn't discuss the advantages
of a Zanussi as opposed to a Whirlpool when they went out, but she
certainly didn't fit in the way she used to.

And Michael knew it.

That was the hardest thing about going out to parties or dinners these
days; being aware of Michael looking at her distantly across the room
as if she had failed some secret test.

She hated sitting around a dinner table with two or three glamorous
career women sparkling around Michael and vying for his attention,
while she sat in isolation, too self-conscious to chat to the men
placed beside her.  No wonder he'd wanted another woman.

She wasn't beautiful, particularly clever or even good at some
high-powered job.  She was a housewife and, even though that's what
he'd wanted her to be a few years ago, that's not what he wanted now.

Maybe if she'd stayed the woman he married, that enthusiastic girl
who'd walked blindly through life, hoping for the best instead of
settling into domestic bliss like Ma in Little House on the Prairie,
maybe then he would have still loved

She looked at least ten years older than she really was with her pale,
slightly plump face and the beginnings of a double chin.  But she had
finally decided to do something about it.

Without breathing a word to Michael, she had started a diet.

Not one of her diet on Monday, stuff your face on Tuesday diets, but a
proper diet.  She had decided that this was the real diet, the one
which would change her life.  That, however, was last week.

Sadly, she dropped the lipstick onto the lace-covered dressing table.
What was the point, she asked herself?  Why bother trying to look
better now?  He had gone and found someone else anyway.

"Ash, let me in," Fiona roared up at the open bedroom window.

"I've brought the Hobnobs, darling.  What more does a woman need."

An hour later, Aisling was sitting in the passenger seat of Fiona's
sleek black Nissan NX as her friend expertly manoeuvred the car into a
parking space in the Frascati Centre.

"Don't back out on me now," warned Fiona, climbing out of the car and
slamming the door with a careless bang.

"You're going to look stunning tonight if it kills both of us."

It just might do that, thought Aisling to herself as her friend frog
marched her towards the expensive boutique she'd always avoided in the
chic Blackrock shopping centre.  She had been looking forward to the
launch party for months now, eager to meet the team of journalists she
had heard so much about from Michael in the past year but had never
met.

Michael had been working late more and more.  The odd newsroom parties
seemed to have dried up along with any chitchat at the Morans' kitchen
table.  Working late my ass, Aisling growled to herself as she followed
her friend into the shop.

"Shopping is the only cure for a broken heart," Fiona continued gaily,
slim brown arms outstretched to rifle through racks of expensive little
black numbers.  In a daze thanks to a five-milligram Valium, Aisling
moved sedately towards the party dresses, separating the hangers with
totally steady fingers.  She was beginning to feel quite "good, happy
almost.  Something sexy, she smiled inwardly, fingering the rich
brocade and crepe outfits, looking for a dress to knock the spots off
Michael's bloody fancy woman.  Aisling knew that the Valium was giving
her an unrealistic high, but she simply didn't care and sank into the
numb happiness she felt flooding her head.

For a day that had started out in the worst possible way, it was
certainly improving, Aisling thought with a giggle as she picked out a
totally unsuitable black velvet sheath and waved it at Fiona.

"You should be on Valium more often Fiona remarked, putting the black
velvet back on the rack and steering Aisling towards the back of the
shop.

The larger sizes, Madam," Fiona said with a flourish, plucking a subtle
grape-coloured jacket off the rack and holding it up against the other
woman.

Generously cut on the hanger, the jacket and its matching flowing skirt
seemed to have shrunk on Aisling.  She peered out of the changing
cubicle self-consciously, not wanting anyone but Fiona to see her.

"Maybe something with a better cut..."  muttered Fiona, eyes narrowed
as she stood back examining the outfit.

"Not better cut.  Just bigger," said Aisling flatly, the Valium giggle
gone out of her voice.

"I seem to be getting bigger all the time.  No wonder Michael went for,
what did you say her!

name was."

?"

"Don't torture yourself thinking about her, Aisling," Fiona answered
impatiently.

"I can't help it.  I can't stop thinking about her, whatever her name
is.  But I bet she's slim and glamorous.  Am I right?"

"OK, she has a good figure and I suppose you'd call her glamorous.  To
my mind, she's a bit over the top.  You know, all red talons, more
make-up than Joan Collins and lots of expensive outfits with too much
embroidery and huge gold buttons Like this sort of thing, actually."
Fiona swiped a short denim jacket out from the rails and held it up
against her torso with a grimace.

"I wouldn't be seen dead in this," she announced.

"Denim and sequins, how passe."

And I wouldn't fit into it even if I wanted to, thought Aisling
despondently.  She gazed around at the racks of clothes and wondered if
they had a generous size sixteen in anything glamorous.

She hated shopping nowadays.  But tonight was going to be different.
Tonight she had planned to splash out on something which would make her
feel good, make her feel a little like the confident woman Michael
married.

She had actually managed to lose three pounds in the last week.  One
main meal a day, as much black tea or coffee as you liked, brown bread
or scones for light meals and lots of fruit and vegetables.

"You won't be hungry on our four-week summer diet!"  promised the
magazine she'd ripped the diet out of.  And she hadn't been hungry at
all, apart from the sheer longing for a chocolate digestive with her
lunchtime coffee.

Now she wondered if there was any point in trying to lose weight.  She
had planned to look her best tonight, to make Michael proud of her in
front of all the new newspaper staff.

The supplement was finally being produced after a year of talking about
it.  Aisling had decided to jump-start her own life to celebrate
Michael's hard work.

She'd wasted far too much time while she wallowed in domestic misery,
hidden under masses of laundry and dirty dishes.

Plenty of women worked and looked after a family, she knew that.  There
was no reason why she shouldn't.  It could be just what she needed,
Fiona had said encouragingly.  Now that the boys were older and were
walking to school on their own, there was no excuse for Aisling to stay
at home.  Surely it couldn't be too hard to get a job and climb out of
the rut she'd fallen into?  Sometimes she felt a pang of nostalgia for
her old life.

Those carefree days living with Jo in Rathmines, when the two single
girls had spent every penny of their wages on clothes, make-up and
cheap bottles of wine for parties, seemed idyllic.  They worked hard
all week and played hard at the weekends, always on the move and ready
for the next party.  Jo never wanted to climb out of her warm bed on
Monday morning, but Aisling was up bright and early, raring to go.
Plenty of people complained about working in the cramped insurance
office in the city centre, but she had loved it.  I Every night of the
weekend was party night.  During the week, they often went to the
pictures if they fancied what I was showing in the Stella cinema.
Afterwards, they'd buy!

chips and onion rings to eat in the flat's tiny sitting room!

while discussing the merits of Robert Redford as opposed to hunky young
Richard Gere.

Now Aisling went" out only to shop or to bring the kids to school or to
have a quick cup of coffee in Fiona's before her friend raced off for a
game of tennis or an aerobics class.  She often spent the entire day on
her own, cooking, polishing and waiting for the twins and Michael to
come home and liven up her life.

It was a lonely existence, she realised.  Was that all she could expect
from the rest of her life?  She'd planned to hang up her apron and get
a job.  But what was the point now?

If she couldn't keep her husband, how could she ever keep a job?  Who
wanted thirty-five-year-old housewives in their office, anyway?  And
let's face it, her typing skills weren't amazing ten years ago, so how
would she cope with a computer?

All she knew about the world of technology was limited to what she'd
learned on a speedy tour of the News three years previously when they
had finally upgraded their system.

Fifteen minutes watching somebody playing hangman on a computer was
hardly what you'd call experience.

Thinking of the paper wrenched her mind back to Michael.  Maybe
everyone in the bloody office knew.  How could she face Michael's
colleagues at the supplement launch party tonight knowing what she did,
wondering if everyone there was in on the secret?  She wouldn't even
have the chance to confront Michael before the party either.  He'd told
her he wasn't coming home beforehand, adding that Aisling should make
her own way there.

Charming, she thought, wondering whether he made his girlfriend get to
parties on her own or did he sweep up to her house bearing flowers and
offers of X-rated antics in the back of a taxi?

"Ash, try this on," Fiona's voice broke into her daydream and she
stared at the dress her friend was holding up in astonishment.

"Red is perfect for your colouring and with a bit of trollopy crimson
lipstick and your hair done, you'll knock them all for six."  Fiona
said encouragingly.

Aisling took the dress, a low-cut swirl of red crepe, into the changing
room and held it up to her face.  Brighter than anything she'd worn for
ages, the rich colour made her pale face seem paler than ever.

"Make-up, Ash, you need make-up," advised Fiona before pulling the
changing cubicle curtain over.

"Does Liz Hurley look like that without make-up?  See what I mean?  All
you need is half an hour in front of the mirror and you'll look
stunning in that dress."

As she stared at her reflection in the large mirror, Aisling made a
decision.  Why not, she thought?  If I'm going to face all the people
who know what's been going on, I might as well do it in style. 

CHAPTER THREE 

Bending slightly sideways in her grey swivel chair, Jo reached
down and slowly slid the chemist's paper bag out of her briefcase.  She
was trying to remove it with as little rustling as possible, hoping
that Brenda, who was sitting at the opposite desk blowing kisses down
the phone to her current boyfriend, wouldn't hear anything.

If only she'd stuck the package in her fake crocodile-skin handbag in
the first place, she wouldn't have to smuggle it clandestinely out of
her briefcase now.  She'd been waiting all morning for the right moment
to sneak the distinctive blue and white bag into the toilet without
someone demanding to know what she'd been buying in the chemist when
they had enough make-up around to cover Claudia Schiffer from head to
toe.

That was one of the main problems of working in such a small office,
and the office of a women's magazine into the bargain, she thought
ruefully.  Everyone knew everything about you and, being inveterate
shoppers, they wanted to know what you'd bought when you came back from
the shops at lunchtime.

Personal matters were totally public in the cramped offices of Style,
where the only privacy to be had was when you locked the door of the
tiny toilet and shower cubicle.  Everyone who worked in what the
interior designer described as a '... relaxing contemporary open-plan
workspace ..."  could listen to your most intimate phone calls, could
hear you talking to the bank about your overdraft, and knew when you'd
forgotten your mother's birthday.

What's more, they were all endlessly curious about shopping,
shopaholism being the main qualification necessary for working in a
women's magazine.  Entire lunch-breaks could be spent oohing and
aahing over a sale bargain hat for that wedding or a new baby gro for
baby Jessica.

Jo wanted to keep this latest purchase to herself.  A pregnancy testing
kit was not the sort of thing you could hold up and scream, "Look what
I got for a tenner in Marks and Spencer's this morning."  Absolutely
not.

It was all so unexpected, such a surprise.  Jo was still too stunned to
know what she thought about it.  She certainly didn't want the rest of
the office to know anything about it until she knew whether she was
pregnant or not.  Or until she knew how she felt about being pregnant,
which was more to the point.  God, it was confusing.

She sighed, jammed the paper bag into her open handbag and closed her
eyes briefly.  It wasn't as if she'd had much time to think about being
pregnant.  She'd only worked out that her period was late when she
opened the phone bill that morning.

Late for work as usual.  She was trying to gulp down a cup of coffee
while opening her post and sticking folders into her tattered old
briefcase when she came upon the phone bill.

Astronomical, what else?  All that time ringing Sligo talking to her
mother and the boys.  She was about to jam it behind the coffee jar
when she stopped herself.

Write it down, you moron, she muttered, remembering how very irritating
it had been to have to pay the phone company a reconnection fee the
last time she'd filed a bill behind the coffee and forgotten about
it.

Three pens had to be thrown in the bin before she found one that worked
and opened her diary to write, "Pay phone bill' in the following week.
And then she noticed it.  Or rather didn't notice it.

The capital P which stood for period wasn't there.  Details of her
fluctuating bank balance were noted along with appointments for
interviews and a green biro squiggle she couldn't read.  But no mention
of her period.  She flicked through the pages rapidly.

"Omigod," Jo muttered.

"Omigod!"  Unless her contact lenses needed to be replaced, she hadn't
had a period since the second week in April and it was now the
beginning of June.

She had either stopped menstruating because she was menopausal unlikely
at the age of thirty-four or she was pregnant.  But it couldn't be.
They always used condoms and spermicide, so how could she be
pregnant?

She'd bought the pregnancy testing kit at the chemist across the road
from her apartment, but she was running too late to do the test at
home.

Which was why she was waiting for the right moment to slip nonchalantly
into the office loo without catching anyone's eye.  Well, it wasn't the
sort of news to broadcast to your colleagues when your brain was still
reeling from the shock and your boyfriend was still blissfully unaware
of impending fatherhood.

She thought of Richard: clever, witty, good-looking in a boyish way, a
talented photographer and an inveterate charmer of women.  Of all the
words you could use to describe her boyfriend of the last two years,
fatherly would have been last on her list.  Well, maybe conventional
would be last on the list but fatherly wouldn't be far behind.

Three years older than she was, he looked as if he was heading towards
thirty, never mind forty, and thought that settling down was something
other people did when they were ten years older than he was.

The thought of being married with 2.5 kids, a semi with a conservatory
and an estate car filled him with the dread most men reserved for
having their mothers-in-law to stay.  At the mention of the word
commitment, his eyes glazed over and he would pick up the remote
control and switch channels rapidly, searching for something which
involved a muddy field, a football or a newscast with in-depth sports
coverage.

Of course, when you were a sports photographer you had to keep up with
current sporting events, but one tiny piece of Jo's mind was beginning
to think that the manic channel hopping which ensued the last time she
talked about buying a place together was a ploy to avoid talking about
settling down.  She known what he was like when she first met him,
shortly after he'd given up his secure and pension able job with one
newspaper to set up a sports agency with a couple of other like-minded,
risk-taking photographers.

"It was driving me out of my mind working for just one paper."  He told
her about his low boredom threshold as they drank red wine and
completely ignored the press photographer awards ceremony going on
around them.

"This way, we're our own bosses and we control what we do and what we
don't do."

"Absolutely," breathed Jo, fascinated by his ambition and his
Scandinavian blondness.  She thanked God that she'd agreed to make up a
party of ten people to cheer on Style's fashion photographer as he
accepted his award.

She'd nearly cried off and stayed in to watch Coronation Street
instead.  There is a God after all, she thought happily.

She wondered whether she should risk going to the loo to reapply some
Crimson Kiss lipstick and adjust her strapless dress in case someone
else nabbed the most fascinating man she'd met in years.  No, she
decided firmly.

Who cared if her boobs were about to spill out of the figure-hugging
hot red dress she'd borrowed from the fashion cupboard at work?

Her rippling tortoiseshell hair was piled on top of her head in a
haphazard manner, designed to suggest she'd just got out of bed.
Mascara emphasised her dark eyes beautifully and only the most
observant onlooker would notice the wobbly dark line above her lashes
where the hand holding her eyeliner pen had slipped.  Jo knew she
looked good and she wanted this fair-haired hunk to know it too.

"I can't stand people who just sit still and let life happen to them. 
I want to make it happen, I want that excitement and that energy,"
Richard said passionately.

"It's what keeps me going."

Gazing deeply into his eyes, Jo fell for him like a ton of bricks, low
boredom threshold and all.  She should have wondered what kind of man
would dump a perfectly safe job to run a risky freelance agency.  But
she hadn't.

She was the sort of individual who woke in the morning with her guts
spasming with nerves if she had a difficult interview ahead of her. 
She found Richard's adventurous spirit intriguing.  And frankly, very
sexy.

There was something macho about taking such a huge gamble and something
equally attractive about realising that his dream had paid off
tenfold.

That wasn't enough for Richard, though.  Once the agency was making
money, he was eager for the next challenge, longing for adventure,
while Jo began to yearn for quiet domesticity.  He wanted to take up
parachuting.  She was I scared of heights.  He signed up for a scuba
diving course and gave her a course of diving lessons for her birthday,
even though she hated getting water in her eyes.  But how could she now
complain about the very traits she'd found so exciting in him in the
first place?

"Interest rates and conveyancing fees are probably responsible for more
heart attacks than five pints of Guinness a day, darling," he'd said
only the week before when the most gorgeous cottage in the Wicklow
mountains just jumped out of the property pages at her.  The picture of
the cottage bathed in sunlight made Jo long for the house with
twelve-inch-thick stone walls and a box-tree herb garden.

"Darling, you know I love living in the city," he said, throwing the
property pages onto the floor and nuzzling her neck as he breathed in
the scent of the vanilla perfume he loved her to wear.

"Anyway, setting up the agency has swallowed up most of my capital and
I don't want to take on a mortgage when I can keep renting my flat in
Merrion Square for well under the market rate.  You'd be mad to sell
your apartment so soon after buying it," he added.

"Let's leave things the way they are."  And they went to bed.

Once Richard had his arms around her, making her feel more turned on
and more desirable than any man had been able to do before, she wasn't
able to think about anything, never mind buying a house together.  All
she wanted was his lean body wrapped around hers, his fingers tangled
in her hair and his lips gently kissing her skin.  When he murmured
exactly what he was going to do just before he did it, she melted into
a quiver of anticipation.

His voice did the most amazing things to her head, not to mention the
effect he was having lower down.  And when they finally came together
in a surge of passion, the intensity of her orgasm made Jo shudder, and
wonder how she'd ever thought she'd enjoyed lovemaking with anyone
else.

"We're wonderful in bed together," he said afterwards.  It was amazing
the way they were perfectly in tune in bed, even though they weren't so
in tune out of it, Jo thought to herself.

As she was about to throw a bundle of old papers in the bin a few days
later, she looked longingly at the property section and wondered was
she mad to think about settling down.

Richard was happy the way things were, so why wasn't she?

His bachelor pad in the city centre was perfect for a man who liked
nothing better than to sway the few short yards from Dublin's trendy
hostelries to his front door on a Saturday night.

Trips to Anfield and Wembley where night clubbing the night away was
par for the course, this was Richard's idea of fun.  Not getting up for
the three a.m. feed.

Would he want their baby, she asked herself?  You could go round and
round in circles and never figure it out.  What was the point in
dreaming up problems for the future until she knew for sure?

Ten minutes in the loo would tell her for certain.  She looked around
at the empty desks abandoned in the lunchtime rush.

The only person in the editorial office was Brenda and she was
thankfully otherwise engaged, telling Mark or was it Kevin about the
lingerie catalogue she'd been perusing that morning, ostensibly for a
feature on mail-order underwear.

"You'd really like the black bra with those teeny, weeny knickers,"

Brenda purred down the phone, no doubt sending poor Mark/Kevin into a
frenzy with the seduction techniques she'd honed after three years of
industriously filling in "How Sexy Are You?"  questionnaires in
Cosmopolitan.

At least Brenda was too busy to listen, thought Jo, as she psyched
herself up to do the test.  She gave up pretending to study a feature
article on the latest tanning creams and had just picked up the small
elegant handbag which went with nothing she owned, when she was rudely
interrupted.  Dropping the bag like a shot, Jo straightened up and
smiled broadly at the editor.

"Got a minute, Jo?"  inquired Rhona McNamara.  She perched one
well-upholstered hip on the desk and rearranged the silken folds of her
expensive Jaeger skirt.

"Of course.  What is it?"  With as much nonchalance as she could
muster, Jo casually scooped up the magazines from her desk and dropped
them on top of the paper bag which was sticking out the top of her
handbag in a very noticeable manner.  You couldn't do anything personal
around here without someone landing on top of you, she cursed
inwardly.

"What do you think about changing the format of the new beauty products
section?  I've been thinking that we should get readers to test certain
things and give marks out of ten."

Rhona's fingers flew about as she spoke, a habit which would make the
casual observer think she was using sign language.  In fact, she was
just trying to keep her hands occupied until they got hold of her next
cigarette.

"I think that's a great idea," Jo answered.  Obviously, she couldn't
say that she didn't give a damn who tested the bloody make-up when she
was faced with this momentous, no huge event in her life.  When a
pregnancy testing kit was burning a hole in her handbag just aching to
be used.

"It's a fresh way of looking at products and, since we're all so blase
about lotions and potions, it would be marvelous to get readers to give
their opinion about things," Rhona said in a voice which required some
sort of reaction.

"Er ... I'll include an advert for guinea pigs on the beauty page,
although I'll have to drop something to fit it in."  Jostarted rooting
through the piles of paper on her desk for the dummy or advance pages
of the beauty section.

With only two days to go before printing, the July edition of Style was
nearly totally finished and any changes had to be agreed and inserted
within the next twenty-four hours.

Jo still had an entire piece to write about packing for your summer
holidays and had managed to leave the ideas she'd jotted down for the
article at home.

"D'you know, I haven't been talking to you all week," Rhona commented,
picking up the tanning article and scanning it for mistakes.

"You look a little bit pale, Jo.  Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," answered Jo as brightly as she could.  She raked her dark curls
with her fingers and wished she'd bothered with proper make-up on this
of all mornings.

"I've had a lot of late nights recently," she lied, 'and I'm a little
tired.  Maybe that Elizabeth Arden magic stuff you keep in your desk
could give my complexion a bit of a boost?"

Rhona looked at her shrewdly for a moment, taking in her deputy
editor's pale, freckled skin, tired brown eyes and un-lips ticked
mouth.

Jo took her job as fashion editor very seriously and was nearly always
dressed to kill in on-the-knee skirts which showed off her long legs
and fitted jewel-coloured jackets which were just perfect for her
Monroe-esque curves.  She was usually better made-up than Ivana
Trump.

Today, she was wearing a fawn-coloured linen ensemble which would have
cost an arm and a leg if Jo didn't have a fashion editor's discount at
every top shop in Dublin.  Chic in the extreme, the effect of the
outfit was ruined by the fact that she wasn't wearing more make-up or
jewellery and her normally wavy hair had flopped in the June heat.  It
was very unlike Jo, thought Rhona.

"Come on into my office and we'll have a bitch."  She smiled at Jo,
slid off the desk and walked into her tiny office.

It was compact and untidy, with clothes hangers dangling off every nail
and magazines, press releases and sticky layout pages covering every
available surface.  There wasn't enough room to swing a cat in its
ten-by-twelve confines.

Rhona's office was, however, blissfully private and a haven for the
nicotine-addicted who weren't allowed to smoke anywhere else in the
Georgian three-storey house which was home to both Style and a tiny
secretarial agency.

Jo followed the editor into the untidy room and pushed a clump of
plastic-covered dresses to one side of the dusty cream settee which
took up at least half of one wall.  She plonked herself down tiredly
and leaned back into the soft cushions.  She levered off her shoes and
wondered if this sudden exhaustion was pregnancy or shock.  "Is
lover boy wearing you out at home?"  Rhona teased,!

immediately lighting up a cigarette.  I Despite herself, Jo blushed.
She could feel her face redden!

and she could also see Rhona looking at her in amazement,!

cigarette suspended in mid-air as she stared at her deputy!!

with a dumbfounded expression.

How was she going to get out of this one?  Jo groaned silently.  The
woman with whom she'd shared kiss-by-kiss accounts of various lovers
over numerous bottles of red wine was not going to believe that just
talking about sex with Richard would send her blushing to her roots. 
No way.

Rhona knew her much better than that.  Which meant that she was going
to have to spill the beans.  Only how could she spill anything until
she knew for sure?

"Did I say the wrong thing?"  Rhona sat down heavily and looked
anxiously at her deputy.

"Are you having problems?

You know you can always talk to me, Jo, don't you?  I don't want to
interfere, I just want to help."

"I don't think you can help me this time," Jo replied with a small
laugh.  Here goes, she thought.

"Unless you've been secretly training as an obstetrician and haven't
told the rest of us!"

"You're not pregnant, are you?"  Rhona squealed.

"Stupid question.  Congratulations, Jo!  I shouldn't be smoking, should
I?"  She hastily stubbed out her barely touched Dunhill as though a
baby was going to pop out any minute and wail if there was so much as a
hint of nicotine in the air.

"Slow down, Rhona.  I don't know if I'm pregnant yet.  I missed my
period this month and it only really hit me this morning so I don't
know for sure."  It sounded even stranger actually saying it out
loud.

"You haven't done a test?"  Rhona looked surprised.  The new ones can
tell you if you're pregnant just a day after your period is due."

"I know, I know."  Jo looked mildly exasperated.

"I was going to do it here, I just didn't want Ms Nosey Parker out
there to pick anything up with her radar ears."

"Fair enough," Rhona replied.

"I'll send her out for fags and you can pee in privacy ..."

Rhona stopped mid-sentence and looked Jo straight in the face.

"It is Richard's, isn't it?"

"Of course it bloody is!"  Jo said, affronted.

"How many men do you think I'm seeing?  One a day and two on Sunday!

Come on, Rhona."

"Sorry, sorry.  It's just that you don't seem pleased about it and I
just thought, maybe it wasn't his and ... Forget I said that, please,
Jo.  I thought you'd be happy if it was Richard's and you seem a little
off, you know."

She leaned over and put her arms around Jo's now tense body, hugging
her tightly.

"You know I'm here for you, no matter what happens."

"Thanks."  Jo stood up, running a ring less hand over her stomach as
though she'd be able to tell what lay beneath her linen waistcoat just
by touching her belly.  What would it be like to feel a baby growing
inside her?

Would she feel totally at one with her unborn child, sensitive to every
kick and wriggle?  If she played her favourite music on the car stereo,
would the baby be born liking the same tunes?

Then it came to her with piercing clarity: she wanted this child.  She
wanted it more than anything she'd ever wanted before, even if Richard
didn't.  That was the nub of the (problem.  It was no use wasting time
wondering whether he wanted their child, littering her brain with
doubts when, all along, she knew what she wanted.

I' She wanted a baby, maybe she had wanted one for years.

Trying to be the nineties career woman had meant keeping up the facade
of a perfect life, complete with a handsome lover!

total independence and a job most women would kill for.  I Career women
didn't long for babies and a man's pyjamas permanently under the
pillows, but suddenly, that's just what Jo wanted.

For once she didn't care if the magazine's publisher demoted her to
writing picture captions or gave her job to the horrible, sneaky Emma
who was always angling to back stab her way up the career ladder.  All
she wanted was a beautiful, healthy baby.

"I'm pregnant," she said aloud, suddenly grinning at Rhona with a smile
which lit up her whole face.

"I'm pregnant!  I just know it!"

"Well let's send Brenda out for champagne then," Rhona suggested before
hugging Jo to her considerable bosom.

"And for something from the deli.  I'm starved."

"When were you ever not starved?"  Jo got up with renewed energy and
manoeuvred her feet into her brown suede court shoes.

"I'm going to do the test, to be sure to be sure, if you know what I
mean.  But I know already.  Is that normal?"  She looked at Rhona, the
mother of three under-tens, for confirmation.

Absolutely," answered Rhona.

"I knew I was pregnant the first time because I woke up one morning and
couldn't eat a thing, which is not like me, as you know.  The day Lynne
was born was the happiest day of my life, I always say, mainly because
I'd been so sick all the time I was carrying her."

"I feel fine," interrupted Jo.

"Hungry actually.  I think I need something nutritious to eat, like a
Twix."

"Or a poppy-seed baguette filled with sun-dried tomatoes, Parma ham and
chunks of Gruyere washed down with an icy Diet Coke," said Rhona, who
had not been a magazine restaurant reviewer for nothing.

"I'm supposed to be on a diet, but there are only so many things you
can do with brown rice and green vegetables," she added mournfully,
thinking of the considerable difference between what she should be
eating and what she wanted to eat.

Tall and big-boned, Rhona was always denying herself something in the
hope that she'd miraculously turn into a carbon copy of her sleek,
younger sister and, more importantly, fit into all the lovely clothes
she'd bought for 'when I get thin'.

Sadly, her predilection for all the wrong food meant that she was never
going to be anything smaller than a size fourteen.  Her 'thin' clothes
were getting closer to the secondhand shop every day.

"Brenda," called Rhona loudly, winking at Jo, 'are you busy?

I want you to do something for me."

Hastily cutting off her steamy conversation, Brenda hurried over to the
editor's office with the speed of one hoping to be promoted, while Jo
grabbed her handbag and headed for the loo.

By the time she had peed into the tiny tester and put it back into its
little plastic case, her heart was thumping along at
advanced-aerobics-class level.

She rummaged around for some lipstick in her tiny make-up bag and
thought about telling Richard.

She could bring him out to Fitzer's, his favourite restaurant, and tell
him the wonderful news over the clam linguini.

"Darling, we're going to have a baby'."

She could see it all in her mind.  She would wear the Jasper Conran
jacket she'd bought in a discount store in Belfast.

"My darling, that's wonderful!"  he'd cry before ordering champagne and
toasting their baby.  Then they'd go back to her place and plan their
future together.  A Georgian town house in Dalkey, she daydreamed, with
plenty of room for Richard's darkroom and a desk where she could write
the novel she was always talking about.

Or maybe an artisan's cottage in Enniskerry, a cross between Homes and
Gardens and the Habitat catalogue.  Of course, they'd have to get a new
bed because Richard's futon wouldn't be suitable for the baby and her
ancient double bed was sprouting springs faster than a dodgy biro.
There were so many things to buy!  She'd better get to Mothercare
quickly and get started.

"She's gone.  Let me in," shouted Rhona outside the door.

"Oh Rhona, it's so exciting."  Jo smiled, opened the door and carried
the tester into the editor's office as if it was an unexploded bomb.

"I almost can't believe it.  Me, a mother!

Even saying it sounds strange.  What if I'm no good at it," she asked,
suddenly anxious, 'no good at being a mother.  Does it just come
naturally?  I mean, it's not as if I have any real experience of babies
or anything.  Oh, and what about work?

Is it really that hard being a working mother?"

Rhona burst out laughing.

"Don't get me started, Jo.  You'll learn.  I mean, it's not exactly a
doddle, I can tell you.  First of all," she started ticking imaginary
points off on her fingers, 'you're exhausted and you wonder are you
doing everything wrong from feeding to nappy-changing to winding them
after their feed."

Then, you go to work and leave your precious baby with some woman
you're convinced turns into an axe murderer every time you walk out the
front door, and then, when your baby walks for the first time, you're
not there.

"Ms Axe Murderer is there.  You, on the other hand, are listening to
some po-faced advertiser telling you that they don't want their
anti-wrinkle cream on the opposite page to a feature on how to stop the
ravages of time with plastic surgery."  She stopped with a sigh.

"Is there anything else you want to ask?"

"No, just give me a prescription for Prozac and I'll be fine," said Jo
with wide eyes.

"I suppose I never really thought about how difficult it was before.
You know me, Rho, I can't walk out the front door without spending half
an hour on my hair, throwing at least three outfits on the bed when I'm
trying to figure out what look to go for that day and taking another
fifteen minutes to do my make-up.  It's that liquid eyeliner," she

"It's impossible to get it right."

"Liquid eyeliner will be the least of your problems, darling, let me
tell you.  You'll be lucky if you can actually brush your teeth in the
morning if your little pet is anything like mine were.  And as for
leaving three outfits on the bed ...!  Forget it.

Five-year-old girls love wearing Mummy's clothes and Mummy's make-up,
usually at the same time.

"Believe me, Jo, you won't be long tidying everything you value away
from sticky little fingers.  It's better now that Susie is finally at
school," she reflected.

"Although she has this thing about Liga biscuits.  I still get
embarrassed when I think about that time in the Conrad Hotel when I
opened my cheque book and it was all glued together with molten
Liga."

"Oh yes, that was a howl and I didn't have any money with me!"  Jo
started laughing at the memory, and, realising what was in front of
her, laughed even harder.

"I can't wait to see Richard when we've got a terrible two-year-old
toddling around playing with his Nikons."

Rhona didn't smile.  She'd known Richard from the two years he'd been
going out with Jo.  She had a rather different vision of his reaction
and she didn't find the picture at all amusing.

Without a doubt, Richard would commit murder if he saw any child
messing around with any of his possessions.  If he stayed around long
enough for the child in question to reach the grand old age of two,
that was.

"Does he know?"  she asked quietly.

"Not yet," Jo confessed.

"I didn't want to tell him until I was sure.  I just wanted it to be
between us.  But I'm so glad I told you."  She smiled fondly at the
other woman.

"Give us a look at the tester then," demanded Rhona.

Like a magician about to produce a rabbit from a hat, Jo whisked off
the plastic lid and gave a whoop of joy.

"Yahoo!  I'm pregnant: officially!  Just think, Rhona.  This is a new
life inside me!"  She beamed, looking down at her still-slender
waist.

"A whole new life in every sense, really.  God, I can't wait to tell
Richard."  She sighed.

"He's in Cork today and I know he has the mobile phone with him, but I
just can't tell him over the phone."

"Probably not.  Let's go out to lunch, my treat.  As you're eating for
two officially, you'll need some help in choosing the right foods so
you don't end up with a couple of difficult pounds to shift."  Rhona
grinned at her slim deputy.

"It must be awful to have to diet," commiserated Jo.

"I have such a fast metabolism.  I mean, I've always been able to eat
what I wanted and I never put on weight."

"Don't remind me.  It's not fair to have someone like you on the staff.
Able to stuff herself with chocolate and still not have so much as one
love handle."  I Rhona picked up her handbag, stuck a pair of
sunglasses on her head and held out her hand to haul Jo off the settee,
"Come on, Mummy.  Let's toast your wonderful news with I some mineral
water and something fattening, with cream and I chocolate sauce and
ooh, I don't know ..." 
"Did I hear you mention food?"  Tony, the
magazine's chief sub-editor, peered into the office.

"Does anybody ever do anything but talk about food around here any
more?"  he inquired.

"I was sort of hoping we might work on the magazine this afternoon ...
You know, that A4-sized thing that pays all our wages and currently
has a couple of blank" pages in it waiting to be filled with gems of
wisdom from your pen, Madame Editor?"

"OK."  Rhona took her sunglasses off her head and looked at Jo wryly.

"Back to work, I'm afraid.  You and I," she whispered conspiratorially,
'will celebrate later."

"Thanks."  Jo smiled as she walked to the door.

"But I just couldn't do any more work today.  I'll get one of the girls
to finish subbing that article and I'm going home, via the doctors she
added with a huge grin.  Actually, I've got that party at the News this
evening but I'd love not to go.  I want Richard all to myself when I
give him the news."

Rhona couldn't help herself.

"Jo, have you thought about the fact that he mightn't want a baby?"
she asked gently.  For a moment Jo's face was blank.  Then a broad
smile swept over her face, lighting up her eyes and curving her full
mouth up in that warm and sexy smile which had been knocking men for
six ever since she'd been fifteen.

"Of course he will she said confidently.

"He'll be delighted, I promise!"

As she sat in her temperamental Volkswagen trying to exit the Stephen's
Green multi-storey car park, Jo was still thinking about what Rhona
had

OK, so Richard had never been exactly wild about kids.

Last Christmas he had refused point blank to go to the all-day party
Rhona gave every year where the Style staff lounged around their
editor's roomy Wicklow farmhouse with glasses of mulled wine, while
their offspring watched videos and played on the tiny indoor bouncing
castle.  That didn't mean he hated children; he just wasn't mad about
other people's, that was all.

He told Jo to make his excuses.

Tell them I'm working, Jo, will you?  There's no way I'm going to spend
an entire day at a bloody kids' party.  I know she's your boss and you
have to go, but I don't.  You don't really mind, do you, darling?"  he
wheedled.

Once Richard had decided not to do something, nothing on earth could
make him change his mind.  Jo went on her own.

The party had been a huge success although somebody had accidentally
turned the cooker off and the coq au vin was icy and virtually raw when
the guests arrived.

Rhona's husband Ted had returned from a booze-buying session at the
local off-licence with five extra people and no diet tonic, but nothing
could spoil the day.

After downing a super-strength cocktail Jo had mixed up for her with a
bit of just about everything from the drinks cabinet, Rhona relaxed
enough to serve beans and sausages.

Sick of eating every type of turkey dish possible during Christmas,
everyone wolfed down their food and had a whale of a time.

Jo really wished that Richard had come after all.  But there wasn't
much time for introspection with Style's receptionist, Annette, perched
tipsily on the arm of Jo's chair and a hysterical conversation about
the rumoured sexual tendencies of the most pious newscaster on the TV
going on all around

He'd have loved it, Jo thought a little sadly as she gave a corner of
cheesy Pringle to Mutt, Rhona's slavering black and white spaniel whose
main preoccupation in life was food.

For some reason, that picture stuck in her mind.  Her friend and
colleagues had let their hair down and enjoyed themselves with their
husbands, wives, partners and children.

She'd hated being the only person there on her own although she
wouldn't have admitted it for the world.  As she told Rhona, she'd
enjoyed herself immensely and if the other woman suspected that Richard
wasn't actually working, but just hadn't wanted to come, she didn't say
so.

The only squabbles were "You drank the last two times so it's my turn
and you have to drive' arguments every time Ted came in with more
booze.  Everyone had a great time.  Nobody complained about the noise
coming from the converted garage as boisterous children did their level
best to out bounce each other.

Who'd have guessed that Frederick, the marvellously camp make-up artist
who worked on most of Style's fashion shoots, would turn out to be the
children's favourite playmate.

"I like children, sweetie.  I just don't know if I could eat a whole
one!"  had been Frederick's favourite phrase, borrowed from W. C.
Fields.  It never failed to raise a laugh.  But after six vodkas and a
lethal alcoholic concoction which included peach schnapps and Grand
Marnier, Frederick was up on the bouncy castle with the five-year-olds,
happily trying to demonstrate the double somersault he claimed to have
been able to do in his youth.

How could you not like children, Jo wondered as the parking attendant
handed her a fistful of coins and a receipt.

Richard didn't hate children.  How could he?  He'd been an only child
who'd never had anyone to compete with at home.  His besotted mother
looked after him as if he was the crown prince of Brunei.

That's it, she thought triumphantly.  He's never had to compete with a
brother or sister for affection and he never learned to deal with
children.  All he needs is a little time to get used to the idea.  We
must have at least seven months left for that.

She roared off around the Green, whizzing past taxi-drivers and
lumbering buses like a rally-driver.  You're not bad, Bessie, when you
get going, she told her car.  But I may have to trade you in for
something more baby-friendly or at least something with a bit of
suspension.

The surgery was full when she got there.  Two harassed mothers tried to
quieten cross toddlers and an elderly man with a hacking cough occupied
two seats.  One sulky adolescent mutinously insisted he go in to see
the doctor by himself.

"I'm not a child any more," he hissed at his mother.

"Stop acting like one, then," she hissed back.

He turned pinker than the outbreak of spots on his hairless face when
he noticed Jo looking at him.

Jo grabbed a dog-eared magazine off the centre table and squeezed in
between the teenager and one of the mothers.

She was in for a long wait, she calculated, judging by the exhausted
expressions on everyone's faces.  Still, it was only just after three
and she had just had the most wonderful news in the world, so she
couldn't complain about waiting for the doctor.  She couldn't complain
about anything.

She wanted to tell Richard so badly it was killing her.  She wanted to
tell everyone in the waiting room.  Instead, she turned her attention
to a year-old copy of Elle and flicked through the pages with a
professional eye.

Jo could no longer look at any publication aimed at women without
wondering whether Style would look good with a wrap-around calorie
counter, three more pages on travel or whatever.

She was just reading an in-depth report about cervical cancer the sort
of article which would have once had her reaching for her edition of
Everywoman in terror when a woman walked into the waiting room with a
baby cradled papoose-like on her chest.

Jo stared at them, taking in every detail.  The baby girl, dressed in
pink which matched her soft rounded cheeks, had obviously been sleeping
until the noisy surgery waiting room woke her up.

She blinked long dark eyelashes and stared drowsily up at her mother
with enormous eyes, smiling a toothless grin when Mum murmured
comforting words.

Jo held her breath as she looked at the mother and baby.

She had a million questions she wanted to ask, but she didn't!

say a word.  This was what she wanted, thought Jo as the mother gently
kissed her baby's downy head, this bond!

between a mother and her child, a love that was holier than!

anything she'd ever felt in a church.  And now she was going!

to experience it.  I Back to Elle.  She discovered that shimmery pink
was in black was out and anyone wearing last year's opaque black!

tights would be arrested by the fashion police.  She had just started
reading an ancient edition of Hello!  and was looking at pictures of
Michael Jackson's wedding when the doctor called her name.  Thank God
for that.  One more page about Cindy Crawford's workout wardrobe or her
marvelous fashion sense, and she'd have gone mad.

The last time she'd been in the clinical-looking surgery, she was in
the grip of a particularly virulent stomach bug and had nearly been
sick all over the expensive cream floor tiles.

Today's visit was definitely an improvement.  "I'm pregnant."  Saying
that brought a gleam to her eyes, she just knew it.

"I thought I needed a professional opinion, although I've done a test
and it was positive.  Are those tests accurate, Dr.  Daly?"  Jo asked
in concern.

"Used properly, they're excellent.  But I'd prefer to make sure."  Ten
minutes and another positive pregnancy test later, the doctor was
working out dates and talking about diet and folic acid supplements.
By the time Jo turned her key in her front door lock, it was nearly
six.  She couldn't wait to make herself a huge cup of sugary tea.  She
switched the kettle on and peered into the fridge.

Two weepy tomatoes, a soggy courgette, a jar with a scraping, of
crumb-filled honey at the bottom, a half-full tin of beans and a tub of
spreadable cheese covered with green fluff stared back at her
dismally.

Only the milk, butter and two yogurt pots looked healthy enough for
human consumption.  This won't do, she thought.

Time to get your act together, Ms Ryan, she told herself as she closed
the fridge door.  At least she had those potato waffles in the freezer.
They were carbohydrates, weren't they?  She switched on the answering
machine and listened to her messages while she poured boiling water
over a tea bag.

Rhona had rung to see how she got on with the doctor.  Her
sister-in-law had been on to tell her about a surprise birthday party
for Shane's fortieth.  Could she ring back during the day when he was
out?  asked Mary against a background noise of a washing machine about
to lift into orbit.

Jo was chuckling at the idea of her older brother's face when he
realised he'd been duped when she heard Richard's voice: "Hi, Jo.  I'm
in Naas on a job for the Independent.  I'm going to drive straight to
the party when I'm finished, OK?

William is coming with me and he's bringing his sister along because
she's home from Paris.  He can't just leave her on her own in the flat.
I'm covering the party for the Herald as a favour in case the Def
Leppard guys or Dennis Hopper turn up.  That's it.  Sorry I missed you
but I'll see you there.  Bye."

Oh no, Jo thought despondently.  I wanted to go with you, Richard.
Blast you.  She plucked the tea bag from her cup and added the last
dribble of milk and sugar.  A few chocolate digestives, I think, she
muttered miserably.  She opened the junk cupboard where she kept a bag
of mini-Mars bars, biscuits and several bottles of 7-Up for
emergencies.

He said he was going to bring me to the bloody party, she muttered as
she carried her tea and biscuits into the bedroom.  What the hell is
he bringing Will and his stupid sister for?  Are they more important to
him than I am?

She took a bite of chocolate digestive and washed it down with hot,
sweet tea.  She turned on the radio and sat down heavily on the bed.
How was she going to get the energy to change her clothes?

She looked at the pile of unironed clothes draped on her white cane
chair.  Last month's 'de-junk your life feature flashed before her eyes
and she thanked God that nobody in the office could see the chaos that
was her bedroom.

She was reasonably tidy at work.  Losing a vital piece of paper there
could prove disastrous so she forced herself to dump all the press
releases, old newspaper cuttings and scrawled phone messages before
they swamped her desk.

At home, however, she flung linen jackets onto the chair only to find
them crumpled and requiring half an hour of ironing a week later.

A tangle of tights lay on the flowered blue quilt, silky beige and
black skeins abandoned during her frantic attempts that morning to find
a ladder less pair of sheer tights to go with her linen outfit.

It was a pretty room, decorated in the blue-sprigged Laura Ashley
wallpaper she'd instantly adored when she spotted it in the shop.  The
white cane dressing table, bookcase and bedside table looked just right
with the wallpaper, and matched the long white muslin curtain which
hung elegantly from a brass pole.

It all would have been property-supplement-perfect if it hadn't been
for the piles of paperbacks and magazines stacked untidily on the
bedside table, the sheaf of newspapers dropped casually onto the floor
beside her bed and the heap of blouses, T-shirts and trousers on the
chair.

The oval dressing table was like a chemist shop's display with bottles
of perfume, body lotion and endless old lipsticks she just couldn't
bear to throw out.  A picture of her and Richard on their last holiday
in New York had pride of place beside the walnut jewellery box he'd
bought her last year.  What a bloody mess, she thought, remembering
Rhona's ?!

words of wisdom on small children and their effect on untidy mothers.
I'll tidy up tomorrow, she promised.  Now what to wear for the party?

Jo glanced briefly at the mirror could do with a dust, she rebuked
herself and was amazed by what she saw.  She felt exhausted, but the
face that stared back at her positively glowed.  Her eyes shone and her
skin was healthily flushed with a radiance no expensive face cream
would ever be able to match.

Marvellous!  I feel like I've been squashed under a cement mixer and I
look great!  The people who made Oil of Ulay had better learn how to
bottle this.

All those articles she'd written about motherhood and the Blooming
Pregnancy fashion features came to mind.

She laughed out loud at the thought of pregnant women reading her
zero-experience-of-pregnancy claptrap.

"Your skin will bloom and your hair will be shinier than any salon
treatment could ever make it..."  she giggled.  And I hadn't a clue
what I was talking about.

Let's put that blooming beauty to good use, she decided, as she
finished the last bit of biscuit.  After a quick shower, an ?"  even
quicker blast of the hair dryer and ten careful minutes spent applying
make-up, she cast a critical eye over herself.

The launch of Michael Moran's long-awaited glossy supplement would
doubtless be a glitzy, high-profile affair.

Jo had no intention of turning up looking anything but her best,
especially as the bosses of two model agencies had told her they were
going to be there with some of their most stunning girls, naturally.
The threat of rock star involvement meant that the city's model
population would be out in force, an army of perfectly groomed women
who were paid to look stunning and who instantly made other women green
with jealousy.

With Richard prowling around, Nikon slung round his neck as he searched
for photo opportunities, Jo didn't want to look any less gorgeous than
these professional beauties.  Neither did she want to look tired and
pale when she told him their wonderful news.  Something sexy was
definitely required.

She opened the wardrobe door and stood back as her black suede sandals,
a fluffy pink slipper and a wire hanger fell out.

She searched through jackets, dresses, skirts and trousers, rejecting
outfit after outfit until she came upon the perfect one an elegant
midnight blue slip dress which looked deceptively simple unless you
knew how much it had cost and realised that only brilliant and
expensive designers made bias-cut gowns so flattering.

Jo twirled in front of the mirror, twisting and turning to see her
figure from every angle.  She looked beautiful.  A string of glass
beads, tiny pearl earrings and high-heeled shoes completed the
outfit.

With her tortoiseshell hair cascading down her shoulders in the natural
waves she'd never managed to tame, dark eyes shimmering with a faint
dusting of Lancome's silvery grey eyeshadow and the dress swirling
around her, she felt like some Thirties movie star.  Katharine Hepburn
maybe, she thought, remembering rainy Saturday afternoons watching I
old movies on the TV.  She sprayed her neck and wrists lightly with
perfume.  Go get 'em, Jo.

CHAPTER FOUR 

It was eight o'clock exactly
according to the clock on the dashboard.  It was time to go in, time to
face her husband and the entire staff of the News who undoubtedly knew
exactly what was going on in her marriage.  Or her non-marriage as the
case might be, Aisling thought glumly.

The launch party had been going on for at least an hour already, she
reckoned.  But she had been sitting quietly in the car since she'd
arrived, nervously fiddling with her car keys and wondering how to slip
in as unobtrusively as possible.

Jo would be there, she reminded herself.  Thank God for that.  Even
though it was over twelve years since she'd shared a matchbox-sized
flat in Rathmines with the lively trainee journalist, they'd still
remained friends.

Aisling knew that it was largely thanks to Jo's determination that
they'd seen each other regularly over the past ten years.

When their lives had diverged one of them climbing up the career ladder
and the other climbing the stairs with piles of laundry Aisling had
begun to wonder whether a high flyer like Jo would be bothered to keep
in touch.

The question became academic when the demands of Jo's job meant she had
neither the time nor the energy to socialise outside work.  Aisling
found that two adorable baby boys required twice as much work as one.
Consumed by love for her darlings, she retired from normal non-baby
life until the boys reached school-going age and she began to pick up
the pieces of her old life again.

Meeting Nuala, an old friend from work, Aisling realised that her world
had changed utterly over the past few years while Nuala's was just the
same.  Nuala talked about flexitime, staffing cutbacks and brokers who
irritated her on the phone.  Aisling felt instantly boring, another
mother droning on about her lovely children.

She wasn't surprised when Nuala didn't ring back to arrange another
lunchtime meeting.  That was why Aisling had assumed Jo would be the
same.  Too busy to squeeze in a hurried sandwich with someone she'd
been close to years before.  People changed, moved on.

It was a pleasant surprise to find out that she was wrong.  Jo was
determined to keep in contact, always on the phone or arriving for
lunch when she was in the vicinity.

No matter how long an interval between their meetings, they would
always slip back into their familiar friendship, laughing at the same
things and reminiscing about the days when they hadn't enough money for
the gas meter and wrapped themselves up with blankets to keep warm
while watching their tiny portable TV.

"I still have this recurring nightmare about not having the rent money
and coming back to the flat to find our clothes on the road," Aisling
said, one freezing December morning when Jo had dropped by with
Christmas presents for the boys and a beautiful enamelled brooch for

"I wake up thinking the landlord is banging on the door and the relief
to find it's all a nightmare."

"I know the feeling," Jo shuddered, even though they were sitting in
front of the fire in Aisling's primrose yellow living room.

"God, it was awful not to have enough money, always scraping by."

"I was buying this gorgeous red jacket the other day and I was just at
the cash register with my cheque book when I realised that it cost more
than two months' rent in Mount Pleasant Avenue!  Isn't that
unbelievable?"  Jo took another sip of coffee.

"I nearly put it back.  I mean, two months' rent!  My mother would be
horrified if she saw me spending that much money on clothes."

"I think, by now, she's figured out that you've expensive tastes in
clothes!"  laughed Aisling, looking pointedly at the elegant cream
crepe trouser suit Jo was wearing.  And nobody's likely to think that
those shoes were in the 9.99 bargain bin in Penney's."

True."  Jo looked down at the cream-coloured soft leather pumps she was
wearing.

"It's crazy, really, the money I spend on clothes.  But all the fashion
correspondents are the same," she protested.

"If I turned up at a fashion show in my old grey leggings and a sloppy
old T-shirt, they'd all wet themselves with glee.  So I have to spend
money on clothes!"

Aisling laughed.  No matter what elevated circles Jo moved in, she was
always the same funny, kind and totally lacking in pretension.  The
same warm-hearted girl who'd lend her less glamorous flat mate
anything, even her newest and best-loved dress.

Jo had always been a friend to rely on, the sort of person who'd be
there with a box of tissues, a comforting hug and a buoyant speech no
matter what happened, Aisling reflected.  Unlike her sister, Sorcha,
who was so tied up with her job in London that she barely had time to
come home for Christmas, Jo genuinely enjoyed Aisling's company.  So
what if Sorcha thought her older sister has turned into a non-person
just because Aisling didn't have a high-powered career by day, and
didn't go to management courses at night.

Jo Ryan, deputy and fashion editor of fashionable Style magazine, was
one of Aisling's best friends and not even Sorcha could call Jo boring.
Lively, clever and a little bit wild, maybe.  But boring, no.

Funny, warm, and a little too trusting when it came to men or so
Aisling had always thought Jo had finally met the man of her dreams
after years of meeting Mr.  Wrong after Mr.  Wrong.

"You'll love him, Ash," Jo said happily down the phone, one
romance-filled week after meeting Richard.

"He's perfect better than Richard Gere!"

"That good?"  Aisling chuckled.

"Are you sure he's real, or has he escaped from the pages of GQ?"

"He's real all right."  Jo's throaty laugh told Aisling everything.

The gorgeous photographer had obviously made it to first base.  Aisling
thought Jo should have waited a bit longer before going to bed with her
new boyfriend.  Michael had been her first and only lover.  But, things
were different now.

She hoped Richard wasn't like some of the other men Jo had been
involved with.  Jo always seemed to make huge mistakes when it came to
men.  She fell for each one passionately and wholeheartedly, only
waking up to their faults when it was too late.  Maybe this time would
be different.

Aisling hadn't seen much of her friend since Richard had come on the
scene.  She briefly wondered if Jo had heard any rumours about
Michael's affair.

Surely not, she thought.  Jo would have told her if she'd heard
anything.  Or would she?  Aisling's head was spinning thinking about it
all.  And I'm the one who thinks Jo goes around with rose-tinted
glasses.  How ironic.

Please let Jo be here tonight, Aisling prayed fervently.  She and Jo
always ended up sitting together at journalistic parties.

Aisling was grateful to her more extrovert friend for introducing her
to the ever-changing pool of reporters, subs and photographers.

There were always loads of people she didn't know, Aisling reflected,
thinking of the occasions she'd tagged along with Jo after Michael had
hot footed it in another direction.

"Come on and meet Lorraine," Jo would say.

"She reviews books for The Times and you'll have loads to talk
about."

Instantly, Aisling felt as if she belonged, as if she had something to
talk about.  Jo never made her feel colourless or uninteresting, the
way Michael did.

When she was with Jo, Aisling felt more like her old self again, more
like the girl who'd gone to the College of Commerce.  Christmas party
as the blonde from Abba.  Jo had been the red-haired one, in sequins
and flares.  Who cared that it wasn't even fancy dress?

God, she thought, did I ever do that?  What did we look like?  They
hadn't cared what they'd looked like after half a bottle of Malibu
drunk in the toilets.  She'd never been able to so much as look at a
bottle of Malibu after that evening.  Vodka didn't give you such bad
hangovers, Jo pointed out.  Gin was even better.

I hope it isn't one of those parties with nothing but wine, Aisling
thought.  Tonight, of all nights, she needed the buzz from a proper
drink, the gentle loosening of inhibitions which made her feel less
awkward.

Michael would probably give her one of his reproving looks when he saw
her drinking.  Once he'd been a great man for a few beers while
watching TV, but he'd recently become very anti-booze and patted his
now flat stomach smugly as he refused his customary weekend
Budweiser.

He wanted to stay lithe for his girlfriend, no doubt, she thought
bitterly.

"I'm not drinking beer at home any more," he'd informed her in January,
when she'd just unpacked the shopping all on her own and was stowing
two six-packs in the larder.

"It's so unhealthy.  And a few glasses of red wine is much better, and
more enjoyable.  That's what the Italians drink every day and look at
how healthy they are."  He looked pointedly at Aisling as she guiltily
took a large tub of Bailey's ice cream out of a shopping bag.  Ten
billion calories at least.

"A friend told me that scientists actually recommend a couple of
glasses of red wine a day along with a Mediterranean diet," he

"I must get one of my students to do a piece on it."

Aisling wondered if the 'friend' he'd talked about then was the same
femme fatale he'd taken to Le Caprice and if the bitch preferred wine
connoisseurs to men who drank pints?

Probably.  Maybe she was one of those women who delicately sipped two
white wine spritzers before loudly proclaiming that she would only
drink mineral water for the rest of the night.

How different from me, Aisling thought.  Practically under the table
after five gin and tonics, she often ended up giggling and silly at
parties.  Of course, enduring Michael's diatribe in the taxi home was
part and parcel of these occasions.

"How could you tell that story tonight?"  he thundered the night
Aisling told the managing director's wife her hilarious story about the
first time she had her diaphragm fitted.

"Jesus, I shouldn't bring you to parties if you're going to embarrass
me like this.  I don't know what they're going to think."

There was no point, Aisling decided, in saying that the managing
director's wife had obviously loved the story and had burst out
laughing as soon as a shocked Michael was out of earshot.  No point at
all, really.

Who the hell was Michael to tell her she shouldn't have a few drinks at
parties?  He was screwing some damn woman, breaking his marriage vows
as if they weren't worth the paper they were written on.  He had no
right to tell her what she could or couldn't do.  She'd drink what she
felt like, especially tonight.

Maybe she did drink too much when she was out.  So what?

If she felt inadequate in his friends' company, he was responsible.

He always kept her at arm's length from his colleagues and made her
feel stupid in contrast to the editor's wife, a physics lecturer no
less.

Well, Michael certainly couldn't make her feel any worse than she did
now.  He'd already found another woman, what could top that for
humiliation?  Blast him!  She was going to have the biggest drink she
could lay her hands on and she didn't give a damn if Michael saw her do
it.

It was time to go in.  Aisling checked her make-up in the rear-view
mirror and rubbed at a tiny smudge of mascara below her eye.  You
weren't supposed to rub the delicate skin around your eyes roughly, she
knew from those endless magazine articles.

Once she'd hit thirty, she really meant to look after her skin
properly.  But the new make-up routine fell by the wayside.

Before long, Aisling was back to soap and water with a little Oil of
Ulay when she remembered it.

Would Michael have stayed in love with her if she had pampered her
skin and spent hours toning, plucking, waxing and beautifying herself?
Probably not.  If he'd wanted a glamorous career woman to show off to
his friends, nothing short of a miracle could have made him stay with
his un-careerist wife.

She obliterated the mascara smudge, rubbing away the heavy foundation
she'd applied to hide her reddened eyes.

Damn, she muttered, rummaging in her meagre make-up bag for a tiny tube
of concealer to hide the damage.

Polyfilla was what she needed, Aisling thought miserably as she peered
into the mirror.  A passing couple looked into her dusty red Starlet as
they walked hand in hand through the back gate to the newspaper
premises.

Casually dressed in jeans, trendy Timberland boots and matching chunky
cord jackets, they strode past quickly.  The girl stared straight at
Aisling before looking away, flicking long chestnut hair out of her
eyes with the confidence of youthful beauty.

Aisling flushed under their scrutiny and imagined that they were
thinking, "Why bother?"  Just a boring old housewife trying to tart
herself up when all the powder and paint in the world couldn't cover up
the beginnings of a double chin.

A drink would be nice, she thought again.  Just one large one to give
her courage and help her smile at the strange faces.  If she could
still manage a smile when she'd confronted Michael, of course.  Aisling
took a deep breath and opened the car door.

She couldn't see anyone else in the corner of the car park where she'd
parked.  Near the door, a leather-clad figure was parking a
motorcycle.

She hadn't been on a motorbike in years and the idea of a spin down the
motorway, with the wind in her face and no time to think about her
life, was suddenly very appealing.

She'd rented one of those scooters on that brilliant holiday in Greece.
Her father had grimly warned her about broken limbs and permanent
scars.  That did it.  Wearing her old denim shorts and T-shirt, she'd
sped along the rocky roads with Jo racing along beside her on an
equally battered scooter, laughing into the wind with the sheer joy of
it all.

"Last one home has to go out with Spiros!"  screeched Jo, pumping her
foot up and down on the gas pedal.  She wasn't going to be the one
accompanying the over-hairy owner of their apartment block to dinner in
the taverna.

They were probably only going at fifteen miles an hour but it felt like
flying as they passed tiny white villas gleaming in the hot Aegean sun,
smiling at the local women huddled in their all-encompassing black
dresses.

She wouldn't dream of riding on a scooter any more.

Scooters and motorbikes were for the slim young girls you saw in tampon
adverts, girls with bum-length hair, minuscule white shorts and lots of
attitude.  They were most definitely not for women who couldn't do up
their jeans any more.

The newsroom was probably full of them, she reflected, cute model types
drafted in the pose for snaps with the managing director.  Maybe she
could ask them for hints.  She could drag a few of them up to Michael
and ask them was he worth fighting for?

For a moment, she savoured a picture of Michael's face, red with anger
at his wife calmly telling a group of gorgeous young women that he was
a lying, cheating bastard.  She'd never be able to do it, though. 
Fiona would, she'd love to do it, if Pat was ever dumb enough to
betray

Aisling knew she'd only ever dream about slapping Michael.  Like she'd
dreamed of slapping her father's face every time he made her feel
worthless and stupid.  Was that all men ever did?

She leaned against the car and closed her eyes for a moment.  She was
dreading tonight, smiling hello to all Michael's colleagues, wondering
what they'd think when they saw her Michael Moran's once-slim wife
transformed into a busty hausfrau with no conversation and zero style.
No wonder he'd got himself a mistress when that was what he had to go
home to at night, she could almost hear them saying.  Damn him!  She
slammed the car door shut and smoothed down her dress.  No chickening
out now.

Aisling was slightly out of breath when she made it to the imposing
front doors where a security guard with a clipboard and a
self-important expression on his face gazed down at her.

"I'mer ... expected at the party she stammered.  The supplement... My
husband works here ..."

"Name?"  queried the guard loftily, pen poised over his list.

"Aisling Moran," she answered and, as if by magic, the man's stony face
lit up.

"Mrs.  Moran!  Grand to meet you at last.  Come on in before those news
hounds drink the place dry!"

She found herself being bustled over to the stairs where the guard
yelled up for Mick '... to escort Mrs.  Moran to the party."

Aisling had barely put a foot on the bottom step before another, much
younger man in a similar navy uniform and a very short haircut
materialised and walked with her up the stairs.

Aisling muttered something about not having been escorted anywhere
for

"Not at all, Ma'am," the muscular young man smiled cheerily.

"These stairs are a bit steep if you're not used to them and God knows
you'd never find your way around the warren upstairs if you didn't know
where you were going!"

He couldn't have been more than nine or ten years younger than she was
but, from the way he was walking beside her at a snail's pace and the
way he called her "Ma'am', she was obviously a dead ringer for his
mother.  Marvellous.

"Bye now."  He gave her a good luck sort of grin and walked briskly
back the way they had come, leaving her standing outside the newsroom,
her heart thumping at the thought of making her entrance alone.

What are you doing here?  she asked herself wretchedly.

Why aren't you sitting at home with your head buried firmly in the sand
as usual?

Because you have to find out what's going on, the voice in her head
pointed out calmly.  And if you don't find out now, you never will.
It's up to you whether you try and ignore his infidelity or whether you
demand that it ends.  Get a grip on yourself, Aisling, she said out
loud.  Go on.

She put one hand tentatively on the door before it swung back on her
violently as two men in suits with ties askew pushed their way out of
the office giggling hysterically.

"Aisling Moran!  How are you?"  Suddenly, she was grabbed by one of the
revellers and enveloped in a bear hug.  Tom," she said with pleasure as
she recognised the paper's chief sub-editor, one of Michael's best
friends.

"I haven't seen you in an age," he said warmly.  A huge smile lit up
his grey-bearded face.  A tall man with hunched shoulders, Tom had
always been in shape, but now sported a little pot belly under his
straining shirt.

Aisling noticed the heavy sprinkling of grey in his hair and beard and
realised, with a shock, that she hadn't seen him for well over two
years.

But then, I haven't exactly turned the clock backwards myself, she
thought wryly.

"How are you?"  he roared merrily, sending strong whiskey fumes in her
direction.

This is your husband's big night, eh?  You must be so proud.

We all are."

I'm bloody delirious, she thought, grinning back with a saccharine
smile.  Tom pushed the swing doors open and led Aisling into a room
which buzzed with activity.  MTV, RTE, Super and Sky Sports belted out
at top volume from the bank of TV screens on one wall.  Nobody seemed
to notice the cacophony made by Pearl Jam's latest hit, a droning
Formula One race and the news in two languages.  Instead, they
screeched with laughter, talked rapidly and gestured for more drink as
two harassed looking girls wearing black skirts and white shirts
circled the room balancing glasses on large trays.

People stood around in little groups of two or three, laughing and
shouting at each other, sharing the jokes of colleagues who worked
long hours together and knew each other better than their families.

"Are you saying I got that story from another paper?"  she heard
someone say indignantly.

"You'd swallow a brick, Pat."  said another voice.

"He's only winding you up for a bet.  That's another drink you owe me,
by the way, Shay."

They're all on form tonight," chuckled Tom.

Aisling thought they all looked glamorous and dynamic.

She'd always been in awe of her husband's colleagues, especially the
women.

"Here we are she heard Tom say, as they pushed their way to the centre
of the room where a group of people stood, listening to a tall, dark
man.

Michael was holding court, as usual.  He had this incredibly irritating
habit of pontificating on all sorts of subjects, although politics was
his favourite.

At home, he generally started giving Aisling his views on the most
recent political crisis when she was ready to turn out her bedside
light, or when she was just settling down to watchER He never realised
that she was doing something else and wasn't necessarily interested in
what he thought about the Labour Party's conference, or Bill Clinton's
speech.  But then he never noticed the way her eyes glazed over when he
really got going.

Tonight he was on form, preaching about the changing role of newspapers
in a world of instant TV news updates.  It gave Aisling a glimmer of
satisfaction to see one of the not-so-eager listeners raise her
eyebrows at a colleague, tacit understanding of the boss's irritating
idiosyncrasies Not everyone was as awestruck in his presence as Michael
liked to imagine.  For a brief moment, that was a very satisfying
thought.

She watched silently, trying to look at him like a stranger seeing him
for the first time.  Tall, dark-eyed and with the type of bone
structure the Marlboro man would have died for, he was, as most of his
male colleagues complained, almost too bloody good-looking to have any
brains at all.  Unfortunately for all the begrudgers, he was a
brilliant writer and an even better editor.  He had an ego to match.

When the yearly influx of journalism students brought eager young women
into the office, keen to learn every nuance of the job, they invariably
developed crushes on the good-looking deputy editor.

Michael always made this sound funny, telling Aisling how they blushed
when they offered to get him a sandwich at lunchtime or asked his
advice on their stories instead of talking to the news editor.  Despite
the way he made these stories amusing, Aisling knew he was flattered by
the attention.

With Michael, flattery got you everywhere.

Not a quality to make a wife feel secure, Aisling reflected.

She watched two of the younger female onlookers gaze longingly at her
husband as though he were fillet steak and they'd been starved for a
month.

Aisling could have told his, admirers that he stared in that intense,
Robert Redford sort of manner purely to focus his eyes when he wasn't
wearing the stylish designer wire rimmed glasses he'd bought a couple
of years previously.

Of course, she never got the chance to tell anyone and she suspected
that they wouldn't believe her anyway.  She could imagine these
particular admirers privately thinking that the deputy editor's
piercing gaze was deeply sexy, something intended for them alone.  Big
mistake, girls.

"Michael, look who's arrived!"  Tom announced cheerily.  The entire
group turned towards the newcomers.  Aisling felt her face flush pinkly
as everyone looked at her and hated herself for it.  Michael leaned
over and took her hand.  He led her gently into the centre of the
group, almost as if he was pleased to see her.  What an actor.

Aisling, these are most of my team for the supplement.

Everyone else, this is Aisling, my wife."  Who was writing his lines,
she wondered?  Was this his 'caring editor' performance, designed to
beguile the gazing students?

Aisling could see the amazement in the women's eyes as they took in her
flushed face and less than perfect figure hidden under a loud crimson
dress.  Gorgeous, clever Michael, one of the most talented journalists
in Dublin, married to that!  She was used to it now, that look of pity
when her husband's admirers realised that their hero was stuck with the
least attractive woman in the room.

At least she'd always been sure that thinking about her husband was as
far as any of his female fans had ever got.  She now had devastating
proof that one woman had got a lot further than thinking.

As they muttered "Hello' with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Aisling
wondered if she was one of them.  Maybe that was why Michael hadn't
introduced anyone individually.

Perhaps she was standing there as cool as a cucumber, the blonde with
the pancake make-up and the Kim Basinger lips, or the tall brunette
with tortoiseshell glasses emphasising almond-shaped blue eyes and a
thin silk blouse which left nobody in any doubt that she had bypassed
the bra drawer when she was getting dressed.

Aisling watched her for a moment and turned her attention to the other
women in the group.  Would she recognise the other woman from Fiona's
description, would she intuitively know who she was?

"Are you all right?"  Her husband's voice broke into her thoughts.  She
raised cool blue eyes to meet his.  Strange, she had expected him to
look different now that she knew his secret, but he didn't.

He looked exactly the same as ever, a five o'clock shadow darkening his
jaw, eyebrows raised in a quizzical expression.

Until today she'd have staked her life that Michael wouldn't dream of
doing anything more than talking to another woman.  She gazed at her
husband, noticing the dark smudges under his eyes from the long nights
he'd been working late to put the finishing touches to the
supplement.

That was what he'd said anyhow.

It was more likely he was exhausted from spending hours with her,
sharing meals in their favourite restaurant before steaming up the
windows of his car; the same car she drove to the supermarket at
weekends with the boys squabbling in the back.

God, the betrayal.  It hurt so much and it made her so angry.

Twelve years of marriage had meant nothing to him if he could just
forget about her and their sons for a few hot nights with some
floozie.

"Are you all right?"  he asked again.  She turned away.  Tom returned
with the drink he'd offered to get for her: a large tumbler full of gin
and tonic, strong and cool with plenty of ice clinking around the
glass.

She smiled thanks at Tom and took a deep reviving slug, feeling the gin
hit her system like an injection of adrenaline.

Michael had already moved his attention to the next subject, his
personal interpretation of the latest political crisis in Washington.

"We have to talk."  Aisling surprised herself with the calmness of her
voice as she reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.  Ignoring the
look of surprise on his companions' faces, she walked away from the
group with him grudgingly following until they were out of earshot.

"What is it?"  he asked impatiently.

"Why couldn't you tell me in the first place?  Tell me, what's the big
fuss?"

She looked steadily up at him.  Would he lie or tell the truth?
Probably lie.

The big fuss is about Jennifer Carroll.  Does that name sound a bit
familiar to you?"  She gazed at him expectantly.

"I

know you're having an affair, Michael.  So I think we need a private
talk, don't you?  Or do you want everyone on the premises to hear about
your sordid secret, if they don't already know, that is," she spat.

His eyes darkened.  He stared at her with the same blank look she'd
seen when he was stuck talking to someone he didn't like: cold and
indifferent, his face impassive, his eyes saying nothing.

"How did you find out?"  he asked, as casually as though she'd
mentioned that the car was out of petrol.

"You should be more careful with your credit card receipts," she
answered.

"Didn't you know I'd find out if you left a receipt for Lingerie de
bloody Paris in your navy suit pocket?

Or did you want me to find out?"

"No."  He stared down at some spot on the grey speckled office carpet,
seemingly miles away as though contemplating whether eighty per cent
wool was more serviceable than pure wool carpet.

"I didn't want you to find out because it would hurt you and I never
meant to do that."

"Yeah, right."  Aisling laughed harshly, feeling red spots of colour
burning on her cheeks.

"You just wanted everyone else to find out that you were cheating on
your stupid wife.  Let her find out from the neighbours.  Was that the
way you wanted it?  Is there anything else I should know or are you
taking out an advert in next week's paper?"

He had stopped looking at the carpet and was looking at her sadly,
almost pityingly.  Shrewd, dark eyes took in the new dress and the
garish bright lipstick.

"Maybe I should have asked Fiona if you have a few other women stashed
away somewhere?  Or was one enough?  Did you have a bet on with that
bloody bitch to see how long you could keep me fooled?"

She paused for breath and took a huge drink from her glass.

Her hands shook so much that the ice rattled noisily.

"It wasn't like that, Aisling," he answered slowly.

"I didn't tell anyone and I thought we were discreet, although
obviously I was wrong.  I never wanted to hurt you."

"Don't tell me," she interrupted, 'it didn't mean a thing and you can't
even remember her name.  Is.  that your next line?

Because I know her name, even if you pretend to have forgotten it.
Jennifer Carroll, isn't it?"

She looked at him triumphantly, as though they were playing Trivial
Pursuit and she'd just won a piece of pie.

"Just tell me one thing, Michael, why?  Why did you do it?  Don't you
love me any more, don't you care about our marriage and the boys?"

Michael's eyes were still cold.

"I've loved you for thirteen years, Aisling," he said.

"But I'm not in love with you any more."  The emphasis on 'in love'
hit her like a bullet.  Was he really saying what she thought he was
saying?

Michael shrugged and splayed his hands out in a gesture of apology.

"I'm sorry, but it's not as if you wanted to make our marriage work, is
it?  You just wanted to crawl into your shell and hide from the world."
She stared at him, disbelieving what she was hearing.

"You, the boys and your damned house, that's all that mattered to you.
Not me."

"You never wanted to be a part of my life, you never asked me anything
about my day, what I did.  It was always the boys.

Did you ever remember that we got married, not you, me and two kids,
but us?"  As he warmed to what was obviously a familiar theme, his
voice sounded harsher than she'd ever heard it before.

"No, you don't remember, do you?"  he snarled.

"You cut me out of your cosy little life and I couldn't deal with

He stopped, but his words hung in the air like icicles, cold and
deadly.  He could have stabbed her with them and it wouldn't have hurt
as much as the look on his face hurt her.

She didn't want the marriage to work?  For God's sake, she desperately
wanted it to work but he hadn't given her any choice in the matter.
He'd just run after some woman and now he wanted to make it all her
fault!

"You've made it pretty clear that you don't want to be part of my
life," he continued, 'so I wanted someone who did want to be with
me."

His voice was calm.  Maddeningly calm.  She'd just confronted him with
the biggest crisis a marriage could face and he was looking at her with
calm indifference.  He spoke about their marriage as if it was already
dead as a dodo.

"Don't give me that rubbish!"  she screamed.

"Lingerie de Paris and nights in Jurys isn't about our marriage not
working.

It's about sex you and some other woman having sex.

"You just couldn't stop yourself, could you?  Everything we had just
wasn't enough for you.  So don't try and blame me.

Don't tell me it's my fault!"

She stopped abruptly, aware that people nearby had stopped talking.

Normally, she'd have been embarrassed, but tonight she didn't give a
damn who heard her.

"How dare you ..."

"I'm not trying to blame you," Michael interrupted.

"It's just that..."  He sighed heavily.

"Look, we can't talk about this here with everyone watching and
listening.  Let's wait 'til we get home, OK?"

"Home!  Let's wait 'til we get home!"  she repeated shrilly.

"You conveniently forgot about home when you were shacked up with that
bitch in a Dublin hotel, lying that you were in London!  So you can
forget about coming home with me!

Your home is with your bloody girlfriend and I don't want to see you
until you've dumped her!"

"Aisling."  He tried to grab her but she managed to shrug his arm off.
The door.  Where was the door?  She couldn't see through her tears. 
She just pushed past the double doors before he caught up with her.

"Stop," he commanded.  And she did.  Turning her round to face him,
Michael looked her in the eyes, his pupils boring into hers intently.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Aisling," he repeated.

"You have to believe that.  But you've changed.  I don't know what's
happened to you, but you're different.  It's as if you shut yourself
off from me and I can't live like that.  I'm sorry.

"You're right about me not coming home," he added.

"It wouldn't work.  It's better if I don't come home tonight.  I wanted
to tell you everything a long time ago, but I could never find the
right time.  I didn't want to hurt the kids but there's no time that's
right for kids in the middle of at marriage breakup."

She could feel the blood pumping through her body, keeping her alive
when all she wanted to do was die.

She'd given him the chance, the chance to say he loved her and that it
had all been an awful mistake.  But he hadn't used it.  He had turned
her own words against her.

God, if only she hadn't said he shouldn't come home, if only she'd kept
her mouth shut and let him explain, let him beg forgiveness, surely
everything would have been all right?

She'd given him a cast-iron excuse to leave.  Aisling had never quite
understood the expression 'time stood still", until that moment.

He was standing just a few feet away from her wearing a pale blue shirt
with the top buttons open to reveal a few inches of tanned neck, a neck
she had snuggled into when they sat on the couch watching TV late at
night.  His aftershave permeated the air and, if she reached out, she
could touch him, hold him in her arms and be safe for ever.

Perhaps if she wished hard enough, she could turn back the clock and
keep her mouth shut.  Then he'd stay with her.  Then he wouldn't need
anyone else.

But it was too late.  He didn't want her.  He wanted another woman in
his arms and in his life.  Blindly, she took another huge gulp of her
drink, wanting to blot out what had just happened.

"I'll stay in Tom's tonight and I'll be over to pick up some stuff in
the morning."  Michael looked at her coolly, his eyes raking in the new
dress and her flushed face, red from downing too much gin too
rapidly.

"I better go back in.  The MD is going to launch the supplement in a
few minutes."

Aisling looked at him mutely.

"Don't have any more to drink, Aisling," he added coldly.

"I'm not going to drive you home if you get drunk, so you're on your
own."

With that he was gone, back to his besotted students and the whispering
of colleagues who had seen everything.

Aisling slowly drained her glass and turned towards the stairs.  So
this is what heartache feels like, she thought numbly, walking slowly
down the stairs, her beautiful new dress billowing out behind her.

The security guard at the door saw her walking towards him like a
sleepwalker, her expression vacant and her eyes dull.  He wanted to ask
if she was all right, but he wasn't sure how to do it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jo parked the car and got out quickly, noticing Aisling's car parked
several spaces away.  Great, she thought.  She slammed the door shut
and slipped her keys into her bag.  We'll be able to catch up on all
the gossip.

Jo hadn't walked more than five steps before she saw Aisling emerge
from the front entrance.  Even from a distance, Jo could see that her
friend's complexion was ashen, an expression of sheer pain on her

Jesus, Jo thought, shocked.  What could have happened?  She ran towards
Aisling, feeling the silk of her dress shimmer loosely around her body
as she moved and realising that dainty heels and no bra were not ideal
for running on gravel.

"What's wrong, Aisling?  What's wrong?"  Catching Aisling's hand in
hers, Jo looked at her friend anxiously, her eyes seeking some reason
for this terrible pallor, this frightening look of despair.  Talk to
me, Ash, please," she pleaded.

"He's left me.  He's in love with someone else," Aisling said flatly,
gazing into the middle distance with grief-stricken eyes.

Jo couldn't believe what she was hearing; Michael had left her?  How
ridiculous!  Michael adored Aisling, worshipped the ground she walked
on, didn't he?

Surely Aisling had got it wrong ... or had she?  Jo was dumbstruck. 
She simply didn't know what to say.  Aisling stood there silently, the
lines around her eyes and mouth set in hard, unyielding creases.

"He's not in love with me, you see said Aisling, like a child reciting
a poem learned by rote.

"He's in love with her and it's all my fault."  She started to cry
properly, great big heaving sobs which shook her body, as if she was
coughing her last breath.

"Oh Ash."

"I found out today Aisling wept.

"Fiona told me, she'd known for ages but she couldn't tell me.  I know
she couldn't tell me.  And I was going to confront him, get him to say
he was sorry and it would be all right.  Everything would stay the
same.  But he won't, he won't..."

Aisling buried her head in Jo's shoulder, sobbing onto the silver
knitted wrap Jo had worn to cover her slip dress in case she felt
chilly.

What could Jo do but hold Aisling, trying to ease the hurt with a
friend's arms when all Aisling wanted was her husband's arms, and his
voice telling her it was over, that he loved her and no one else.  But
Jo suspected that Michael wouldn't be saying that.  Not ever again,
maybe.  Who could have guessed, who'd have known, that this seemingly
devoted couple were on their way to splitting up?  Maybe she'd have
seen it coming if she hadn't buried herself in Richard's life,
neglecting her old friends for him.

"Come and sit in my car she cajoled.

"Please, Aisling, please."

"Can't.  I have to go home to the boys.  I told the babysitter I
wouldn't be long."

Aisling sniffled and found a scrunched-up piece of tissue in her bag
among the shopping lists and Saturday morning under-elevens' soccer
timetables.  She took a deep breath and looked at Jo.

"Don't be silly, Ash.  Just sit with me for a few moments and stop
crying.  You can't drive home like this."

She steered Aisling over to her car, opened the passenger door and
helped her in as if she was an invalid.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry sobbed Aisling.

"I just don't know what to do.  How could this happen, I just don't
know?"

"Oh, you poor thing."  Jo leaned over the hand brake and hugged Aisling
warmly, wishing she knew what to say.  She tried to remember the sort
of advice the magazine's agony aunt would give, but found herself
remembering the medical advice for first-time mothers over the age of
thirty.

Aisling hiccuped.

"I knew things were different lately, but I thought it was me.  I
thought I'd got into a rut and that I had to sort myself out.  But I
never even thought of this.  How could I?

"Was I the only person who didn't know or should I have realised
something was wrong?  I don't know."  She broke off suddenly, staring
out the windscreen at nothing in particular.

"Look Ash, there's no point torturing yourself now.  Maybe it was just
a short-term thing, maybe he's sorry but he's not able to admit it."

"No, it's not just a fling.  It's serious.  He said our marriage was
over."

Jo stared silently at her friend, knowing that there was no quick
solution to this problem.  She opened the glove compartment, found a
pack of travel tissues and handed Aisling one to replace the soggy,
twisted one which was crumbling in her hands."

Just moments ago, she had felt like someone living a glorious dream
life of motherhood, with a fairytale wedding and contented family life
just waiting in the wings.  Now she felt about a hundred years old and
very weary.  Aisling and Michael had always epitomised the perfect
couple to her:

what hope was there if they couldn't make it?

It wasn't as if Jo hadn't witnessed enough relationship and marriage
break-ups already.  She knew plenty of people who'd fought tooth and
nail over every stick of furniture in their soon-to-be-sold house and
automatically hissed 'that bitch' or 'what a bastard' when anyone
mentioned their ex-partners' names.

She'd learned to be careful when she bumped into people she hadn't seen
for a while you just never knew what a simple question like "How's
Gerry?"  could provoke.

"Burning in Hell, I hope!"  snarled one bitter friend the previous
Christmas, when Jo had innocently inquired after the other woman's
once-adored husband.

She knew it was silly, but she'd always had this rose coloured view of
the Morans' marriage.  Maybe it was because she'd been so close to
Aisling all those years ago and so thrilled when she'd fallen in love
with Michael, but Jo really believed that they were perfect for one
another.  How blind had she been?  A perfect house, two lovely
children, a wife delighted to play housekeeper-cum-nanny and a handsome
husband didn't necessarily make an ideal marriage.

"I have to go home, Jo."  Aisling straightened up.  The boys are with
the baby-sitter and I must go home to them, honestly."  She smiled
briefly, the professional-mother smile dusted off and brought down from
the attic for an emergency.

"You go on, I'll be fine."

"I can't leave you like this."  Jo was horrified.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ash ..."

"You're here to go to the party.  They expect you."  Aisling shrugged,
checking her blotchy face in the mirror.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow."  She managed a grim smile.

"I'm sorry, Jo.  I shouldn't have told you this, it's not your
problem."

"Of course, it's ... well, OK, it's not my problem," Jo stammered, 'but
you're my friend, Ash, and you shouldn't be on your own tonight.  I
just have to see Richard for a moment..."  She broke off, desperate to
tell Richard her news and knowing that Aisling wouldn't want to wait
there a moment longer.  There's something I have to tell him."

"Don't worry," replied Aisling brusquely.

"I'll ring Fiona when I get home.  She'll come in."  Aisling opened the
car door and got out with Jo following her.

God, this was awful, Jo thought in distress.  What was she going to do?
Damn Richard for not picking her up earlier.

She'd have told him about the baby by now and she could've driven
Aisling home, instead of having to leave her in this condition.  What
the hell was she to do?

Aisling made the decision for her.

Thank you, Jo."  Aisling reached over and took Jo's hand.

"I'll phone you tomorrow.  You go on in."

"Don't go ... Ash," begged Jo.

"Hang on for a couple of minutes, please.  I can't let you drive home
on your own in this state."
"I'm fine Aisling insisted.

"Fiona will be at home this evening.  She wants me to ring her as soon
as I get in."

"You can't drive like this protested Jo.

"I'm fine, really.  I'll be home in half an hour."

"You promise you'll ring Fiona?"  Jo demanded, feeling torn.

"Yes.  I promise, I promise on my granny's life."  The corner of
Aisling's mouth lifted into a slight smile at the words, an old joke
shared by two flat mates many years ago.  Aisling had always hated her
grandmother with a vengeance.

But how was the landlord supposed to know that when the demure
insurance clerk from the basement flat innocently promised not to have
any parties, "On my granny's life."

Then Aisling was gone, hurrying towards her car before Jo had a chance
to stop her.  She watched Aisling drive slowly out the front gate with
misgivings, praying that she'd get home safely, hoping she would have
the sense to ring her neighbour for help.  Mind you, what could anyone
do?

Suddenly she didn't feel like going to a party after all.  Poor
Aisling, she thought, and what about Phillip and Paul?  They were too
young to deal with their parents splitting up.  How could a couple of
ten-year-olds understand the notion of separation or divorce?  Jo's
hand slipped to rest on her stomach.  I'll never let anyone hurt you,
my darling, she murmured.  Nobody will hurt you.

She walked slowly towards the entrance, the jaunty spring in her step
gone.  When she pushed open the heavy newsroom doors, she was greeted
with cries of hello as her ex-colleagues waved celebratory bottles of
beer and glasses.  The usual suspects were out in force, she noticed,
making her way expertly through the throng, waving hello here, shaking
hands there, without stopping at all.  It was a trick she'd learned
early in her journalistic career and was very useful for avoiding
people you couldn't stand or people who'd talk all night once they'd
started.

Jo skirted the groups of merrymakers, smiling and waving to all
corners. She needed a party like she needed a hole in the head but
there was no escaping this one.  Half an hour with Janice would
undoubtedly cheer her up.

Janice O'Brien was talking nineteen to the dozen as per usual at a
makeshift bar at the back of the newsroom.  Janice and her companions
appeared to be testing different types of lager and seeing who could
tell the difference between Smirnoff, Stolichnaya and Absolut.

Jo knew better.  With someone else paying the bar bill, the News team
could pile up empty bottles faster than women queuing to see the
Chippendales.  Ridiculously large numbers of bottles were already
empty, lined up against the wall awaiting disposal.

"Where have you been, sexy?"  Nick Cullen slid an arm around her and
planted a hot, beery kiss on her cheek.  Tall, muscular and able to
hold his beer better than any barrel, Nick was a brilliant reporter and
a dreadful flirt, always keen , to bring the female reporters off to
the pub.

"You can't be pissed already," Jo asked as she pushed him away.

"In an act of selflessness," Brian Reddin interrupted, 'we started
earlier on our own so we wouldn't drink this bar dry."

"Thank God you've come!"  said Janice gratefully, pulling her friend
over to lean against a photocopier.

"This pair of lushes have been keeping me prisoner here, making me get
them drinks all evening."

"All that exercise must be great training for the marathon, then," Jo
commented.

"I still can't believe you're drunk already," she added, poking Nick in
the chest.

"Is Richard coming tonight?"  Janice inquired, reaching back to the bar
as she poured a stiff gin and tonic for her friend.

"Yes.  I thought he'd be here already but I couldn't see his", car said
Jo, scanning the room for a sight of her boyfriend's short blond

"He's supposed to be working tonight and didn't have time to pick me up
before he got here, so where in the hell could he be?  Unless he was in
earlier and decided to wait until the party was really going.  Did he?"
she looked at the others.  "We haven't seen your Viking at all this
evening interjected Nick, using the nickname which irritated the hell
out of Richard, 'so you're mine for the night, gorgeous.  Love the
dress."  His bleary eyes lit up appreciatively as he took in Jo's
curves accentuated by her clinging silken dress.

"Thanks, Nick, I wore it specially for you, of course."

"Oh really ... D'you fancy you and I taking a stroll to the photocopier
to see if you really can photocopy your bum and bonk at the same
time?"

"Since I don't fancy seeing my derriere in full blown-up glory all over
the newsroom next time I come here, I think I'll pass, if it's all the
same to you," she replied tartly.

Jo took the drink Janice had poured for her, knowing that refusing
alcohol would automatically start Janice's mind ticking furiously.  She
waited until Janice was mixing up a drink for herself, then she reached
back and swopped her gin and tonic for a glass of mineral water.

Then she hoisted herself onto one of the desks and sat back as Janice
filled her in on the latest gossip.  Everyone was asking who would get
the fashion editor's job when Anita Brady left the following month to
edit a new woman's magazine.

They'll never get anyone as good," remarked Janice, reaching out to
spear a cocktail sausage from a passing waitress.

"Oh, these are lovely," she squealed as she bit into the succulent
flesh.

"Come back here immediately!"

"Anita's hell to work for," she added, taking four more sausages from
the waitress.

"But she's good at her job, so you have to learn to live with the
temper tantrums.  It's the husband I feel sorry for.  You can't blame
him for seeking solace in the arms of another woman when he's married
to the sort of cow who could put Mike Tyson in hospital."

Jo looked up sharply, searching Janice's face for a hint of ambiguity.
Did she know about Michael and Aisling?  But Janice had moved on from
infidelity to incompetence.

"That nauseous Denise Keogh from features.  She obviously thinks she's
a dead cert for the job even though she has as much fashion sense as a
lobotomised gorilla.  ""Don mock, Janice interrupted Brian.  The odds
are two to one that she gets the job and you've a tenner on her to
win!"

"Only because her uncle owns shares in the bloody paper said Janice
caustically, 'and because I like to bet on dead certs.

If she does get the job, I'll bet you twenty quid that her first
fashion spread is on leg warmers, tank tops and frizzy hair.  Oh yeah,
and blue eyeliner."

She broke off as they spotted Richard pushing his way through the
partygoers.  A tall willowy blonde in a slinky black mini-dress
followed close behind like a puppy on a lead.

"Nice dress she's nearly wearing remarked the columnist with a flash of
the bitchiness for which she was renowned.

"I've got scarves bigger than that."

"Miaow, miaow."  Nick wagged a finger in Janice's direction.

"I think it's a lovely dress."

"You would she replied smartly.

"That's because when you think at all, you think from below the
belt."

Nick sniggered into his beer again and nearly lost his balance as a
result, but Jo didn't notice even when he grabbed her to steady
himself.  She watched her boyfriend, the father of her unborn baby,
talking animatedly with his beautiful companion as he strolled round
the room sizing up photographic opportunities.

The blonde simpered and giggled every few steps, licking her lips in
what she obviously thought was a very sexy manner.

"Hello, darling."  Richard smiled at Jo when he and the blonde reached
her corner of the room.  This is Sascha, Will's sister.  She's just
started freelancing in Paris with Now magazine and she's doing a piece
on Dublin social life."

"I thought she was working undercover on a prostitution story Janice
muttered under her breath.

Nobody heard.  They were all staring at the blonde apparition in front
of them.  Sascha smiled at the group from sleepy green eyes, seemingly
unconcerned that she'd forgotten either a reporter's notebook or tape
recorder and had been gazing only at the handsome photographer instead
of keeping her eyes peeled for material.

"I'm sure I know you from somewhere, don't I?"  asked Janice, eyes
narrowed as she tried to remember where she'd seen the other woman
before.

"Didn't you do some modelling for one of the British catalogues?"  she
asked.

"Next, was it?"

"Yeah," Sascha smiled again, displaying perfect white teeth and the
self-confidence of a woman who knows she'd look fabulous wearing a bin
liner

"I was with the Premiere agency for a couple of years and I did a lot
of work in Japan."  She paused, giving the three men the benefit of
another practised hundred-watt smile.

"I've left modelling.  I'm just getting into writing now.  I feel I'm a
natural writer, y'know, it comes from in here."  She touched her tanned
cleavage.  Richard's gaze slid down to the spot in question as if
mesmerised by her model-girl 32A chest.

"So I'm going to try reporting and then go home and get on with a book
or something."

The two female journalists stared silently at her beautiful blank face,
wondering what besotted commissioning editor had given Sascha the job
of writing about one of the world's literary capitals, when it was
clear that any word longer than two syllables would involve a lengthy
consultation with the dictionary.

"When did you start writing?"  Jo asked kindly.

"Last month," said Sascha happily.

"I've just done an article on modelling and some of the girls said I
wouldn't be able to do it, but I think writing comes from the heart,
doesn't it?  I know I can do it."

Sascha smiled at everyone broadly.

"I've been doing this personal development course and when I focus my
energy on something, I can make it happen.  That's what my counsellor
says anyway.  You're all writers, huh?"

"You could say that," Janice answered, sarcasm dripping from every
syllable.

"We just dabble, you understand.  I'm still not sure whether I should
stick with writing or focus on brain surgery, perhaps.  Decisions,
decisions."

Jo smiled nervously up at Richard, hoping that he'd read her mind and
leave Sascha to her life story so they could talk quietly together.

"Would you like a drink, darling?"  she murmured.

But he had other ideas.

"No, duty first.  I better take a few pictures."

Jo moved closer to him, breathing in the lemony smell of Eau Sauvage
and the faint fragrance of fabric conditioner from his pristine cotton
shirt.  God, she loved the way he smelled, the way his skin tasted, the
way he always looked.

Tonight, dressed in a plain charcoal grey suit which she knew had cost
about a month's salary, he oozed style and elegance.  Compared to Brian
and Nick in their casual chain store chic, he looked like a model from
the Next catalogue.

And he was all hers.  She couldn't help feeling a little self-satisfied
as she pulled his head down and whispered into his ear.

"I've something really, really special to tell you.  Follow me."

With an apologetic glance at Sascha, Richard followed Jo into one of
the glass-fronted offices which opened onto the newsroom.  He leaned up
against a steel grey filing cabinet and Jo wrapped her arms around his
waist, leaning her head against the comforting bulk of his chest.

"You know you said that you never expected to settle down with anyone
in the way you have with me," she began.

"Well, I think we're going to become really settled soon.  In about
seven months," she added with a little laugh.

"We're going to have a baby!"  Looking up excitedly, Jo waited to see
Richard's reaction.  He was going to be thrilled, she was sure.

"Well," she whispered, "what do you think?  You're pleased, aren't
you?"  He was speechless.

Of course, it was a shock, a huge shock, she knew that.  And it would
take a moment to sink in.  But he'd be so pleased, wouldn't he?"

"Say something," she said nervously.

"Oh, I just don't know what..."  He stopped mid-sentence, an
expression of mounting shock on his face.

"How could it happen?"  he stuttered.

"This is unbelievable, I don't believe it."

"I know it's a shock, darling she said swiftly, wanting him to take her
in his arms.

"I'm having our baby, Richard," she said softly.

"Aren't you pleased?"

She stared up at him, willing him to smile and kiss her.  She wanted to
feel strong arms around her and his voice telling her it would be all
right.  But he stared at her with the sort of expression she had only
ever seen on his face when Ireland was thrashed at Landsdowne Road or
when an entire roll of film had been overexposed.

Jo felt nausea quiver in the pit of her stomach.  She couldn't believe
this was happening.  This was the moment when Richard should kiss her
and hug her as if she was Belleek china.  If she was china, he
obviously didn't like the pattern.

What the hell was going on?

"B-b-but how?"  he asked incredulously.

Jo's temper suddenly snapped.

"Jesus, Richard, what do you want, a biology lesson?  How the bloody
hell do you think it happened?"

She knew she sounded shrewish and she didn't care.

Richard was supposed to love her and she had just told him the most
wonderful news in the world.  And all he could do was stammer and
stutter and ask how it happened!

This is our baby!"  she cried.

"Don't you care?  Aren't you happy?  We're going to be parents in seven
months, Richard!"

"I don't believe this," he said hoarsely, 'how could you be
pregnant?"

"Well I suppose it must have something to do with making love, which we
do all the time, and the fact that condoms aren't one hundred per cent
safe.  Look, I only found out this morning," she said, suddenly
weary.

"I know we didn't plan it..."

"You can say that again," he snapped.

"Look, it just happened, right?  I'm as surprised as you are,
Richard."

Jo rubbed one hand over her left temple, feeling the familiar
throbbing migraine build up.

"What was I supposed to do?  Shut up and pray it would go away, like a
terrified sixteen-year-old girl?  I thought you'd be happy and that you
wanted to settle down finally," she hesitated for a moment.  The baby's
due in January."

"What do you mean it's due in January?"  he asked.

"Jesus, we're not ready for a baby, I mean, why didn't you tell me?"

he said incredulously.

"I am telling you," she answered.

"I do not believe this is happening, I just don't believe it," he
repeated, running a hand jerkily through his hair.

"OK, let's think about this.  Who else have you told?  Not that bloody
Janice I hope, otherwise it'll be all over the place like a rash.

You know what she's like he spat.

"I didn't want to tell anyone until I told you she faltered.

"Look Jo, this is an awful mess, can't you see?  I don't want children,
not now anyway.  I'm not ready for all that stuff yet, you know that.
What made you think differently?"

Jo stepped away from him.  For the second time that day, her pulse was
racing and she could feel the blood racing in her veins.

All she wanted to do was sink into her bed at home and close her eyes,
or start reading her latest book, curled up under the duvet.  And not
think, not think about anything.

"Let me get this straight.  You don't want this child Jo said quietly,
'and you don't want to settle down with me.  Have I got that right?"

Her face was pale as she looked at him, wanting the truth, hoping that
his answering smile would abruptly banish any doubts.  She could hear
sounds of merriment coming from the newsroom.  Corks were popping.  Jo
guessed that the paper's managing director was about to launch the
supplement with a champagne toast.

At the sound, Richard unconsciously reached for the camera slung around
his neck on a fraying Canon strap and looked longingly in the direction
of the party.

Jo was close to tears but she had to get an answer from him.  Talk to
me, Richard.  What do you want to do?"

"Oh God, Jo, why did you get pregnant, now of all times?

He ran a hand through his hair and for a brief moment she remembered
lying in the Egyptian cotton sheets on his bed, running her fingers
through his hair while he lay sexually sated in her arms.  They were so
close, that was why she could never have imagined this.

"Why now, of all times?  In a few years, yes, but not now," He looked
at her beseechingly, like a naughty boy who's just sent his football
through the neighbour's kitchen window.

"Will can look after the agency for a few years and I planned to go to
London to work with one of the sports papers there.

It's a brilliant opportunity, darling.  I was going to ask you to come
with me."  He was pleading now.

"It'll be marvelous.  Just a few more years and then we can settle down
and maybe "have kids if you really want them ..."

His voice rose excitedly as he looked eagerly at Jo, waiting for her to
agree, waiting for her to smile and say what she'd always said,
"Whatever you want."

Memories came flooding back to her, memories of the times she'd asked
him about his previous relationships.

Among the litany of model girlfriends, there had been one long-lasting
relationship with a German girl who had left Dublin when she and
Richard broke up.

"Beate wanted to settle down and I just wasn't ready for that." 
Richard shrugged.

"We were too young."  She'd believed his simple explanation, grateful
that he hadn't wanted to marry any of her predecessors, and that he'd
been too young to settle down with the only one who sounded like a true
love.

Richard Fitzgerald had once been the Don Juan of the photographic
world, but she had tamed him.  He'd given up a lifetime of bimbos to be
with her, or so she'd thought.  He wasn't too young to settle down any
more: he was thirty-seven to her thirty-four.  Surely it was time for
him to stop running away from responsibility and start a family?

Obviously not.  Commitment-phobic, Janice had called him the first
time she had seen him.  Perhaps her friend had been right.

Richard gently stroked her palm, tracing delicate circles and kneading
the fleshy base of her thumb.  People with lots of soft flesh in that
precise spot were supposed to be very sensual he had always said,
joking that she must be the sexiest woman in the world because of her
soft, caressing hands.

Before, when he'd murmured endearments into her ear and stroked her
skin, her heart leapt with love for this funny and talented man.  Not
tonight.

"Darling, don't be upset, please."  He was all charm again.

He'd always been able to charm his way out of any trouble.

He just smiled that boyish smile and wheedled until she gave in and
forgave him.

Like that time he'd promised to pick her up from the office Christmas
party and simply never showed up.  It had taken two hours to get a taxi
that night because the streets were black with ice and half the city
had left the car at home so they could get drunk.

He'd been so contrite, so full of remorse at having forgotten all about
the party, that she'd forgiven him by lunchtime the next day.  It was
funny the way he never forgot any professional commitments, only
personal ones.

"We can have children later, my darling," he said pleadingly.

"We're not ready for this yet, are we?"  he murmured, reaching out to
stroke her cheek, waiting for her to give in.  She always gave in, Jo
realised suddenly.  For all his relaxed charm and boyishness, Richard
always got his own way.  In everything.  It didn't matter whether
they'd argued over where to go for dinner or what -film to see, somehow
Richard always got what he wanted.  For once, he was out of luck.

"What are you suggesting?"  she asked, her voice dangerously low.

"Well," he looked around as if to check that nobody could hear them,
'you know, get rid of it."

She snatched her hand away as though his fingers were burning her,
staring him in the face angrily.  "And if I don't "get rid of it" as
you so euphemistically call it, what then?"

"Jo, you're being unreasonable.  All I'm saying is that this is the
wrong time in my life for a baby."  Richard's face was fast losing its
engaging smile.  "I'm not ready for it.  We're not ready for it."

"No, you're not ready.  You're so bloody selfish," she hissed.

"You just couldn't bear to have to think about someone else besides
yourself.  We can't have a defenceless baby interrupting your plans, or
getting in the way of your life, can we?"

"There's no need to be insulting."  Richard gave her one of his
superior looks and tried another tack.

"We should talk about this tomorrow when you're less hysterical."

"Hysterical!"  Jo hadn't felt so close to hitting anyone in years.
That's typical!  Just because I'm pregnant, I've suddenly turned into a
neurotic, moody brood mare with no brain whatsoever she shouted.

"Shush, someone will hear Richard hissed.

"Oh, we can't have that, can we?"  she snarled.

"Listen, I don't care who hears me.  In fact, I want everyone to hear
me so I can find out what they think about the wonderful photographer
everyone adores begging his girlfriend to have an abortion because it's
"... not the right time in my life".

When will it be the right time, Richard?  Because you're running out of
time, you're nearly forty, don't forget.

"It's not as if we were two scared teenagers or didn't have any money
either she glared at him.

"We can certainly afford another mouth to feed and let's face it, the
world will hardly be scandalised by us having a baby and not being
married, Richard.  So what's wrong with me having our baby?"

If someone had told her that her feelings for him could be reversed in
a matter of moments, she'd have laughed at the idea.  Nothing could
wipe out the love she felt for Richard, the bond which tied them to
each other, she would have said.  But that was before he had looked her
in the eye and suggested that she abort the child she wanted with all
her soul.

"I'm no good with children Richard said helplessly.  Hisfingers played
nervously with the frayed camera strap in a way that she found suddenly
irritating.

"If you want it, it's your decision.  I'll give you the money if you
change your mind."

"Keep your money.  I don't want it or any part of you," Jo said
coldly.

"I'm having this baby, Richard, and that's final.  You can go off with
Sascha and play at being adults.  She's just about the right IQ level
for you and she's unlikely to ask you to do anything more taxing than
teach her to read."

" Furious, Richard turned and stormed back into the newsroom while Jo
walked slowly over to an open window and breathed in deeply.  Gradually
her pulse slowed down and she opened her eyes to stare out at the city
silhouetted in the It dusk' in In the middle of the towering spires and
office blocks, she could see the minty-green-domed roof of Rathmines
church, the one she and Aisling had gone to when they lived a stone's
throw around the corner.  Well, the one Aisling had gone to.  She
remembered the thrill of Sunday mornings in the flat when there was
nobody there to tell you to get up and get ready for Mass.  Luxuriating
in her comfy single bed, Jo always snuggled in deeper, resisting
Aisling's attempts to get her to come to eleven Mass.

Aisling had loved sitting in the huge dark church.  She said that
Sunday Mass in the huge church was the only time that the various
people of Dublin's flatland came together, until Jo remarked that not
everyone in Rathmines was Catholic.

"You know what I mean," Aisling said in exasperation.

"It in doesn't matter to me what religion people are, it's just that
sense of being together for a while.  It would feel the same in ii any
church or mosque or whatever," she added passionately.
 Sometimes she managed to drag Jo out of bed and hurried her along
with the other, more eager churchgoers.  And Jo had enjoyed Mass.  The
anonymity of this church made a change from Mass in her small home town
where you knew everyone's great-granny's uncle, what they did for a
living and why young P. J. had turned out bad.
"In Innisbhail, she'd explained to Aisling, all you had to do was
ask the chemist for some throat lozenges and half an hour) later every
second person on the street would ask you how you were feeling.

She'd had so many plans when she left her home town in Sligo to go to
journalism college.  Journalistically, she was going to change the
world and if she didn't win a Pulitzer prize for her ruthless exposes
of injustice, she was damn well going to win the Booker for her
novels.

So much for literature, she thought wryly, when you can't even find
yourself a decent man who'll stand by you.  Her hands involuntarily
slid down towards her stomach, caressing the tiny bulge which was
probably more Twix bars than baby.

That other girl, the one with all those crazy dreams, was long gone. 
In her place was a strong woman who was determined to be the best
mother she could for her baby, her fatherless baby.

She'd certainly written enough articles about single parents, now she
was going to find out what it really felt like.  When she'd interviewed
women who'd been left holding the baby, she'd wondered how they got by
on their own.  Now that her own selfish boyfriend had run for the
hills, she was going to find out about single motherhood the hard way.

CHAPTER SIX 

Warm breath fanned her cheek.  Aisling stretched her limbs
under the duvet.  She knew she had to get up.  But... Just another few
minutes on the warm, soft sheets, just a bit longer ... Hold on a
moment.  Her brain switched on weakly.  It's Saturday.  Why was Michael
trying to wake her early on a Saturday morning, she wondered sleepily?
And why did she have this leaden feeling in her head?

A waft of hot, fishy breath made her open gluey eyelids to gaze up at
Flossie who was standing on Michael's pillow.  Push off, Aisling
groaned, wishing Flossie would go away and let her have just a few more
hours in bed.  Why hadn't Michael let the cat out?  Couldn't he do
anything around the house?

She moved into a more comfortable position and pretended to be asleep,
hoping the cat would be fooled and leave.  Flossie didn't budge and
started up her secret weapon, a peculiar bad-tempered miaow which was
simply impossible to ignore.

"All right, all right!  I swear I'm getting you a cat-flap today!"

Aisling struggled up on the pillow.  It felt as if an army band was
rehearsing some horrible marching song, using her skull for drums.  She
squinted at the clock-radio 8.17 a.m. and Saturday.  Where the hell was
Michael?  He couldn't have gone to the office already, could he?

Then her brain made the unwelcome connection.

Michael hadn't let the cat out because Michael wasn't there.  He had
left her.  Their marriage was over and she had a hangover roughly the
size of France.  She'd only just woken up and immediately she wanted to
go right back to sleep, maybe for a hundred years.

Rolling over onto her stomach and abruptly dislodging Flossie, Aisling
laid her head heavily on the pillow and felt miserable.  Sober and
sick, she began to remember the day before with horrible clarity.

Underwear, expensive underwear.  Oh God, she remembered.

She could dimly remember shopping with Fiona, her mind befuddled with
Valium.  And of course that slice of banoffi in the coffee shop which
must have been at least 400 calories.  Forget the bloody banoffi.

She could even recall arriving at Michael's office, even though the
picture in her head was Technicolor high drama, very Gone with the Wind
and utterly removed from reality.

But after that... It was all hazy, like she had been utterly drunk and
had blacked out.

Only she hadn't got drunk until much later.  She hadn't got drunk until
she arrived home and proceeded to drink everything in the house with an
anguished Jo begging her to stop.

"You don't know what he's done she remembered saying as she sat at the
kitchen table with the brandy bottle in one hand and a tissue in the
other.

Of course Jo knew damn well what had happened.  Aisling had explained
everything in lurid detail, over and over again as she sank deeper into
depression.  And deeper into the brandy bottle.  They'd discussed the
whole sordid thing endlessly, from the Then stray, so what?"  theory
put forward by Jo when she still thought it would all blow over, to the
"OK, he's a bastard all men are bastards' conclusion.

She remembered Jo telling her about the baby, and about Richard's
reaction.

"I couldn't believe it, Ash," Jo had said, staring into the depths of
the mug of tea she was cradling in her hands.

"I just never thought he'd react like that."

The funny thing is," Jo continued, "I wasn't really sure what I wanted
myself at first.  I kept wondering was I ready for motherhood and stuff
like that.  And then I did the test and I just knew, I knew I wanted
the baby so badly."

She paused and looked at Aisling, dark eyes brimming with unshed

"You know what I mean, you felt that way about the twins, I remember.

When you got pregnant, I really envied you.  You were so happy, so
content.  Look at me," she gave a sad little laugh, "I'm a bloody
wreck."

Swept up in her own misery and with three large brandies inside her to
numb the pain, Aisling hadn't really registered the awful state Jo was
in.

"He'll change his mind," she'd declared confidently.  What a stupid
thing to say.  Poor Jo, alone except for a drunken friend wallowing in
self-pity.  She must have been so drunk.  She couldn't even remember Jo
leaving and she had no idea how she got into bed.  Did she get into bed
herself or did Jo help her?

How horrible.  And what sort of a mother did that make her?

Too damn drunk to notice if the poor twins had been sick or needed her
in the middle of the night.  Who knew what terrible thing could have
happened and she wouldn't have been able to pull herself out of the bed
to help them.  She was just a useless, fat cow.  No wonder Michael
hadn't wanted her.

Staring at the sulky lump which Flossie had curled herself into on the
end of the bed, Aisling remembered the confrontation with the man she
loved and she wanted to curl up catlike herself and die.

What had she done?  Why had she given him the chance to leave?  She
should have said nothing and maybe everything would have been all
right.  As each moment passed, another agonising moment of the night
before came back to her, little spiteful daggers shooting into her
heart.

She remembered confronting Michael in front of everyone, screaming like
a fishwife in her eye-catching red dress, baring her soul and her dirty
laundry in public.  And she remembered hearing his cold response.

He didn't love her, he couldn't bear to be in the same house as her,
for God's sake.  She had been discarded like an old pair of shoes, used
and dumped when they started letting rain in and were no longer
fashionable.  His horrible cutting words came flooding back into her
mind and she finally stopped fighting the misery.  Hot, hopeless tears
soaked into the pillow as her predicament became clear: she was alone,
alone for always.  The thought made her cry harder, so she didn't hear
Paul run into the bedroom, shouting: "Mum, Mum.  Look what Phillip did!
Mum?  Mum?"

Despite her misery, Aisling's mummy autopilot cranked into action and
she buried her swollen eyes in the pillow so that he wouldn't see how
wretched she looked.

"I'm sick, darling.  I think I've got that awful cold Aunt Fiona had
and my eyes hurt.  But you can help, Paul.  Would you let Flossie out
and ... get me some milk?"

It was a calculated move.  Phillip would have demanded to know why. 
Why was she sick, why wasn't Daddy there, why did he have to get the
milk, why couldn't he have the money for rollerblades?  Luckily, Paul
was less cerebral.  Not as clever at school as his twin, he was much
easier to handle and could be told what to do, as long as Phillip
wasn't with

Getting milk was a mission from Mum and he was a special agent, ready
to spring into action.  Full of delighted self importance and with his
brother's misdemeanour forgotten, Paul was already swinging down the
banisters, eager to prove himself manly enough to look after his
mother.

God, the lies adultery generated, Aisling thought morosely.

Well, I can't tell two ten-year-olds that their father has run off with
another woman and that their mother is on the verge of a nervous
breakdown.  Hah!  There was a film about that:

Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown.

She'd seen it in the video shop although she'd never got it out.
Perhaps now was the time to watch it.  Maybe it had hints on how to get
a life.  Like 'lose two stone, get a great job, get yourself a toy boy
and murder your cheating husband'.  Easier said than done, of course.

Grimacing at the dull ache in her head, Aisling hauled herself out of
bed and stood in front of the mirror, not exactly delighted with what
she saw.  Her eyelids were swollen and pink like pigs' trotters, her
face was an unbecoming shade of beige with grey highlights and her hair
was greasy after a night of sweating out more gin and brandy than was
good for your liver.  Even the cute Honey Bunny picture on her nightie
was faded and misshapen after years in the sixty-degree hot wash.

Just like me, she mouthed silently.  Wonderful.  How come Danielle
Steel's heroines never looked like they'd spent the night under a bush
in the park when their lovers walked out on them, she thought
miserably, picking up her brush.

They always looked even more fragile and doll-like than ever, with
every bit of Estee Lauder still in its rightful place and not a hair
escaping from the artful chignon they'd been taught to do in their
Swiss finishing school.

They didn't let themselves go, reach for the gin and scrub their skin
raw from using kitchen roll to wipe away the tears.

Deep in dreamland, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone
rang, its blistering peal assaulting her already painful head.  She let
out a deep breath, wondering whether she'd be able to face answering
it.  What would she say if it was her mother ringing up for a chat?

Hi, Mum.  Yes, I'm fine.  I've had a pretty normal week, y'know.  The
twins love summer camp, I've finished redecorating the downstairs
toilet and Michael has left me, that's all really.  How about you?

The phone continued to ring.  Go on, do it, she muttered.

You can't hide for ever.  Her hands were shaking as she picked up the
receiver and she didn't know whether she was shaking with delayed shock
or hangover.

"I was nearly going to hang up," exclaimed Jo, sounding worried.

"How do you feel?"

"Delirious.  Except for the fact that my head is about to explode with
a hangover and my life is in pieces."

"Join the club," Jo said mournfully.

"I've been going over everything in my head and wondering what I've
done wrong."

She sniffled.

"Sorry.  I didn't mean to moan at you.  It's not your fault that my
bloody lover has abandoned me and my bump."

"It's not your fault either, Jo.  I've been thinking about you and how
useless I was last night.  I'm sorry.  All I could do was cry about my
problems.  You must be in bits, you poor thing."

Back in her familiar role as comforter, Aisling began to feel
marginally better all of a sudden.  Someone else's troubles made her
momentarily forget her own and she could wallow in Jo's misery
instead.

After all, she was married to Michael and nobody could take that away
from her, whereas Jo was left with nothing but an extra toothbrush in
her bathroom and an unborn child whose feckless father had disowned him
her What could be worse than having one of the most wonderful times of
your life ruined when you were left to go through it all on your own.
Then again, what help had being married been to her?  Damn all. Married
or unmarried, no commitment was worth the paper it was written on
unless the other person meant it.

"I was awake half the night thinking just that: that it was all my
fault," Jo was saying.

"My fault for getting pregnant and my fault for blithely assuming that
Richard would want to be a father, as opposed to being just a sperm
donor, of course."  Her voice was bitter and harsh.

"Not that he minded being a sperm donor from the fun point of view
.."

"None of them do," interrupted Aisling drily.

"Too bloody true.  But at least most men can accept their
responsibilities.  Richard certainly doesn't want to.  Oh damn.

There's my doorbell."  Jo sounded flustered.

"Hold on a minute, will you."

Poor, poor Jo, Aisling reflected, automatically starting to pull up the
duvet and plump the pillows with the phone wedged in the crook of her
neck.

Remembering her own pregnancy made her smile to herself as she worked:
that magic moment when she told Michael they were having a baby that
was before she knew she was carrying twins, of course.  Buying the cots
and the double buggy, reading Penelope Leach as they sat together in
front of the fire, stroking her rounded belly proudly and waiting for
baby kicks.

Whatever happened, she'd had that togetherness.  But Jo didn't.  From
believing that she was one half of an expectant couple, Jo had
abruptly become a one-parent family.  That's what I am too, she
realised.

A deserted wife with two kids, no career prospects and a washing
machine on the verge of packing it in.  Another bloody statistic.  Add
one to the deserted wives' register, one to the single mothers'
register and one to the woman ising bastard list, she thought
bitterly.

Tears stung her eyes.  Don't be such a wimp.  You don't know that for
sure.  You don't know what'll happen, so don't think about it.  He'll
change his mind, you know he will, he has to.  He can't give up on us
after all we've been through and he won't give up the twins, will he?

Would another woman give him enough to make him forget everything he'd
once treasured?  She thought of the woman Fiona had described to her, a
glamorous career woman who was doubtless much more interesting to talk
to than a harassed housewife.  IH Was it her fault for making that
seduction too easy?  Should she have abandoned the ironing, hoovering
and cooking to read the Karma Sutra, picking up hints to spice up their
sex life and waxing, painting and oiling herself in an effort to turn
into a siren who could keep any man glued to the bedroom?

What was it model Jerry Hall had said about keeping Mick Jagger by her
side: be a cook in the kitchen, a maid in the dining room and a whore
in the bedroom.

Why wasn't it enough to be an ordinary wife and mother?

Oh God, it all seemed so hopeless.

She swallowed hard and ran a harsh hand over her eyes, trying to
obliterate the tears and the misery which was about to creep up on her
again.  Reaching into her bedside drawer, her fingers found the small
plastic jar of pills Fiona had given her the day before.  Years of
dosing herself on vitamin pills meant she could just put two of the
tiny tablets in her mouth and swallow without water.  Screwing up her
face at the acrid taste, she covered the mouthpiece with one hand, and
yelled.

"Paul, love, are you coming with that milk?"

Her answer was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs as her
black-haired first-born Phillip arrived ten minutes later raced
upstairs, across the landing and into her room bearing a plastic
tumbler of milk.  It was one of the green plastic tumblers the twins
drank out of when they were small.  Paul had always loved his one and
the way it gave everything a special, plastic taste.

"I spilled a bit," he said unnecessarily, handing her the tumbler with
two inches of milk sloshing around in the bottom and milk splashes
clinging to the side.

"But I cleaned it up."

Thank you," Aisling said gravely, wondering what item of clothing her
untidy son had ripped off the radiator to clean up with.  Still,
cleaning up at all was a start.

"Have you got a headache, Mum?"  he asked, spotting the tablets with
eagle-eyed ten-year-old's eyes.

"Why were you crying?"

"I didn't sleep, darling, and I've got a dreadful headache.  But the
milk will help."  She rumpled his hair affectionately and he grinned at
her, his eyes crinkling up just like his father's.

Other mothers had talked about their sons hitting twelve and suddenly
shrugging off each affectionate gesture, furious if their mothers
hugged them the way they'd been doing for years.  Thank God she still
had a few years of nighttime cuddles before the twins became too
grown-up for hair rumpling and tickling sessions.

"Mum, can we have money for McDonald's today?"  Paul asked.

"Mr.  Breslin is bringing us all to Stillorgan after the match and we
can go into McDonald's if you let us."

"Yes.  But no milkshakes.  You know how sick they make

"I promise."

He was out the door and yelling for his brother in a flash and Aisling
felt the tension leave her body as another normal day in the Moran
family home began to unfold.  Everything was going to be fine, she just
knew it.  Last night was just a glitch, a bad patch that had to come
out into the open.  They shared so much: the boys, their life, their
home.  How could Michael give all that up?  The man who had cried in
her arms when the boys were born wouldn't be able to leave them for
some floozie.  He'd come back.  It was just a matter of time.

"Sorry about that Jo said.

"My next-door neighbour's alarm went off and she couldn't remember the
code, so we had to ring her son and ... oh, it took ages."

"What are you doing today?"  Aisling asked briskly, her new-found
optimism giving her strength.

"I don't know."  Jo sounded forlorn.

"I had planned to hit Mothercare and look at baby clothes before buying
some " books on pregnancy ... But I don't know if I'd be able to face
it now." 
"Well, that's just what we're going to do," Aisling said
firmly.

"Lounging around crying won't solve anything.  I've got to get the boys
ready for soccer and then I'll meet you in the Ilac Centre outside
Dunnes at..."  she glanced at her watch, 'half ten and we can start
shopping.  Oh, and I'll bring some of my pregnancy books it's not as if
Michael and I are going to decide to have another child right now."

Jo said nothing, mainly because she didn't know what to say to such a
bizarrely blinkered idea.

That's settled," Aisling declared.

"I'll see you then."

Hanging up, Jo sat for a moment on the couch in her small living room,
thinking about her friend's sudden change of mood.  Last night she had
been scared.  that Aisling would drink herself into unconsciousness;
now it seemed as if the previous day's events had never happened.

Was Aisling blotting everything out or was she really as well as she
sounded?  Leaning back against a cushion, Jo contemplated the whole
messy situation.  Which of us is worse off, she asked herself.

Gratefully sitting down on a bench in the centre of the busy shopping
centre at twenty-five minutes past ten, Jo was still thinking about
Aisling's predicament.  Leaning back against the wooden bench, she
looped her handbag strap around her wrist and tried to relax.  Casually
dressed in jeans and a cream cotton cricket sweater with her hair
curling around her shoulders and a smattering of freckles on her face,
Jo was the picture of health and casual chic.  That was on the outside,
of course.

On the inside, her stomach was gurgling away volcanically, considering
whether to send her second breakfast up the way it came or not.  Nausea
came over her in waves and she wondered how long she could last without
having to race for the loo which was, naturally, at the other end of
the centre.

Please don't let me be sick, she prayed silently.  I promise never to
eat muesli ever again.  She closed her eyes and willed her stomach away
from the notion of morning sickness.  Just let me be OK long enough to
meet Aisling and then you can be as sick as you want, right?

Amazingly, her stomach obeyed and the nausea subsided.  It must be all
those stomach-toning classes, she thought proudly, opening her eyes
with relief.  Now I can even control the insides as well as the
outsides!

Six minutes later, she watched Aisling emerge from the car-park exit,
her well-rounded figure hidden in a long navy and cream striped shirt
worn over navy ski pants.

"Sorry I'm late," she gasped, sitting down on a corner of the bench,
her face flushed from rushing down six flights of stairs.

"Everyone and their granny were ahead of me looking for parking spaces
so I had to keep going up and up.  You look lovely," she finished.

"Make-up is a wonderful thing," Jo remarked.

"You should have seen me an hour ago.  This morning sickness thing is
not funny, not bloody funny at all."

"You poor thing Aisling said comfortingly.

"It is horrible.

But you're looking all right now, aren't you?"

"I think so," Jo stood up gingerly, took a deep breath and found that
she didn't feel sick any more.

"Right.  Let's shop."

Twenty pounds' worth of pregnancy books and a pair of elastic-wasted
trousers later, both women were tired of shopping.  They'd been in what
felt like every shop in Dublin and the Eason's bag was growing heavier
with every step.  Deciding that she was now ravenously hungry, Jo
suggested an early pub lunch.

They make the most amazing toasted sandwiches in here she said, leading
the way into a small pub on Mary Street.

Like an oasis in the middle of one of the city's busiest shopping
districts, the inside of the quaint, atmospheric pub was cool and
welcoming.  The pub's trademark dark wooden chairs and stools were
already occupied by regulars who knew better than to saunter into
Keating's during the lunchtime rush if they wanted a seat.

Aromatic smells of barbecued chicken, toasted cheese and garlicky
potatoes filled the air and, by the time she led Aisling upstairs to
sit in two huge armchairs in the tiny gallery, Jo was hungry enough to
eat for three, never mind two.

"Listen to this," she murmured, scouring the handwritten menu hungrily.
Toasted BLTs on garlic bread or cajun chicken with sauteed mushrooms
mmm.  The food is just amazing here.  I could eat two of everything
right now!  But I'll have ... the chicken.  Yes, chicken."

The cheese salad sandwich sounds nice," said Aisling, wondering why she
didn't feel hungrier.

"Cheese salad on brown," she smiled at the casually dressed young
waiter who'd appeared pen in hand beside them.

And a little bottle of white wine, if you have icy-cold ones, thanks."
She smiled at him 'again, but he was already gazing warmly at Jo, eager
to please the attractive brunette who was biting her full lips
tentatively as she considered what to have.

Wouldn't it be nice to have that effect on men, Aisling mused, watching
the waiter watching Jo.  She was used to being ignored when she was out
with Jo, although she had never been jealous of her friend's ability to
attract men effortlessly.  Aisling had simply never considered herself
attractive enough to compete with Jo's potent sex appeal.

It had been exactly the same when they shared the flat.  No matter how
long Aisling had spent curling her eyelashes with the, horrible metal
curler or applying judicious amounts of blusher to where her
cheekbones should have been, she always felt a little dowdy beside
Jo.

Even in those awful second-hand dungarees of hers with her hair
tumbling around her shoulders like she'd just been standing in a wind
tunnel, Jo still looked good.  Men flocked to her as though hypnotised
or, as Jo liked to joke, 'like slugs drawn to begonias'.

"Chicken with garlic potatoes," Jo said firmly.

"And a cup of coffee.  Do you have decaffeinated?"

"Of course," murmured the waiter.

"Do you want anything else?"

"No."

"I'm surprised he didn't offer you a full massage and champagne,"
Aisling remarked when he'd gone, full of twenty something unfulfilled
lust.

"Young guys are all the same," Jo said dismissively, settling back into
her armchair.

"Give them one smile and they're already imagining you with your
clothes off."

"Not in my experience, they aren't.  The last time I smiled at a young
man he was packing my shopping in Dunnes and he looked at me like I was
on day release from John of God's."

Aisling sighed heavily.

"But how can I expect strangers to fancy me if my husband doesn't." 
Now the Valium was wearing off, she felt miserable again, miserable and
hopeless.

"Come on, Ash," soothed Jo, patting her on the knee.

"There's no point torturing yourself.  It's not your fault."

"But it is," she wailed.

"It is.  It's all my fault.  I pushed him away.  No wonder he wanted
someone else."  She started to cry silently, her body shaking as the
tears started rolling down her

Jo could do nothing except clasp Aisling's hand between her own.  That
bastard, thought Jo vehemently.

"Salad sandwich and wine," announced the waiter, planting a small
plate, a wine glass and a small green bottle on the table in front of
Aisling without looking at her, 'and chicken."  The timbre of his voice
changed as he gently placed a large heaped dinner plate before Jo.

"Your coffee is coming," he added, gazing at her hopefully.

Jo ignored him.

"Ash, you can't go to pieces, you can't," she said gently.

"He's gone, but the boys aren't.  They need you now and you can't let
them down."

She grabbed the paper napkin the waiter had laid reverently in front of
her and handed it to Aisling.

"Blow," she commanded.  Aisling blew.

"Listen, I wish it was different, but it isn't.  We've both been
dumped, nothing's going to change that, Ash.  So we've got two choices:
we could both go to pieces, cry all day, beg them to come back and bawl
in front of anyone who'll listen."  Jo took a deep breath.

"We could decide to be victims.  My baby would be born totally screwed
up because I'd be totally screwed up having her, and the twins would
turn into little brats from being dragged back and forth between you
and Michael.

"We can't do that to them, can we, Ash?"

Aisling shook her head silently.

"Or we can fight back, survive on our own," Jo emphasised the words
heavily, determined to get her message past the wall of misery Aisling
was erecting around herself.

"Maybe Michael will come running back to you, but you can't rely on
that.  You have to be strong on your own and so do I. Who knows," she
added wryly, "Richard could be frantically speaking to my answering
machine as we speak, begging forgiveness" She broke off with a
sarcastic chuckle.

She could just picture his face the night before, furious that he
wasn't getting his own way for once.  The chances of him changing his
mind about the baby were slimmer than her chances of fitting into her
jeans in about six months' time.

"You're right, you're absolutely right."  Aisling opened her eyes
abruptly and rubbed the napkin over her cheeks.  Then she sat up in her
chair and picked up the wine bottle.  She poured most of the contents
into her glass and took a deep draught.

"I know he's not coming back, you know."  Her voice shook as she said
it.

"I just don't want to think about it.  I don't want to believe it.  I
want to exist in the happy place in my head where everything's all
right, where he's just at work and where he'll be home tonight."

"I know."  Jo stared back at Aisling.  Picking up her fork, Jo stuck it
into a steaming pile of slivered golden potatoes oozing with garlic.

"Despite everything, despite what Richard said about the baby, I'd
still take him back," she said quietly.

"But he's not coming back though, is he?  So it's up to me now.  It's
up to us.

We have to get on with it, Ash," she urged.

"You've got to get some sort of a life for yourself, get a job and
.."

"Get a job now.  I can barely think straight, never mind actually do
something I've been terrified of for years!"  Almost crying again,
Aisling stared at her friend in horror.

Jo went on eating.

"You can't be serious?"  Aisling demanded.

"Of course I am the other woman answered with her mouth full.

"Realistically, you're now a one-parent family and, even if Michael is
so wracked with guilt that he pays you huge amounts of maintenance for
the boys for the next couple of months, it will inevitably change." 
She knew she was being brutal, but Aisling had to face facts.

"You don't know what he's going to do now, and he could, well they
could, have a family and ..."  she paused to fork up more chicken,
spearing a delicious-looking bit of potato as well.

Aisling stared dully at her untouched sandwich, her eyes red-rimmed and
sad.  God this was difficult, Jo thought.

"I'm sorry, Ash.  I'm trying to help, but I'm not making a very good
job of it, am I?"

Aisling took another large slug of wine and prodded her sandwich
listlessly.  She wasn't even vaguely hungry now, although Jo's chicken
was disappearing faster than 99p knickers in a sale.

She knew Jo was speaking the truth.  Hideous to imagine Michael setting
up another home with that woman and having more children.

"I suppose you're right," she said slowly, twisting her wine glass
around by its thin stem.  There's one slight problem.

What am I going to do?"

"Work in an office, of course.  What you did before."

That was eleven years ago.  Everything's computerised now and I haven't
a clue how to work a computer.  Anyway, who's going to employ me?"
Aisling asked.  There are three hundred thousand unemployed people in
this country, so who the hell is going to take on a housewife with two
kids, no experience, no skills and no confidence?"

Jo stirred three packets of sugar into her coffee, poured in milk and
took a sip.

"When Michael met you, you were virtually running the entire motor
department, not to mention studying for your Insurance Institute exams
at night.  You did all that when you were just twenty-two and you're
trying to tell me that you couldn't do it now, when you're older and
more experienced?"

"It's because I'm older that it seems impossible," said Aisling
weakly.

"We thought we could do anything when we were!

twenty-two, for God's sake.  It's all totally different now, Jo.

You don't understand!".

"Understand what?"

"Just because you've a brilliant job at the magazine and' buckets of
confidence, doesn't mean that everyone else is the same.  Look at you,"
Aisling cried.

"You're a successful journalist, you've got your own car, your own
apartment, your own bank account and independence.

"Maybe you think that's nothing because most of your friends are
journalists.  But not everyone is talented and clever and able to walk
into any job anywhere.  I'm not afraid to work, Jo, but I'm afraid of
looking for work and being told I'm too old or unskilled or useless."
She stopped miserably.

"Ash, when we met, what is it... fourteen, no, fifteen years ago, you
were the one who was going to make something of her life," said Jo
passionately.

"I was absolutely terrified of being in Dublin, of going to college, of
having no one to go home to at night and talk about what went wrong
that day.  It was awful, you know what I was like."  She gulped down
some more coffee.

"You gave me the confidence to stick it out in college when I really
wanted to run home to my mother, and you kept me from falling for every
asshole who asked me out.  You were so strong Jo added gently.

"You still are.  It's just that you've forgotten."

Had she forgotten, or was Jo just being kind, Aisling wondered?  Had
she ever been sure of herself, ready to stick her neck out because she
knew she could do anything?

For a moment she remembered sitting in the kitchen at home, all dressed
up in clothes from her first proper pay packet and telling a fascinated
Sorcha what the department head had said to her that evening.  Mum had
been cooking dinner, eyes on the soup she was stirring on the spotless
cooker but listening to every word about the motor department and how
Margaret Synnott thought Aisling should start studying for the
Insurance Institute exams as soon as possible.

"She said loads of people say they're going to do them, but most of
them don't actually bother.  But you get a bonus for each part of the
exams you pass and she said if I want to get on, it would be worth it,"
Aisling said, basking in Sorcha's admiration of her new black leather
boots.

"I know I said I was never going to study again in my whole life after
the Leaving, but I don't mind this.  What do you think, Mum?"

Her mother stopped stirring and turned around, a warm smile on her
face.  Eithne Maguire had never been to a beauty parlour in her life,
she got her hair inexpertly cut at the tiny hairdressing salon over the
butcher's shop and never spent money on her wardrobe when she could buy
something for her children.  But when she smiled, her whole face lit up
and her blue eyes shone.

"I'm so proud of you, Aisling.  I've always known you could do anything
you put your mind to.  Where did I get such a bright daughter she said
fondly, hugging her firstborn.

"We're all so proud of you.  "This wasn't strictly true and they both
knew it.  Nothing Aisling could do would ever be enough for her father
but, for a few hours, that didn't matter.  Her mother, the one who'd
always protected her from her strict and puritanical father and from
his mother's constant sniping, was proud of her daughter.  That was
enough.

There were tears in Aisling's eyes as she leaned over and hugged Jo,
but they weren't sad tears.

Thank you.  Nobody but Mum has said anything like that to me in
years."

"Well they should have," replied Jo, forking up another mouthful of
food.

"Since your bloody control freak of a father ripped every shred of
confidence out of you when you were a kid, I'm not surprised that you
still feel that way.  Michael ought to have given you a pep talk every
day to make sure you didn't sink back into the mire of insecurity, but
she shrugged expressively, 'he's a man, so why would he bother?

Ash, you can do it without him, I know you can."

"I'm still hungry," she added, scooping up the last bits of chicken off
her plate.

"Here."  Aisling pushed her untouched sandwich over to her friend and
waved to the waiter.

Another coffee and another bottle of wine," she said sharply.  She
wasn't going to waste her time smiling at him this time.  Career women
didn't have time to worry about rude waiters.

It was nearly half one by the time they'd walked back to the Ilac
Centre and said goodbye beside the lifts to the car park.

Jo wanted to go home via the office and pick up some work she had to
finish before Monday, Aisling needed to get some groceries before the
boys got home from football at three.  She only needed bread and milk
and she could get that at the news agent

She'd spent her last tenner on lunch so she walked back towards the
Ilac's cash dispenser and slid her card in.  She was just punching in
her PIN number when a thought struck her how much money did they have
in the cash save account?  Michael topped up their current account
with his salary, but he put anything left over in the cash save
account.

"If we put everything in the current account, we'll just keep writing
cheques," he said.

"We've got to save something.  You never know when you're going to need
a lump sum, Aisling."

Aisling never pointed out that she was anything but reckless when it
came to money.  Years of listening to her grandmother drone on about
wasting money had instilled in her a sense of economy.  When they were
first married, she bought her fruit and vegetables from a tiny
greengrocer, bought meat cheaply from a small, family-run butcher and
wouldn't have dreamed of buying bread when she could bake it herself.

Now that Michael was earning a good salary, she'd stopped the
time-consuming trekking around buying cheap fruit and vegetables and
bought everything in the supermarket.  But she still carefully cut out
money-off coupons, turned her old T-shirts into dusters and made her
own soup, bread and marmalade.  Nobody could accuse her of frittering
away the family's money.

She pressed the 'account inquiry' button, chose the cash save account
and waited.  There'd been at least three thousand pounds in there the
last time she'd looked.  Michael kept saying he was going to transfer
it into the building society account, their 'holiday' fund.

But when she'd asked him about taking a holiday the previous month,
Michael had been very vague about when he could take time off.  The
supplement had changed everything, he muttered, he couldn't just leave
the country a month after getting it off the ground.

No wonder he hadn't been keen to look at the brochures she'd picked up
from the travel agency, Aisling thought grimly.  Three weeks camping in
France with the family obviously paled beside the thought of a
scorching week in the sun rubbing Ambre Solaire into that bitch!

She scowled as she looked at the small green numbers on the cash
dispenser screen.  Jesus.  What was wrong?  Three hundred and thirty
pounds was all that was left in the cash save account.  Aisling stared
at the figures intently.  That couldn't be right.

She was sure he hadn't moved the money, or maybe he had and just hadn't
told her?  Flustered, she pushed the button to check the current
account.  They were nearly two hundred pounds overdrawn.  Aisling
looked at the little 'dr' beside the total and felt weak.  What the
hell was going on?  Why were they overdrawn?  She hadn't spent very
much lately, apart from the dress she'd bought yesterday.

"Do you want more time?"  demanded the little green letters on the
screen.  Just more money, thought Aisling, feeling the faint stirrings
of temper.  She quickly withdrew two hundred pounds, as much as she
could take out in one day.  Snatching her money from the machine, she
stuffed it into her purse and turned round rapidly, cannoning into a
young man waiting behind her.

"Watch out, missus!"  he said to her departing back.  Aisling didn't
even hear him.  She was already halfway to the lifts, her growing rage
giving her a fierce, angry energy.  All the lifts were on the upper
floors and a small crowd of shoppers waited for them, idling away the
time examining their shopping bags and chatting.

Normally, Aisling would have waited for the lift, not keen on panting
up endless flights of stairs.  Today, she ran up the stairs, her heart
pumping and her temper boiling.  How dare he take everything out of the
account!  How dare he!

What sort of a bastard was he to leave her and the boys, and then take
all their bloody money into the bargain!

What the hell were she and the twins supposed to live on?

How were they going to pay the mortgage or buy food without any money?
What a bastard!  She could kill him, would kill him.

Wait until I get my hands on you, Michael Moran, she growled under her
breath as she marched towards her car.

You'll be sorry you ever heard of bloody Jennifer Carroll, I'll see to
that!  Aisling dragged open the car door and threw her handbag in.  I
never thought he'd stoop so low as to take money from his kids'
mouths, she thought, grinding that gearshift into first.

She'd never driven out of the city centre so fast.  Barely noticing
amber lights, she wove in and out of different lanes, gritting her
teeth and swearing at other drivers.

No matter how terrible the previous day had been, no matter how
devastated she'd felt when Michael told her he didn't love her, she'd
had one consolation.  The boys.  If Michael wanted some high-flying
career woman with legs up to her armpits and a wardrobe full of basques
and suspender belts, then he could have her.

But Aisling would always have the boys, their beloved boys.

And if Michael ever got bored with Ms Carroll, he could always come
home for Phillip and Paul's sakes.  And for hers.

She wouldn't turn him away, couldn't turn him away.  She loved him,
despite everything.  a That thought had consoled her, knowing that
Michael would find it hard to be apart from his children and that he'd
have to come home.  Eventually.

Or so she'd thought.  Obviously, she'd been wrong.  If he could
callously strip their bank account, knowing that Aisling had no other
means to support the twins, then he'd gone too far.  He could discard
her, but not Phillip and Paul.  Damn him, but she'd fight him tooth and
nail for every penny the boys needed!

What sort of man would get up early the morning after leaving his wife,
and drain their bank account?  Suddenly it all made sense.  Aisling,
you fool!  If you could only withdraw two hundred pounds with your bank
card in one day, that's all he could take out too.  Which meant that he
hadn't just grabbed the money this morning, he'd been siphoning it out
for a few weeks!  What a pig!

She'd never forgive him.  If he thought she was going to be a pushover,
crying every time she saw him and begging him to come back, he was
wrong.  She was going to be as hard as nails and every bit as cunning
as he had been to protect her children.  Watch out you bastard, she
hissed.  When she opened the front door, she immediately knew he'd
been there.  Flyers for a pizza company were thrown casually on the
hall table, the way only Michael left them.  That always drove her mad.
Why couldn't he bring them into the kitchen and either stick them in
the basket where she put the bills or put them in the bin?  Because
tidying up was her job, of course.

She didn't even bother to pick up the flyers, but ran upstairs to their
bedroom.  His side of the wardrobe was open, a couple of metal hangers
lay on the bottom shelf where Michael usually kept his shoes.

He'd taken everything, suits, trousers, and the shirts she ironed so
carefully, leaving nothing but a forgotten belt hanging forlornly from
the tie rack inside the door.  She checked the drawers and their en
suite bathroom.  Everything of Michael's was gone.  Only a damp ring
remained beside the sink as proof that his aftershave had stood there,
the big bottle of Eternity for Men she'd bought him for Christmas,
thinking that forty quid a bottle was a bit pricey.

He'd even remembered to take his shower gel, the tangy lemon-scented
one he preferred to her coconut version.

He'd remembered everything, she thought bitterly.  He'd never managed
to do that during their twelve years of marriage.  Packing for holidays
had always been a nightmare, as she had to remember everything Michael
and the boys needed.  If she didn't stick his shaving kit in the
suitcase, he was quite likely to forget it.  Not so today.  This time
Michael wasn't coming back after two weeks.

Good.  She didn't want him back.  But she damn well wanted to know
where their money was.  In the bedroom, she picked up the phone and
dialled the News.

The deputy editor's office," she snapped.

"Hello."  His voice sounded the same as it had the night before.  Calm
and relaxed.  She was going to knock that out of him, that was for
sure.

"What the hell have you done with the money from the cash save
account?"  she demanded.  "Aisling?"

"No, it's Cindy-bloody-Crawford.  Of course it's me, your poor
bewildered wife, the one who never noticed you taking all our money
from our joint account.  How did you do it, huh?  Take out two hundred
with your card every day in anticipation of dumping me?"

"Stop screaming down the phone, Aisling," he said coldly.

"And stop making wild accusations.  I didn't steal anything."

"Where's the money then?"

"In a separate account, your account."

"What account?"  she demanded.

"Didn't you read my note?"

"No, I didn't."

"It's on the bed, on your side."

It was all her side now.

"Listen," Michael said wearily, "I opened an account for you last
month.  I knew this would all come to a head and I wanted to sort out
things financially.  I'm not going to let the kids starve just because
we've split up, so I talked to a solicitor about the best way to handle
things, and he advised me to open an account for you."

Aisling was dumbstruck.  He'd talked to a solicitor over a month ago.
He must have been planning this for months.

What a bastard.

"Are you listening, Aisling?"  His voice interrupted her thoughts.
There's one thousand five hundred in the account.  I left the details
on the dressing table.  I'm going to close the current and cash save
accounts.  We don't need joint accounts any more."

She sat down on the bed, only half listening.  He'd consulted a
solicitor over a month ago, that was how sure he was that their
marriage was over.

"I can't believe you've been coldbloodedly planning this without
telling me," she said slowly.

"I haven't time to discuss it," he said harshly.

"I'll look after the boys financially, but I'm not keeping you in
luxury for the rest of your life.  I'm not a bottomless pit, Aisling.

You'll have to get a job.  You've always said you wanted one,
anyway."

"And you never wanted me to get one she screamed.

"You absolute bastard!  I'd like to kill you!"

"I don't have time to listen to your insults," Michael said coldly.

"I've a job to do.  Unlike you."  With that, he hung up, I leaving
Aisling mouthing furiously at the dialling tone.

The note was on her pillow, a page ripped from a notebook and covered
with Michael's distinctive scrawl.  A small, blue lodgement receipt was
under it.

"Aisling, I'm sorry you aren't here.  I wanted to talk to you about
money and about the boys.  I've opened an account for you and put half
of the holiday money in it.  I'd like to talk to the boys myself, it's
important that they hear it from both of us.  I'll ring you later about
coming over this evening."

That was it.  No 'love, Michael'.  Well, he didn't, did he?  Damn him.
He even expected her to wait patiently for him to turn up in the
evening so they could tell the boys together.  He could bloody well
stuff his idea of dropping in when he wanted.  He'd have to consult her
before he set foot in the house.  If Michael wanted to fight, she'd
fight back!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fiona thought it was a brilliant idea.

"Of course Pat can help you get a job!  He's always moaning about
hiring twenty-year-old office juniors and having them leave as soon as
they're trained to work the computers properly."

Fiona sat down on one of the Morans' pine kitchen chairs, scarred from
endless Dinky toy games, and crossed long, sleek legs encased in black
lycra sports leggings.

"He'd jump at the chance to hire someone like you."

"Do you really think so?"  Fiona was as generous as she was eccentric.
Aisling didn't want her to badger poor Pat into hiring their suddenly
single neighbour as a huge favour.  If she was going back to work, she
certainly needed a leg up, but not charity.

"I'm very rusty, Fiona, and I'd be eager to learn, but only if Pat
thinks it would work," she said earnestly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Aisling.  If you can whip up a four course meal
in two hours without becoming hysterical when the freezer packs in and
defrosts your home-made ice cream into slop, then you'll have no
trouble answering a few phones."

"And Daddy adores you, you know," Fiona added with a smile.

"He always wants to sit beside you at dinner parties and you'll
probably have to fight him off once he sees you sitting!

all secretarial behind the reception desk!"

Despite herself, Aisling burst out laughing, thinking of Fiona's
imposing and steely-eyed barrister father trying to inveigle her into
his office for a passionate session on an antique desk strewn with
legal tomes and writs.

"I just can't see that happening."  She grinned.

"Well I certainly can," replied Fiona.

"Since Mother left him, he like a fourteen-year-old who's just
discovered what sex is all about and is anxious to try it out as often
as possible.  I told you that he almost ended up in bed with one of the
bridesmaids at my cousin's wedding?"

"Really?"

"You have no idea what he's like.  Mad as a March hare and twice as
randy.  The thing is, women just love him, they always have Fiona
paused to light up a cigarette.

"I know," she muttered, "I don't know why I keep smoking these things
if I'm so keen on being fit.  Pat gives me the same bloody lecture
every day, but a girl's got to have some vices."

"I wasn't going to say anything," protested Aisling.

"I can hardly talk about being fit under the circumstances.  My thighs
haven't seen the inside of a pair of lycra leggings for years and if my
stomach gets any bigger, I'll need those horrible roll-on things Granny
wore."

"Over my dead body," Fiona said firmly.  The only roll-on product
modern girls use is deodorant, my dear.  Aisling Moran, career woman,
is going to be sleek, healthy and devastatingly sexy, even if I have to
personally drag you to the gym three times a week."

She got up and stuck her cigarette under the tap for a moment.

"I'll talk to Pat when I get back from my step class and find out
what's the story work wise There's always someone away and hiring temps
from the agencies costs a fortune.  He'll be thrilled to get his hands
on you.  Well, Daddy certainly would."

Aisling giggled again.  No matter what disaster hung over life like a
dark cloud, a few moments in Fiona's company listening to her spiky and
bitchy comments on life in general could raise anyone's spirits.

Through Fiona's eyes, Aisling was changing her life for the better,
going back to work as a confident and mature woman.

Not for a moment would Fiona see Aisling as a terrified and lonely
wife, suddenly single and unsure of what life held for her and her two
sons.

That was part of her charm, Aisling realised.  Fiona viewed life
through tinted glasses and if they weren't always rose tinted they
certainly made everything in life look more interesting.

If her husband of ten years decided to leave his fun-loving, tennis-mad
wife, Aisling knew that Fiona would take a deep breath and start again,
searching for a better life and a faithful mate without being destroyed
by the breakup.

She watched her friend pull on a pink sweatshirt over the tiny hot pink
lycra leotard which Aisling reckoned wouldn't fit one of her thighs.
Tanned from frequent trips to the Finucanes' villa in Spain and a
perfect size ten thanks to aerobics every second day, Fiona looked
fantastic.

When she was dressed in the exquisite clothes she adored shopping for,
with her long nails beautifully manicured, her gold Cartier watch
catching the light and her rich chestnut hair shimmering from endless
salon treatments, she looked every inch a rich bitch.  Thank God she
wasn't.

Aisling remember the day the Finucanes had moved into the huge
red-brick house across the road, a fleet of removal vans lined up
outside full of expensive-looking pieces of furniture.  At least ten
harassed men in overalls spent the afternoon carrying furniture into
the house, struggling with huge pine wardrobes, enormous squashy sofas
and a gleaming dining-room table which looked big enough for at least
twenty people.

Aisling couldn't help peering out of her bedroom window, fascinated to
see what sort of furniture the new neighbours had.  A tall,
immaculately dressed brunette roared up in her sporty black car and
marched into the house with a small fluffy dog in tow.  Aisling decided
that her new neighbour was obviously some high-powered career woman and
wasn't the sort who'd be interested in coming over for morning

So she got quite a shock when Fiona arrived on the doorstep two days
later, introduced herself and asked were the people two doors away
totally mad or just mildly insane?

"All I said was that my husband and I had moved in across the road and
that we wanted to say hello to everyone when the poor dear turned
white as a sheet, told me she didn't want to buy anything and slammed
the door in my face," Fiona complained.

"She's deaf explained Aisling, 'and probably a little bit mad into the
bargain.  If you think she's bad you should meet her brother.  He
stills thinks it's 1944 and he's working undercover as a spy in
France."

"Isn't there anyone normal living around here?"  demanded Fiona.

"We're pretty normal," Aisling replied.

"Most of the time, anyway.  Do you want to come in for coffee?"

"I'd love to.  If I don't get at least four doses of caffeine into my
system before eleven in the morning, it goes into shock.  I could go
home and bring some disgustingly sweet biscuits if you want any?"  she
offered.

"Believe me, I've got loads of disgustingly sweet things here.  Too
many in fact."

They'd been friends ever since.  Sometimes they did their shopping
together, chatting volubly while they waited impatiently in the
supermarket queue or wandering through clothes shops while Fiona
shopped and Aisling vowed to diet.

She'd always urged Aisling to join her in the gym or come playing
tennis with her friends.  Now she gave Aisling a determined look as she
picked up her keys.

"You've got to get out and you've got to start looking after yourself,
darling.  I've seen enough girls fall to pieces when their marriages go
sour and I don't want to see it happen to you.  Tomorrow you and I are
going shopping for trainers and I don't want any arguments, right?" 
She grinned and poked Aisling in the arm.

When Fiona had gone, Aisling went into the sitting room where Phillip
was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eating Rice Krispies and
watching some spiky-haired DJ counting down the Top Ten hits.  There
were comics and football cards strewn all over the carpet, along with
two empty crisp packets and Phillip's discarded socks.

"Phillip, this place is a mess!  Tidy it up."  "Why?  Who's coming?"
he answered back smartly.

"Dad?"

Aisling felt that knot in her stomach again, the one which sprang into
action when she thought of the effect Michael's departure would have on
the twins.

The night before, she'd told them their father was going to be away for
a week.  She didn't know what to say and decided that she'd break the
news to them gently.

Paul had simply looked surprised.

"I thought Dad was coming to watch us play soccer on Saturday he said
slowly.

"Will he be back in time?"

"I don't know, darling."  Feeling guilty for lying and even guiltier
for stopping Michael coming home to tell them himself, Aisling gave
Paul a kiss on the cheek and turned to say goodnight to Phillip.
Dressed in his favourite Manchester United pyjamas with a comic propped
up in front of him, he gazed at her steadily but didn't say anything.

Aisling kissed him and gently stroked the purple bruise on his left arm
he insisted he'd got from banging into the goalposts at school.

"Goodnight, Giggs, or is it Cantona tonight?"  she asked.  "None of
them," he answered dully.  She forced herself to smile and left the
door ajar on her way out so the boys would have the glow of the
landing light for comfort.  She switched off their light and headed
downstairs.!

She went straight for the drinks cabinet and a stiff gin and!

tonic.

Phillip knew something was wrong.  Of course he did.  Children detected
every nuance of their parents' relationship," she'd read in a magazine
once.  Phillip certainly did.  Michael always said that Phillip was a
budding investigative reporter inquisitive, pushy and as unstoppable as
a freight train.

"Why?" was his favourite word.

This time, Phillip, I don't know why, Aisling thought morosely.  She
stared blankly at the comics and crisp wrappers scattered on the rug.
The place needed hoovering as usual.

She had to tell the boys.  She should have told them last night.

There was no point pretending everything was OK.  They'd find out
sometime.  Phillip looked up at her, the TV forgotten and anxiety in
his big, sad eyes.

"Is Dad coming home today?"

Phillip's question didn't surprise her.  She looked at his earnest,
questioning face, those dark eyes reminding her so painfully of his
father.  Decision time.  Don't be a coward Aisling.  Tell them now, you
have to.  "Where's Paul?"  she asked resolutely.  
"Upstairs," he answered.

Aisling went to the bottom of the stairs.

"Paul," she called.

"Come downstairs.  I want to talk to you."

He ran down the stairs noisily, jumped the bottom two steps and landed
heavily on both feet.  Sockless of course.  If Phillip wasn't wearing
his socks, Paul wasn't either.

Running into the sitting room, he skidded to a halt and thumped down on
the floor beside his twin.  He picked up one of the crisp wrappers and
looked inside.

"You've eaten mine!"  he said accusingly, glaring at Phillip.

"I didn't."

"You did ..."

"Quiet!"  shouted Aisling.  Damn, she hadn't meant to shout.

"Boys, there's something I've got to tell you," she began in a softer
tone.

"It's about your father and I ..."

She stopped, aware of the enormity of what she was about to tell them.
What words could you use to say 'your father's left me', she asked
herself?  They were still looking at her, mini versions of Michael, the
same features, the same colouring.

For a brief moment, she remembered the day she'd told him she was
pregnant.  Wrapped up in their own private world as they walked through
Bushy Park on a freezing March day, they'd gone through names they
liked and tried to imagine what their baby would look like.

"Like you, I hope," she'd smiled, wanting their child to have Michael's
dark looks instead of her own pale skin and mousey hair.

"No, you," he'd murmured, pushing aside her parka hood to kiss the soft
curve of her neck.  Phillip and Paul were still staring at her,
waiting much too patiently.  Poor kids, she thought, they knew
something was wrong.  All she could do was soften the blow, make it as
friendly as possible.

Even though her heart was full of rage at what Michael had done, she
couldn't use the boys like Exocet missiles, turning them against their
father as ammunition in a marital war.  She shouldn't have told Michael
to get stuffed when he'd rung the night before..

She tried again.

"Dad and I have been fighting lately, and ..."

Jesus, what could she say?  He's gone, he doesn't live here any more?
It all sounded so horrible, so final.  If they were only a few years
older they could understand.  But at ten, how could they be expected
to?

"Dad has moved out for a while, boys.  He hasn't been happy "Why, why
wasn't he happy?"  asked Phillip anxiously.

"Was it my fault?  I didn't mean to keep asking for rollerblades."

"No, no, darling.  It's nothing to do with you.  Dad loves both of you,
he's just... he needs to be on his own for a while.  He wants you to be
strong and understand that he loves you very much."

"But why's he gone then?"  Paul was looking at her with so much
confusion in his eyes, that she didn't know whether to hug him or cry

"Dad and I don't always get on," she said slowly.

"Sometimes adults fight and need some time on their own, and that's
what Dad wants.  Time on his own.  You'll still see him," she added,
trying to sound reassuring.

"Why, Mum?"

For once, Paul was asking all the questions.  Phillip just stood there,
head bent, his thick, dark hair falling over his forehead.

Aisling reached out to stroke it, but he wrenched away from her hand.

"I'll tell you what, let's go to McDonald's for lunch.  Does that sound
like a good idea?"  "OK."  Paul looked as if he might cry.

"We went to McDonald's yesterday.  I thought we weren't supposed to eat
burgers all the time?"  said Phillip sullenly.

"Not all the time, no answered Aisling.

"Sometimes we can break the rules, can't we?  Where are your socks,
boys?  I'll give you five minutes to be ready to go, OK?"

Paul sprinted up the stairs in search of his missing socks, while
Phillip stared at the floor.  Aisling put her arms around him and
hugged him tightly, feeling the tension and misery in his body.

"Darling, I'm so sorry about this.  It's not your fault, it had nothing
to do with you or rollerblades, or anything like that.

This is between Dad and me ..."

"It doesn't matter he said suddenly.  He pulled away from her and
picked his socks up off the floor.

"I'm not hungry."

Aisling sat on the edge of the bed, talking quietly on the phone so the
boys wouldn't hear her and wake up.  It was nearly half nine but it was
still bright outside.  A man and woman were walking a dog on the other
side of the road, holding hands as their brown and white terrier ran
eagerly in and out of gardens.

"It's so unfair.  The boys are so upset.  I feel as if it's my fault,
as if I'm ruining their childhood."

"Don't be silly, you're doing all you can Fiona answered.

"What else can you do?"

"Oh, I don't know."  Aisling sighed heavily, thinking about the day's
events.  Lunch had been a disaster.  Phillip refused to eat anything.
Paul had followed suit, leaving a half-eaten quarter-pounder and most
of his chips to Aisling.  Normally, she'd have wolfed them down.  But
today she didn't feel remotely hungry.

"What do you think about the term ping job Pat suggested?"

Fiona asked.

"Bloody terrified, that's what I think.  I don't know what scares me
most, actually going back to work or finding out that I can't remember
anything after twelve years.  I'd hate to let Pat down when he's been
so good giving me this chance."

"Rubbish, of course you'll be fine.  It's nothing demanding, honestly.
You've got a week to think about it, anyway," Fiona pointed out.

"Elizabeth isn't going on maternity leave for another three weeks, so
you've lots of time to get used to the job.  It'll be a doddle for

"Thank you, Fiona.  Thanks for everything, cheering me up, getting me a
job and oh ... just for being there," Aisling said gratefully.

"I don't know what I'd have done without you or Jo."

"How is she?"

"Actually, she's doing pretty well.  I was talking to her earlier and
she'd just come in from a long walk in Portmarnock.  Said she wanted to
tire herself out so she'd sleep tonight.  Poor thing."

"What was the boyfriend like?"  Fiona asked.

"I don't really know, I only met him a couple of times and we didn't
exactly talk.  Michael wasn't too keen on him, but then," Aisling gave
a little hollow laugh, "Michael's judgement has been a little faulty
lately Or maybe it's my judgement that's been faulty."

She paused for a moment.

"Stop moping ordered Fiona, 'and give me the lowdown on this horrible
man.  Is he gorgeous or a complete scumbag?"

"He's very handsome, all blond hair, blue eyes and white teeth.  He
could advertise toothpaste."

"But still a scumbag?"

"I think so.  Actually, most of Jo's boyfriends have had some fatal
flaw or another, like not wanting to settle down.  Which is odd,
really," Aisling said reflectively.

"I've read that women who've been abused or hurt as children
automatically go for the type of men who'll abuse their kids, it's a
vicious circle."

"She wasn't abused, was she?"  Fiona asked in amazement.

"Lord no.  But her father died when she was young and I often think she
unconsciously picks men who are going to leave eventually, sort of like
her father left added Aisling.

"Strangers meeting Jo would probably think she has everything, a great
career and great looks.  In reality, she has as many problems as
anyone else, more maybe."

"I know what that's like," remarked Fiona.

"Before my mother and father split up, they were always fighting, at
each other's throats like pit bulls.  But because we had the big house,
the Jag, the housekeeper, etc."  everyone assumed we had the life of
Riley.  Everything looked so different from the inside," she added.

"We all pretended everything was perfect, but I never brought girls
home from school in case they witnessed one of Mummy's rages.  Daddy
had given her these china figurines over the years and when she got
really vexed she'd fling them at him.  By the time she left, there
wasn't a china ornament in the house, she'd smashed them all."  Fiona
gave a little laugh.

"So I know all about covering up, I'm an expert at it."

"I'm sorry, Fiona," said Aisling sympathetically.

"I never knew."

"Oh, I just don't talk about it any more.  It took me ages to get it
out of my system, but I'm fine now.  The point is," Fiona said
emphatically, 'that things would have been a lot better if they'd just
split up, instead of carrying on a bloody charade for years."

"What went wrong?"  asked Aisling, unable to conceal her curiosity.
She'd never heard Fiona talk about her mother before, except to say
that they rarely met up because her mother lived in Arizona.

"Drink," Fiona said abruptly.

"She drank like a fish, all her family did.  That's why you'll never
see me drinking too much, I'm too bloody terrified to.  It runs in
families and I don't want it to run in mine any more."

Christ, thought Aisling, remembering the nearly empty bottle of gin in
the drinks cupboard.  She'd been drinking far too much all weekend.

"I'd better be going, Ash," Fiona said.

"Pat was off playing snooker all afternoon and wants to have a cosy
family night in to make up for it.  I'll be over tomorrow to discuss
your working wardrobe," she added.

"We'll have to find something drop-dead gorgeous to give you
confidence on the first day."

"Something drop-dead gorgeous from my wardrobe?"

exclaimed Aisling.

"If we can't find something, we'll just have to go shopping continued
Fiona gleefully.

"Fun, fun, fun!"

"Goodbye, you irrepressible shopper laughed Aisling, hanging up.

Right, she decided.  No gin tonight.  Just think of Fiona's mother.

The next morning she brought the boys to school and waved them in like
she did every other Monday morning.

It just didn't feel like every other Monday.  Last week, she'd been a
reasonably contented, well, not totally discontented woman.  Now he was
separated and broke.

With her finances very much in mind, she headed for Roches Stores in
the Frascati Centre and took a basket instead of a trolley.  Walking
around aisles scented with the delicious smell of freshly baked bread,
Aisling shopped carefully, adding up the prices in her head.

Twenty pounds seemed so much to pay for such a small amount of
shopping.  That expensive conditioner would have to go back, there was
a much cheaper generic one.  And one-fifty for those little pots of
from age frais?  Ridiculous.

At home, she put everything away and sat down with a cup of coffee and
a pen and paper.  She listed the various household bills, working out
how much money she needed every week.  The total seemed huge,
especially compared to the money she had in the bank.  One and a half
thousand wouldn't go very far.  What would Michael pay for the boys'
keep, she wondered?

The phone rang as she was hanging out the washing.  Damn.

She raced in, nearly tripping over a raised slab on the patio in the
process.

"Hello."  she said breathlessly.

"Hello, Aisling," said her mother.

"I've been wondering if you were all sick or something since I haven't
heard from you all weekend.  Are the boys OK?  "Only a mother knew how
to ask questions that were loaded with meaning, thought Aisling,
wondering where to start.  She had been expecting the call.  Or rather,
dreading it.

It was a rare weekend when Aisling didn't ring her mother at some point
or another.  She usually waited until Sunday afternoon to ring because
her father was invariably having a little nap over the newspapers and
wouldn't answer the phone.

There was always something for Sean Maguire to complain about.  These
days, twenty-two-year-old Nicola was the bane of his life, constantly
on the phone talking to 'that boyfriend of hers' or going out in
unsuitable clothes.

Enduring one of his five-minute moans was a waste of her time, Aisling
thought.  It didn't surprise her that Nicola's twin brother, Nicholas,
was never in trouble with his father, Sean had always wanted a son,
something he'd never let Aisling forget.

"I was worried, Aisling," her mother was saying.

The boys are fine, Mum."  It was time to bite the bullet.

"I'm afraid the problem is Michael..."

"Oh Lord, what's wrong with him?  I just knew there was something
wrong!"

There's nothing wrong with him, Mum."  Aisling said.

Nothing a slap on the face wouldn't cure, anyway.

"He's ... er, we've split up."

"What!  I can't believe it, Aisling, that's terrible, just terrible."

Aisling had never heard her mother so shocked.  This was so difficult.
Please God don't let Mum figure out everything.  I couldn't face
discussing the whole bloody thing again.

Aisling could hear her mother pulling up a kitchen chair to sit down
on.  The phone in the Maguire home was in the kitchen, making it
impossible to have any sort of private conversation at all, Nicola
constantly complained to her older sister.  Eithne Maguire's voice
quavered as she spoke again.

"But why, Aisling?  What happened?  Have you been having problems and
why didn't you tell me?  And what about the boys, poor lambs?"

Aisling felt a lump in her throat.  Why did all this have to be so
hard?  Why didn't stationary companies print separation cards, like the
change of address ones.  It would be so much easier.

"Mrs.  and Mrs.  Moran have split up and henceforth Mr.  Moran will be
residing at Number 10 Primrose Avenue with a Cindy Crawford lookalike
while Mrs.  soon-to-be-ex Moran will be remaining in the family pad
fielding telephone calls from curious relatives."

The boys are doing all right, Mum.  Michael and I haven't been getting
on and we had a fight.  He's moved out for a while, that's all."

"That's all?"  demanded her mother.

"What do you mean, "that's all"?  Is this serious?  Is he gone for
good, Aisling?  Tell me."

Aisling gave up.  There was no point trying to pretend that she and
Michael were in the middle of an amicable separation.

She might as well tell the truth even though it hurt like hell.

"Listen Mum, I'll tell you the truth, but I don't want Father to know,
right?"  she said fiercely.

"You can tell him that we've grown apart and are perfectly happy with
the situation, I just don't want him knowing."

All right, love," Mum said softly.

"Just tell me everything."

Everything took three-quarters of an hour and two cups of tea.  Father
would undoubtedly have a seizure when he got the itemised phone bill
itemised so that Nicola '... couldn't ruin me ringing that lout..."

While her mother was making the second cup of tea, Aisling idly mused
that Telecom Eireann should have a special 'disaster' phone-call rate,
a once-a-month reduction so that people with problems could ring their
relatives and receive family counselling.  They'd make a fortune.

"Are you not having a cup yourself, love?"  Her mother asked in concern
when she picked up the receiver again.

"No.  I've gone off tea and coffee.  Weird, isn't it?  And I haven't so
much as looked at a chocolate biscuit all weekend!"

"Well, that's good, darling," answered her mother, sounding unsure as
to the benefits of a chocolate biscuit aversion in the middle of a
crisis.

"It's just that I've always tried so hard to stop myself eating
biscuits," explained Aisling.

"I wanted to be slim and a size ten, like the woman Michael married.
But I couldn't help myself, I kept eating and kept hating myself for
eating.  It was a vicious circle I couldn't escape.  And now I'm not
hungry at all and he isn't here to see it..."  Her voice broke for the
first time since they'd started talking.

"Oh Mum, what's going to happen?

What went wrong?"

"I don't know, love," her mother answered.

"I don't think it's that simple or that black and white.  When your
father and I were married, we knew it was for keeps, no matter what
happened.  And Lord knows, I've felt like getting a divorce myself more
often than I'd care to admit.  Your father hasn't been easy, you know
that," she added.

"But it's different now.  Everyone expects more from life, everyone
wants to be happy.  They demand it.  Nobody wants to try any more."

"I wanted to try," sobbed Aisling.

"He didn't.  He's a bastard, isn't he?"

Her mother said nothing.

"Well he is, isn't he?  Don't you think so?  Or is it all my fault?"

"It's not your fault, Aisling.  I just don't want to start criticising
Michael.  I made that mistake once with your father when he and your
grandmother had a big row.  By the time they were great pals again,
he'd remembered the things I'd said about her and I don't think he ever
forgave me for it."

"You mean that Michael and I might get back together," whispered
Aisling hopefully.

"Nobody knows what's going to happen," her mother said
diplomatically.

"I just can't see the two of you split up for very long.  Michael isn't
stupid.  He'll miss the boys and his life with you.  He won't be able
to forget all about the last twelve years just like that."

"You think so?"  Aisling was ten once again, with a big tear in her
new green striped dress from climbing over the fence at the back of the
park and getting stuck on the barbed wire.  She was waiting for her
mother to fix it, to fix everything.  Mam always knew the right thing
to say.  Her gentle and kind voice softened the harshest blow.  She
could mend any rip with her tiny, almost invisible stitches, dry the
bitterest tears with the right words, and straighten out Aisling's
world when everything seemed awry.

Now Aisling wanted her to fix something that had been battered
radically out of shape.  It wasn't fair, was it?

"I'm sorry, Mam," she said quickly.

"I shouldn't have asked that.  Jesus, if I don't know what's going to
happen or how he's going to think, I can hardly ask you."

"Aisling, I'd love to tell you it'll all work out between you and
Michael, but I can't.  It may not work out the way you want.  And
you'll have to face.  that I do wish things were different, though,"
sighed her mother.

"I know you're putting on a brave face, darling, but it's not going to
be easy.  I'd love if there was something I could say to make you feel
better, but I don't know what to say."

"As long as you don't tell Dad what's really happened," begged Aisling,
'that's the best thing you could do."

"Your father isn't that bad ..."  began Eithne loyally.

"Mam," interrupted Aisling, 'he'd be disgusted we're splitting up and
it would be all my fault.  You know what he'd say.

I can just do without that sort of disapproval right now.  I mean, I
have to psych myself up to get a job for a start.  That's going to take
about ten times more self-confidence than I've got as it is.  I mean,"
she said tiredly, "I've been waking up in the middle of the night just
thinking about it all in terror.

What if I'm useless?"

"Don't be daft, Aisling."  Her mother's voice was firm.

You've been running that house like clockwork for ten years, and you've
never been afraid to get your hands dirty.  Don't tell me you're afraid
of working in an office, because you shouldn't be."

There it was again.  Another person who believed she was super woman
Had she been incredibly successful at deceiving people into thinking
she could do anything?  Or, and this had to be wrong, did they actually
believe that she could do anything?  What a pity Michael hadn't felt
the same.  

CHAPTER EIGHT 

Jo leaned weakly against the bath, ignoring
the freezing tiles hard against her knees.  She felt cold in just a
T-shirt and knickers, but when the nausea hit her, she hadn't time to
grab her dressing-gown.  She barely had time to reach the bathroom
before she retched.

She knelt by the toilet in exhaustion as the spasms in her stomach
ceased.  Maybe if she breathed deeply, she could calm the nausea with
relaxing breaths.  But even deep breathing felt too strenuous Instead,
she just stayed where she was, closed her eyes and wished she could
crawl back, to bed until she felt better.

Bed always seemed more appealing when you couldn't sleep late.  This
morning, the soft sky-blue sheets and cosy duvet were positively
irresistible, simply because she had to leave them.

Rhona was already halfway to France, complete with the car, kids and
enough books to last for three glorious weeks travelling around the
Loire Valley.  Jo had to edit the August edition of Style on her own.
Usually, she loved the challenge of doing two jobs at once, planning
the magazine and setting up fashion shoots in between chasing up
articles and dealing with endless phone calls.  Inevitably someone
forgot to get a photo of this new designer or that TV chat show host at
home, and the entire office would collapse into panic before Jo took
charge and sorted whatever mini-disaster out.

Today she felt incapable of organising her underwear drawer, never mind
Ireland's biggest-selling glossy magazine.  It was ten past eight, she
realised tiredly.  Time to have breakfast.

The very thought of eating made her feel ill.

She closed her eyes for a couple of blissful minutes, and steeled
herself to get up and face the day.

Why did something so utterly wonderful as having a baby include one of
the most horrible side effects imaginable?  And why did she have to be
one of the fifty per cent of expectant mothers who suffered from it?
She hated the other fifty per cent.

Jo had read all about hormonal surges and gastric juices ganging up on
you to make you sick as a pig.  But the paragraph about overcoming
morning sickness in her ancient edition of Everywoman had been the last
straw.

Reading that having a small carbohydrate-rich breakfast '... brought to
the wife by the husband as soon as possible after waking ..."  had made
her feel even sicker, if that was possible.  What she wouldn't have
given to have Richard hovering over her in the morning, bringing sweet
tea and sympathy along with toast and marmalade.  Stop moping, Ryan,
and get on with it.

She got up off the bathroom floor and washed her teeth.

Her face was still deathly pale and she looked tired and drawn.  Who
cares, she said aloud.  Nobody's going to be looking at me today.
They'll just have to put up with a pale and interesting fashion editor
for once.

It was only when Jo was gingerly sipping a cup of coffee that she
remembered the lunchtime fashion show, a preview of the Autumn and
Winter range from one of the country's most famous and expensive
designers.

Jo had been invited weeks ago and would have to turn up, nausea or no
nausea.  It was going to be a glamorous, highprofile affair with every
fashion editor in the country on full make-up alert, wearing the most
expensive outfits from their wardrobes.  An A-list fashion show,
definitely.  Designer Maxine was showing her collection in Stark's, a
chic and overpriced restaurant where the price of one bottle of good
wine would feed a family of five for a week.

Not that any of the fashion pack would actually eat very much.  Eating
and being a fashion journalist were mutually exclusive you couldn't do
both.  Everyone would just pick at their food.  Jo nibbled the corner
of a piece of cream cracker wearily.

Why did the show have to be today?  Instead of slopping into the office
in a sweatshirt and comfortable jeans, she'd have to dress up and, for
once, she just didn't have the energy for it.

Damn, damn, damn, she muttered.  She opened the wardrobe and stared at
the crammed rails of clothes.  She plucked a fitted red jacket from the
middle of the rail and held it up to herself.  Too bright, she decided,
jamming it back into the wardrobe.

She mulled over a clinging navy shift dress with a matching short
jacket.  With the right sunglasses and pearls, it looked very Jackie O.
But Jo wasn't in a Jackie O mood.  She looked more like Jack
Charlton.

It would have to be the hand-painted silk dress she'd got in the Design
Centre.  Pale gold with rich, burnt umber brush strokes the clinging
dress always made her look like something from a medieval tapestry with
her hair falling in curls around her bare shoulders.  Perfect.

But it wasn't.  Instead of highlighting her curves, the dress simply
highlighted her Kelly.  Flat just the week before, it had turned into a
little mound overnight and the gold dress stretched across it
unbecomingly.

The grey pinstripe trouser suit was just as bad.  The ultra expensive
black lycra dress, which was guaranteed to vacuum pack even the
flabbiest tummy, was even worse.  She wasn't in the mood to wear the
navy crepe trousers and matching mandarin shirt, even if it was loose
enough to look good.

Baby, what am I going to do with you?  Jo asked her bump.

Poor Mummy can't go to Maxine's fashion show looking like a bag lady.
What am I going to wear?  You're going to have to get used to being
asked this question, you know.

She stroked her belly softly, sure that the baby was listening to every
word.  You're going to be the most fashion-conscious baby the world has
ever known, all right, darling?

If only Rhona wasn't on holidays.  Jo could have rung up and asked if
she could take the day off.  And just blobbed around all day, watching
the afternoon soaps and drinking tea.  Instead, she had to find some
bloody thing which would fit her and look nice.

An hour later, she strode into the office looking as if she'd just
spent the morning having the works done at the beauty parlour.  Her
glossy dark hair was coiled into an elegant knot held in place with
tortoiseshell pins.  She wore a slim-fitting navy jacket unbuttoned
over a biscuit-coloured silk dress.

Sheer tights and beige high-heeled mules completed the effect.  Jo
looked marvelous.  Nobody would notice that her open jacket hid a
softly rounded stomach.

Thank God you're here," gushed Emma Lynch, who rushed into Rhona's
office just moments after Jo had arrived and put her briefcase down on
the editor's desk.

"Why?  What's happened?"  Jo didn't look up as she opened the
briefcase, and took out her diary and a computer disk.  She couldn't
stand Emma but she had to keep it to herself.

A twenty-six-year-old rich girl with delusions of brilliance and a
penchant for tantrums, Emma was one of the most irritating people Jo
had ever met.  Unfortunately, she was also the publisher's niece and
had recently been appointed to the position of junior features writer,
despite her inability to write an entire paragraph without a
grammatical error.

No talent and good connections make a winning combination, Rhona said
drily.  She had agreed to take Emma on for two years when she'd
finished her one year public relations course.  Everyone else had
regretted it ever since.

Emma's job was to rewrite press releases, get quotes from celebrities
about their beauty hints and do general dogs body work.  Naturally,
this wasn't good enough for Emma.

She moaned about not getting anything enjoyable to write and had
started wheedling her uncle for promotion.  She wanted to do 'proper'
interviews, she'd been telling anyone who'd listen.  Not just rewrite
boring press releases or answer the phones.  But something juicy. 
Today she'd found just what she was looking for.

"You won't believe what's happened!"  Emma said dramatically.

She said everything dramatically.  It drove Jo mad.  "Poor Mary has
got the most awful flu and can't go to London to do that interview with
Helen Mirren.  She rang in earlier and, because you weren't here, I
took the liberty of ringing Uncle Mark and asking him what he
thought.."

Emma smiled a self-satisfied little smile.

"Well, to see if he thought I should go, actually.  Because we couldn't
keep them waiting just because you weren't in ..."

"Hold on a minute, Emma," Jo interrupted coolly.

"When did Mary ring in?"

"At ten past nine, and ..."

Jo interrupted again.

"And what time was Mary's interview scheduled?"  "Half six in the
Mayfair."

"This evening?"

"Yes, but the flight was booked and everything ..."

"Emma, why did you decide to ring Mark with something like this when
you knew I was going to be in this morning, and when you also knew we
had plenty of time to get someone else to interview Helen Mirren?  Can
you tell me that?"  Jo's tone was sharp.

Normally she was able to ignore Emma's manipulative behaviour and
constant running to "Uncle Mark', but not today.

"Well, I just thought it would be ..."  stuttered Emma, going an ugly
shade of pink.

"Better if you went, Emma?  Or better to organise something without
consulting me?"

Jo sat down in Rhona's big swivel chair and steepled her hands in front
of her.  She knew exactly what Emma had been up to.  She'd made Jo look
bad in front of Mark Denton, Style's publisher, and netted a major
interview for herself into the bargain.

Denton was a man famous for his lack of patience and his business
skills, in that order.  He was also unaccountably fond of his niece.

"I thought it would be helpful if I went."  Emma sniffed.  Jo eyed her
warily, realising that the younger woman was ready to go into tantrum
overdrive.  Big mistake, Emma, she!

thought.  "Shut the door, Emma, and sit down," Jo commanded.

Startled, Emma obeyed.

"Now you listen to me.  Don't you dare go over my head ever again, do
you understand?  I'm the deputy editor and when Rhona is away, I'm
acting editor.  I will not stand for some little madam trying to tell
me how to run this magazine, do you understand?"  Jo hissed.

"If you want to learn anything, you've got to work with me, not against
me, Emma.  You got this job because of who you are, but if you ever
want to get any job on merit," she yelled, 'you'd better stop playing
games and learn.  And that means taking orders.  You're not going to
London for that interview."

Emma was open-mouthed with shock, but Jo didn't stop.

"I'm rescheduling the interview so Mary can do it.  You haven't the
experience for this type of interview.  Now cancel those plane
tickets."

With that, Jo picked up the phone and dialled Mary's number.

"You can't do that, I've got it all arranged!"  shrieked Emma.

"I can and I will," answered Jo icily.

"I presume you have some work to do, so do it!"

Emma flounced out of the room, slamming the door childishly.  Straight
off to ring Uncle Mark, no doubt, Jo thought wearily.  With a great
start to the morning.

She'd just finished talking to Helen Mirren's publicity consultant when
Annette, the receptionist, came in with a cup of tea and a message from
Mark Denton.

"He's in the car and wants you to ring him back pronto said Annette.

"I'm sure you can guess what it's about.  I heard that little bitch
phoning him as soon as she left your office."

That girl will be the death of me," Jo said.

"Pity she couldn't be the death of herself Annette said.

Jo waited until she'd drunk most of her tea before phoning the boss.
She'd need every spare ounce of self-control not to scream back at him
once he got started.  Mark was one of those people capable of sending
her into a frenzy of temper, something he regularly managed at the
weekly editorial meetings.  He remained calm, no matter what, while she
was left open-mouthed with temper.  How Rhona managed to get on with
him so well was a complete mystery to Jo.

"What the hell is going on over there?"  Mark demanded.

"I've just had Emma crying at me over the phone about some stupid
bloody interview and wasting money on plane tickets.

Jesus, don't tell me you can't run the place when bloody Rhona's
away!"

Jo could feel her blood pressure rise along with her temper.

Relax, she said to herself, don't lose your cool.

' There's no problem, Mark," she replied calmly.

"Unfortunately, Mary is sick and can't fly to London for an interview
she'd set up with Helen Mirren.  Emma seems to have got the idea that
she should "go and had it all arranged until I got here."

She paused before the lie.

"It would be marvelous if Emma could have gone, but I happen to know
that Helen is, er ... very particular about interviewers, she prefers
more experienced journalists."  She crossed her fingers at the lie.

"Emma just doesn't fit the bill.  If she's that keen to interview
someone, I can set up something less challenging for her, but she's not
ready for big interviews yet."

"What the hell's the problem, then?"  Denton's voice was a fraction
less aggressive.

"Why's she ringing me in floods?

Rhona doesn't have this effect on her."

Suddenly Jo snapped.  If he wanted to know what the problem was, she
was damn well going to tell him!

The problem is that Emma finds it very difficult to take orders or to
be told what to do, Mark," Jo said candidly.

"She doesn't want to be a team player, she wants to be out on her
own.

"We've had some great journalism students in the office and they've
been eager to learn, willing to do any job to gain experience."  Her
voice was raised and she just didn't care.

"Emma has never been like that.  She thinks she knows it all and she
never wants to do what she's asked.  She just doesn't understand that
there's a lot more to journalism than interviewing someone famous. 
Emma thinks she's too good for the day-to-day jobs in a magazine.  And
to make matters worse Jo paused for breath, 'she does everything she
can to create friction in the office.  Ringing you this morning before
I got in is a prime example of what I mean.  That's Emma trying to make
trouble and abusing her relationship with you she spat.

"I won't stand for it.

"If you want her to be the editor of Style, Mark, then make her editor.
But until you do, don't expect me to kowtow to her just because she's
your niece, right!"

There was a silence at the other end of the phone.  Jo was wondering
whether she'd gone too far when he spoke.

"At least I can rely on you for straight-talking, Jo."  Denton said
flatly.  And that certainly was straight-talking.  I didn't know Emma
was such a problem, Rhona never mentioned it before."

"Emma is in awe of Rhona, so she never puts a foot out of place when
she's around.  She doesn't feel the same about me," Jo admitted.

"That's the problem.  She thinks she can use you to sideline me.  I
don't dislike Emma."  she lied.

"But I won't have some twenty-six-year-old with zero experience trying
to tell me how to run this magazine."

"Point taken he said coolly.

"I'll tell Emma not to run to me when something disagrees with her, but
I want you to work with her, Jo.  She's got her heart set on journalism
and I promised her parents I'd give her a good start."  His voice
softened.

"She's a sweet kid at heart, you just don't know her.

That tough exterior is all a front."

Yeah, thought Jo.  She's just a cuddly little thing, like a bloody
piranha.  Still, you've got enough opinions off your chest for one day,
Ryan.  Keep your mouth shut if you want to keep working.

"I know what you mean she answered warmly.  What an Oscar-winning
performance.

"She's probably insecure.  I never spotted it until now.  I was quite
taken in by that tough act.  Don't worry, Mark, I'll work with her. 
But she's got to learn to work under me, she'll never get on in this
business if she automatically puts up her fists to the boss."

"Yeah, you're right, Jo.  Help her out, she's a good kid," Mark said
earnestly.

"Of course.  I'll bring her in later and get this sorted out."

That's great, Jo.  Talk to you tomorrow."

With that, he was gone.  Jo 'hung up with relief and leaned back in her
chair.  It was still only eleven o'clock, but she felt as if she'd been
in the office all day.  This isn't good for you, my darling, she
addressed her bump.

By the time Jo had discussed the beauty pages and the lucrative sun
cream advertisement supplement with the beauty writer, Nikki, chief sub
Tony and Aidan from advertising, it Was nearly time to leave for the
lunch.  After redoing her lipstick and anchoring a few stray hairs back
into the knot at the nape of her neck, she grabbed her handbag and
marched out of Rhona's office.

Nikki was standing up beside the reception desk, talking rapidly on the
phone and attempting to open her mascara at the same time.

Annette was unwrapping a sandwich covered in cling film and talking to
Brenda, who was eating a rice cake and eyeing the mayonnaise squelching
out of Annette's tuna sandwich hungrily.

Emma was nowhere to be seen.

"She went off to lunch half an hour ago," Annette informed Jo.

"She said she wouldn't be back."

"OK," said Jo.

"Brenda, will you talk to Nikki about writing the sun cream supplement.
I was hoping to get Emma working on it, but if she's not back today, I
want you to take over.

How's the diet going?"  she added, as Brenda spread a meagre amount of
diet cottage cheese on another rice cake.

"Fine," answered Brenda glumly.

"I've lost nearly a stone.  I've only another ten pounds to go."

"When's the wedding, anyway?"  Jo asked.  The end of July.  My
sister's lost all her weight and she's bought a size twelve wedding
dress.  I'm not going if I can't get into a size twelve."

"Don't be daft, Brenda," interjected Nikki, sliding tanned skinny arms
into a slinky little pale gold cardigan.

"You'll look marvelous whatever size you are.  I'll give you some of
that wonderful Lancome face tanner and you'll look sexy and sun
kissed

"Nikki, you're starting to sound like a cosmetics press release,"
laughed Jo.

"I sleep with make-up brochures under my pillow and absorb it all."
Nikki took a brush out of her handbag and ran it through her straight
blonde bob.

"I don't put milk under my cornflakes any more, I replenish their lost
moisture with a vital enriching fluid!"

"Don't mock it," Jo said.  Think how handy all that "replenishing
moisture" jargon comes in when you're writing ad features."

That's this afternoon's work," Nikki smiled on her way out the door.

"Now, I'm going to stuff my face in Bewley's with my beloved husband
and he'll kill me if I'm late.  Bye."

"I'm going to be late myself Jo said, looking at her watch.

"Annette, I'm going to Stark's for Maxine's fashion show.  God only
knows when I'll be back.  These damn things always start late.  When
Emma comes in, tell her she's not to leave this evening until she's
seen me, right?"

"No problem," said Annette.

The four o'clock news was blasting out of Annette's radio when Jo
finally walked into the office, clutching a hand painted silk scarf
from Maxine's beautiful, albeit overpriced, new collection.

"Emma's gone home, Nikki had to leave early but left the beauty feature
on your desk and you're to ring Anna from Models Inc.  about who you're
going to pick for the wedding dress feature."  Efficient as ever,
Annette handed over a sheaf of pale yellow phone messages along with
some post.  "I thought Emma was to stay until I'd talked to her said
Jo crossly.

"Wouldn't listen, just marched off about five minutes after she got
back from lunch Annette explained.

Jo sighed and walked into Rhona's office, wishing she'd had the chance
to tackle Emma before the little bitch went home to Mummy with tales of
woe about the horrible deputy editor.  Would Denton sack her before or
after her maternity leave?

"Oh, Jo," called Annette.  "I nearly forgot.  Richard rang and said
he'd see you tonight at your place."

Jo felt her heart quicken.  Richard wanted to see her, he'd changed his
mind, he must have!  Oh, thank you, God, thank you, she whispered
fervently.  He wants me to give him another chance, I just know it.

Emma instantly forgotten, Jo rushed to the loo to see how she looked.
Her carefully applied foundation had almost vanished in the summer heat
and there were little smudges of mascara under her eyes.  No problem.
She whisked out her make-up bag and started the repair job.

How like Richard not to say when he was coming, she thought happily,
blotting up excess lipstick with a tissue.  But who cared what time he
arrived?  He was coming to see her, that was enough.

She was squirting another blast of Tresor onto her wrists when the
doorbell rang.

Richard looked better than ever, blond hair gleaming against faintly
tanned skin.  A broad smile showed off the perfectly white teeth he
brushed religiously.

"Jo, my darling," he murmured, sliding one arm around her waist as he
pulled her close for a slow, sensuous kiss.

"Oh, Richard she said softly.

"I've missed you so much."

"I know, my darling, I know.  These," he produced a huge bouquet of
pink roses from behind his back, 'are for you."

Jo felt tears prickle behind her eyes.  Pink roses.  They're so
beautiful she said tearfully.  Thank you."  "Don't cry," Richard said
quickly.

"Let's put these on ice."

He bent down and picked up two bottles of white wine from the
doorstep.

"It's your favourite, darling, German Riesling.  Now, have you got
anything to eat?  I'm starved."

"Er, no."  She'd spent the whole weekend planning to shop properly and
had still only made it to the corner shop for milk, bread, cheese and
ice cream.  Chocolate-chip Haagen Dazs.  Sinful but glorious.

Anyway, why didn't he bring something to eat if he was hungry?  In
fact, why had he brought wine when he knew she couldn't drink any?  Oh
well, he was just being Richard thoughtful and thoughtless at the
same

At least he was making an effort.  He never remembered practical
things, but he was trying.  She'd just have to get used to his foibles
when they were living together.  So what if he always drank the last of
the milk and then expected more to materialise magically, that was
Richard for you.  She could live with it.  Thank God he was back.  She
loved him so much, she couldn't let her damn hormones screw their
reunion up.

In the kitchen he'd found the corkscrew and was expertly opening the
first bottle.  She stared lovingly at the back of his neck, admiring
the way the denim blue shirt clung to his strong shoulders.

"Glasses, darling?"  he inquired.  Jo opened a cupboard and handed him
a wine glass.

"I can't drink, Richard, because of the baby."

"Have a sip," he said persuasively.

"Half a glass won't kill

They sat on the big three-seater settee, the way they always had.  He
lounged at one end, the glass of wine beside him on a small table.  Jo
sat curled up beside him.

Sky Sports blared out of the TV, but Jo didn't mind.  He paid the
subscription so he never missed an important match and usually she sat
and read while he watched, bored with the endless discussions of
players and tactics.  Now, she sat peacefully, watching him watching
TV, content just to be close to him.

Maybe it was the weekend without him, a weekend without his touch, that
made her so needy.  She'd missed him, missed his touch, missed his arms
around her.

After two years with Richard, she'd almost forgotten all those times
when she'd felt desperate for a man's touch, felt alone and unloved
when her current man wrote himself out of her life.  She certainly
should have remembered what it felts like, it had happened often
enough.  But that was all in the past.  Thankfully.

Her fingers spread out on Richard's chest as he watched the' TV,
luxuriating in the feeling of soft denim warmed by his skin.  He didn't
respond, totally absorbed in the game.  Nothing changes, she thought
happily, delighted at his presence and determined not to freak about
the things which had always irritated her before.  The poor man needed
time to get used to pregnancy mood swings.

She felt perfectly happy.  Serene, almost.  This was bliss.  He'd
changed his mind, he'd come back to her and the baby.  They had a
future again.  They were going to be parents.  She was going to have
the most beautiful, most adored baby in the whole world.  It was all so
perfect.

When the match was over, Richard was still hungry.

"Let's get pizza," he said, stroking her cheek gently before kissing
her on the forehead.

"A twelve-inch pepperoni with garlic bread.

My wallet's in my jacket."  Jo felt hungry herself, despite the large
lunch she'd wolfed down in Stark's.

He was opening the second bottle of wine when the pizza arrived.  The
quarter of a glass of wine that Jo had drunk was rattling acidly around
her stomach, but she was still starving.

They ate enthusiastically straight from the box, strings of mozzarella
dripping juicily from the slices of pizza they pulled apart with
their

"Delicious," Jo mumbled, her mouth full.

"Like you," Richard grinned back.

They never got to see the Liverpool match.  Instead, they ended up on
the carpet, kissing garlic butter off each other's mouths and pulling
at clothes with greasy fingers.

When they finally made it into the bedroom, Richard finished undressing
her, carefully unclasped her bra and buried his face between her
breasts, fuller now than they'd ever been before.  He licked each
nipple eagerly before sucking them, making Jo arch her back with
pleasure.

"Oh, darling," she moaned, 'that's wonderful."  She ran her fingers
through his hair as he kissed her breasts, sending quivering bolts of
desire through her body.

"How's this?"  he asked, sliding his hand down her belly until he was
stroking the soft skin of her thighs, making her purr with pleasure.
His fingers stroked the soft silk of her skin, gently roaming under the
elastic of her silk panties to touch her softly, fingers tantalising
and questing.

God she wanted him, she was ready for him, so ready.  Who needed
foreplay after a weekend apart?

"I've missed you, Richard," she said, moving out from under him,
straddling him and leaning down to kiss his lips gently.

She nuzzled his neck while one hand fumbled with his belt, trying to
open it without looking.

When she turned to look, her breasts, heavy and ripe, swung low and his
lips moved to catch a nipple in his mouth.

It was amazing, simply amazing what he could do to her.  She felt
sexier than ever before, as though being pregnant made everything make
sense.  Pregnant, she was utterly womanly and feminine, ripe and
blooming, thanks to this man who was burning her skin with his touch.

"And I've missed you," he groaned, his hands pulling her hips down hard
onto his, grinding his hard body under hers.

"I

want you now, Jo."

Quickly, he slid her panties off and ripped off his boxer shorts.
Pulling her on top of him again, he slid inside her, feeling her soft,
welcoming and wet.

"Oh, Jo," he moaned, burying himself in her as deep as he could.

"That's so good."

It was, it was wonderful.  She clung to him, sweat beading on her
upper lip as he thrust into her, again and again.  She wanted him so
much, she was so excited.  She was nearly there, nearly coming.

"Oh, Jo," he shouted, job God!"

His body spasmed, as he thrust deep inside her before he collapsed on
top of her body, breathing shallowly and quickly in post-orgasmic
exhaustion.

Her own excitement dipped instantly, needing his friction to bring her
to orgasm.  Damn.  As he lay on her heavily, she breathed more evenly
and wrapped her arms around his body.

She wouldn't come now, the moment had passed.

That was amazing, Jo," he murmured.

Gently stroking his cheek, she felt a rush of emotions well up inside
her.  She loved him, but he was so selfish.  Just because he was as
horny as hell after a sex-free weekend didn't mean he had to completely
forget about her satisfaction and make love like a chauvinist pig.
She'd been so turned on and she'd missed him so much, "she been crazy
for him.

And he hadn't cared that she hadn't come.

Damn him!  Richard never changed, did he?

He shifted beside her, reached one hand up and caressed her face.

"I love you, Jo, you know that?"

Of course, she melted.  He'd always had the power to do that to her, to
make her forget his behaviour with just a few words.  It didn't matter
that she hadn't come.  They were together, together with their baby.
That was all that mattered.

Her fingers smoothed his hair, moved down to massage his shoulders. 
His skin was damp with sweat.

Together they'd made a baby, a precious life.  Yes, they'd had their
fights and they'd argued bitterly a few days ago, but that was natural.
People fought and argued.  Now Richard had accepted their baby and he
wanted to be with her.  OK, so he hadn't said it in so many words.  But
he meant it.  He didn't have to say it.  She knew.

"Darling, I'm so tired," Richard said sleepily.  He slid one arm under
his head like a pillow.  That was great, I'm just so tired.

"Night."  he muttered.

She watched him, sexy, handsome and thoughtless.  But he was her man,
the father of her unborn baby.  Maybe fatherhood would knock some of
the thoughtlessness out of him.

Moving gently so she wouldn't wake him, Jo untangled her limbs from his
and climbed out of the bed, padding silently into the bathroom to wash
her teeth.  Almost too tired to take off her make-up, she forced
herself to go through her usual beauty routine.

She splashed cleanser on her face, wiped away the grime of make-up and
pollution with cotton wool, and brushed her teeth carefully.  She
quickly applied a film of moisturiser, then rubbed body lotion into her
breasts, to keep pregnancy stretch marks at bay.  That'd do.

She switched off the bathroom light and wandered into the sitting room
and turned off the TV.  Richard's jacket and jeans were flung on the
settee and the huge pizza box sat opened on the glass coffee table.
Grease-marked kitchen paper and two crumpled sections of tinfoil lay on
the ground.  The smell of garlic bread permeated the air.  She'd tidy
it up in the morning.

The sun didn't wake her, even when it shone in through a crack in the
curtains at dawn, a shaft of light cutting through the dark of the
bedroom like a floodlight.  It was the morning sickness that did it,
waking her up just after seven with bile rising in her throat.  She
knew she was going to be sick right now.

She got to the loo just in time, retching painfully as her sleepy body
tried to come to terms with another bout of pregnancy nausea.

"Baby, how can you be doing this to me?"  Jo groaned wretchedly,
hanging over the toilet bowl for the nth morning in a row.

"Why can't I be one of those lucky cows who don't suffer from morning
sickness?"

After ten minutes waiting to get worse, she began to feel marginally
better.  Thank God.  Jo got up shakily and reached for the Bathroom
Duck.  What a stupid bloody name, she thought, squirting a blast of
lemon goo around the rim of the toilet.  Doesn't look anything like a
bloody duck.

Her mouth felt like the inside of a bin man wellie, she thought. 
That's daft too.  Who the hell knows what a bin man wellie tastes
like?

She couldn't face brushing her teeth so she stumbled into the kitchen
and turned on the kettle.  A cup of sweet tea would be the business.
She was absolutely exhausted, bull there was nothing like a session of
puking to make you totally!

and undeniably awake.  I One empty wine bottle stood on the counter and
she!

jammed it head-first into the bin.  Bloody ironic to feel like!

she was incredibly hung-over every day when she hadn't!

drunk mote than half a glass of wine since getting pregnant.

The other bottle stood on the coffee table.  By rights!

Richard should have the most appalling hangover since he'd!

drunk most of the two bottles.  But he'd probably be fine, all that
training to be a sports photographer had made him immune to
hangovers.

Sky News was chirpy and irritating.  Jo watched it for half an hour and
then decided to tidy up.  What was the point in spending all morning
groaning about being sick?  Since she was up that early and since
Richard would lie in bed for hours, she might as well take advantage of
the fact and clean the flat.

It didn't take long to bin the remains of the pizza, but it would take
a bit longer to get rid of the smell of garlic bread left hardening
overnight on the coffee table.  When she'd dumped everything and put
down carpet freshener for when she could hoover, she picked up
Richard's discarded clothes and folded them neatly.

His wallet lay on the hall table with the change from the pizza beside
it.  Jo smiled at the wallet, remembering buying it for him in
Bloomingdale's in New York.

It had been made by Gucci and was miles cheaper than it would have
been in Dublin.

"So you'll think of me whenever you open your wallet," she'd joked at
the time.  It was an old Dublin gag they'd both known and laughed at
how did you find your girlfriend?  I opened my wallet and there she
was.  Jo put the change into the wallet and tried to slide it into the
inside pocket of his jacket.  It wouldn't fit.  Something bulky was
blocking it.  Puzzled, Jo pulled an envelope out of the pocket,
smoothing it out to reveal a Ryanair travel folder.

Something clicked inside her head and she opened it quickly.

It couldn't be, no way.  It just couldn't be.

The ticket was open-ended, executive class to London the following
Monday morning.  Jo stared at it for a moment.

London.  He was still going to London.

Her mind sped back over the previous night's events.

Richard had never said anything to make her think he'd changed his
mind.  She'd just assumed that he had, assumed that his very presence
was proof that he'd acquiesced.  That he wanted her and their baby. 
The flowers, the wine, everything.

But he hadn't.  What had he come for, a quick fuck?  she thought
bitterly.  Why hadn't he said anything?  Because that would be too
difficult, too confrontational, of course.

"I hate rows," he claimed from time to time, usually when they were in
the middle of one.  He preferred to walk away from the argument, get
into his car and drive off for the day.

Then he'd ring her the next day, say sorry and arrange dinner.

By then, Jo's temper would have cooled and the fight would be shelved,
if not forgotten.

Damn him, she wasn't going to let him run away this time.

He wasn't going to breeze back into her life for a few hours and just
breeze out again.  This was serious.  She was pregnant and he was going
to run away again?  No way.

"Richard," she said loudly, shaking his shoulder.

"Wakey, was key

He blinked tiredly, screwing up his eyes at the harsh sunlight
streaming into the bedroom.

"What time is it?"  he mumbled hoarsely.

Ten past eight," she snapped.  "Jesus, Jo, why did you wake me?"  he
groaned.

"I'm shattered."

"You're shattered?"  she screeched.

"What about me?  When were you going to tell me about London, Richard?
When?

Were you going to ring from the airport?  Or from your hotel in
London?"

"Oh for God's sake," he muttered, turning away from her in the bed.

"It's no big deal.  I'm just going for a couple of weeks to see what it
would be like working there.  I'm not emigrating."

"Not yet, maybe, but you will.  Ireland's too bloody boring for you,
isn't it, Richard?"  she demanded.

"You want excitement, don't you?  The world would end if Richard
Kennedy actually had to settle down for more than five minutes!  All I
want, to know is where I fit into all of this?  Or have you forgotten
that I'm carrying our baby?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Jo!"  He sat up in the bed, raked his hair out of
his eyes and looked at her warily.

"I haven't forgotten.  I just thought you might have given the subject
some more thought.  You know, what it'll mean to your career or
whatever, and maybe even changed your mind.  We don't have to do this
now."

Jo stared at him angrily.  She couldn't believe what he was saying.  If
she hadn't wanted an abortion on Friday, she damn well wasn't going to
want one now.

Richard pushed the duvet back abruptly and got out of bed.

He strode into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

"I'm afraid we do have to do this now," she shouted through the door.

"The baby isn't going to go away, Richard, I'm still having it."

The toilet flushed.  Richard marched out of the bathroom, wiping his
face on a towel.  He didn't speak.

"When you turned up last night, I thought you'd changed your mind," Jo
said fiercely.

"How can you do this to me?  Is this your party piece, running away
from women when you get them pregnant?  "It was as if she'd flicked a
switch.  His face changed in an instant, becoming dark like thunder. 
Jo had never seen him like this and she was stunned, afraid almost.

"I didn't do anything he snarled.

"You wanted to trap me, didn't you?  Well it's not going to work."

Almost absently, Jo took her old pink flurry dressing-gown off the hook
on the bedroom door and wrapped it around her.

It was sunny outside.  The weather forecast on Sky had promised balmy
weather, but Jo still felt cold.  She stood beside the bed and stared
blankly at the dressing-table mirror, not seeing her reflection at
all.

He picked up his watch from the dressing table and strapped it onto his
wrist.  She followed him into the sitting room where he picked up his
clothes and dressed silently, barely contained rage in every
movement.

"Richard," she said tentatively.

"We have to talk ..."

"No, we don't.  You've made your bed, you lie on it," he spat.

That did it.

"Don't talk to me like that, you arrogant pig!"  she yelled.

"We both did it, do you think I got pregnant on my own?"  She faced him
angrily.

"Yeah, well I don't want it," Richard said, venom in every syllable.

"I'm leaving."

"You cant Jo said.

"How dare you talk to me like that, you're all the same, bloody men
terrified of commitment!"

"And you're all the bloody same he answered harshly, 'getting pregnant
at the drop of a hat because it's the only way to get a ring on your
finger.  Well it's been tried before, sweetie, and I didn't bite the
bullet that time either!"

"What do you mean?"  asked Jo, stunned.

He said nothing, just continued buttoning his jeans calmly.

Jesus, he couldn't be saying what she thought he was saying.

"Beate.  She got pregnant, didn't she?"

"So?"

"Why did you never tell me?"

There was nothing to tell he said flatly.

"Did she have the baby?"  Jo asked.

"What is this?"  he demanded.  Twenty fucking questions?"  She
hesitated at the anger in his voice.

"I just wanted to know."

"Yes, all right?  She had the baby and I have never seen it and she
probably wouldn't let me, even if I wanted to, which I don't!"  he slid
his feet into his Italian suede slip-ons and picked up his jacket.

"Oh, Richard, why?"

"Look, just because you've always played happy families doesn't mean
that everyone else does, right?  You don't know what it's like to have
a father who couldn't give a shit whether you lived or died, a father
who'd kick you rather than say a kind word.  I do," he hissed.

"I know just what that's like and I'll tell you something, it turns you
off the idea of having kids.  I don't want any fucking kids.  I decided
that a long time ago.  That's my choice.  If you're so fired up about a
woman's right to choose, why don't you ever think about a man's right
to choose, eh?"

Jo said nothing, silent in the face of Richard's fury and anger, an
anger which had lived inside him for thirty-sever!

long years.

"All that feminist stuff about a woman's body being her own, that all
sounds great when it's about women," he continued angrily, 'but let a
man say what he really wants, and that's different'.  I don't want
kids.  Simple as that.  That's my decision," he hissed.

"I gave you the chance and you didn't take it.  So you do what you
want.  You will anyway."

With that, he picked up his jacket and car keys and walked to the

"Call me a bastard or whatever you want, I'm sorry.  It's over."

The front door slammed.  She was alone.  

CHAPTER NINE 

Her shoes pinched.  Why was she wearing those bloody shoes in the first place?
Aisling realised they looked wrong about fifteen minutes after she left
the house.  By then, it was too late to turn back.  They were too high,
shoes bought for a wedding outfit that had languished in the wardrobe
for three years after that one July day when the sun had thwarted the
bridal party and stayed firmly behind the clouds.

They'd been too high then, sinking heavily into the grass outside the
church.  And they were still too high.  Aisling did her best to walk
quickly along Leeson Street, feeling totally self-conscious in her navy
blazer, long cream skirt and cream court shoes.

The people sitting in motionless cars were probably office veterans, no
doubt.  Seasoned workers who knew what to wear to work and how to do
more than switch on a computer.

Could they see pure ignorance written all over her face?  And pure
fear, come to that?

Streams of people passed her by, walking quickly along the pavement,
listening to Walkmans and staring straight ahead as they bypassed slow
walkers and parking meters.

From open car windows, she could hear snippets of radio talk shows and
the thumping bass of loud music.  Aisling sneaked the odd sideways
glance into the cars beside her.  One attractive woman was peering into
her rear-view mirror mascara wand held aloft as she finished her
morning makeup.

Another driver was reading, a newspaper spread out on the steering
wheel.  Others just gazed vacantly out of their windscreens, probably
praying for the car ahead to move.

It was all so hectic, Aisling thought in surprise.  She hadn't seen
Leeson Street this busy for years, nearly twelve years to be exact.

Since she'd given up work, she was never there during the early
morning rush.  If she brought the boys into the city centre during the
school holidays, she waited until the traffic jams were gone.

Now, in common with all the people walking purposefully towards
offices, banks and shops, it was where she worked.

Work.  She had a job.  Oh God.  Those words hadn't seemed petrifying
when she was twenty-two, confident in her ability to deal with any
problems in the motor department.  Had she really run that place or had
she imagined it all?  Right now Aisling wasn't sure her former career
hadn't been a dream.  If she'd been as good as Mum and Jo were trying
to convince her she was, why the hell was she scared out of her mind at
the prospect of starting a much easier job when she was older?  I
"Dodging the cars, like everyone else did, she crossed Leeson Street
and turned right onto Pembroke Street Upper.  She was sweating from the
hasty walk and panicked that she hadn't put enough perfume on.

A subtle squirt of Chloe had seemed like the right idea at ten past
seven.  But after the long walk from Haddington Road where she'd
decided to leave the car, she was hot and sticky, and wished she'd
splashed on more perfume.

She hadn't wanted to overdo it.  She wanted to appear like a working
woman, someone who left the house at seven-fifty every morning like
clockwork, with the kids fed, the kitchen tidy and a casserole
defrosting for the evening.  Not like a terrified ex-housewife
overdoing it with gallons of perfume, high heels and an outfit which
looked perfect in Quinnsworth and totally wrong behind a desk.  Now she
wished she'd had the presence of mind to put some deodorant in her
bag.

Number seventeen.  There it was, a rich dark green door with brass
fittings and a gleaming brass plate beside it proclaiming that this was
the office of Richardson, Reid and Finucane, Solicitors.  A magnificent
Georgian house in a line of magnificent houses, like something out of
Homes and Gardens.

What she wouldn't give to be sitting at home right now, with a copy of
the magazine spread on the kitchen table as she contemplated another
spurt of decorating.  Anything, even stripping the wallpaper off the
back bedroom, would be preferable to this sheer terror.  Calm down,
Aisling, she told herself.  It's your first day, nobody is going to
expect too much from you.  Hopefully.

She walked carefully up the pristine stone steps and admired the two
elegant bay trees in wooden tubs on either side of the door.  To the
right was an intercom and she pushed it slowly.

"Good morning," said a clear voice.

"Can I help you?"

"Aisling Moran to see Ms Hogan," Aisling answered, more calmly than she
felt.

The voice said nothing, but a buzzing sound emanated from the side of
the door.  Feeling like a truant about to face the head nun, Aisling
pushed and found herself in a formal, pale green lobby where a
red-headed girl sat behind a low desk.

"Hello," smiled the girl.

"Go up the stairs to the first landing and take the first door on your
left."

She could have been speaking in Swahili.  With a fixed grin on her
face, Aisling moved mechanically up the stairs, her brain trying to
figure out the words 'first door on your left'.

Left, which was left?  Was this it?  She tentatively pushed open a
green panelled door and walked into an airy, highceilinged room.

A petite woman in a grey skirt suit with a sweep of ash blonde hair to
her shoulders stood before Aisling, a china cup and saucer in one hand
and a beige folder in the other.

Beautifully made-up grey eyes stared at Aisling for a moment before the
woman smiled glacially.

"I'm Aisling Moran," said Aisling nervously.  This blonde vision looked
at her as if she had just walked dog mess into the carpet.

"I know," said the blonde coolly.

"I'm Vivienne Hogan, personal assistant to Mr.  Richardson and the
personnel director.

"Welcome to Richardson, Reid and Finucane."

Her expression was about as welcoming as a blizzard, but Aisling smiled
back anyway.

"I'm afraid something's come up and I won't be able to bring you
around the office and introduce you.  Caroline Dennis will look after
you.  She'll be here in a moment Vivienne said, walking gracefully to
the door.

"Sit down and make yourself comfortable."  She gestured towards a grey
office chair.

Thanks."

The door shut silently.  Aisling felt as if she could breathe again.
Was she imagining it or -had the other woman really been cold?  And if
so, what in the hell had she done to deserve such a frosty welcome? 
She tried to remember what she'd been like to newcomers to the motor
department.  Had she ever looked at them the way Vivienne had at her?
God, she hoped not.

She sank into the chair and tried to take a few deep breaths.

It didn't help.  Focus on the room, Aisling.  Relax.

The room looked like the drawing room it probably had been.  It was
papered with subtle embossed cream paper.  A gilt-framed oil painting
of a weary-looking horse hung on one wall.

Under normal circumstances, she'd have been fascinated by the ceiling
mouldings which had vine leaves beautifully picked out in gold paint.
Today she was too preoccupied to do much more than notice them.

As offices go, she thought, it was very nice.

Several metal filing cabinets filled one wall and there were two desks
positioned opposite each other, both with computer keyboards and VDUs.
A wire basket and a large pile of beige folders covered one desk, along
with a very healthy plant and a large silver frame with a photo of a
smiling little girl in a school uniform.

A tiny brown Koala bear clung to a pen in the red plastic pen holder
and a rainbow-coloured mug proclaiming "World's Greatest Mum' sat
beside what looked like a very high-tech phone.

By contrast, the other desk was like something from an office manual,
'the perfect desk'.  Not one stray piece of paper spoiled the highly
polished wood.  White metal baskets were half empty and only a pen and
a yellow Post-It pad beside the phone gave the impression that anyone
had been using the desk at all.  Obviously Ms Snotty Hogan's desk,
Aisling decided bitchily.

A coffee percolator bubbled away in one corner of the room and the rich
scent of freshly brewed coffee made her long for a cup.  Should she
help herself, Aisling wondered?

Why not?  She was an employee after all, even if not a very welcomed
one.

She chose a bright red mug and was just starting to pour when the door
opened again.  Jumping guiltily, Aisling nearly spilled the coffee onto
the pale carpet.

"Did I give you a fright?"  inquired the intruder, a plump woman with a
cluster of dark curls and a voluminous, bright floral dress.

"Sorry.  Viv told me you were here and asked me to show you around. 
I'm Caroline, Pat's secretary."  She proffered a hand and Aisling shook
it, grateful to meet at least one person who seemed pleased to see
her.

"I'm Aisling and I hope it's OK to get some coffee but it just smelled
so nice ..."

"Oh, Viv should have offered you one but she'd madly busy this morning
and obviously forgot.  Your office is on the next floor but you'll have
to come down here for coffee anyhow because Elizabeth's percolator has
gone kaput."

Caroline dropped a bulging brown handbag onto the chair beside the
perfect desk and slung a white cotton cardigan over the armrests.
Aisling was amazed.  In her long, flowing dress and hippie-ish bead
necklace, Caroline looked as if she'd be more at home behind the other
desk.

So where did Vivienne sit?  Not at the messy desk, that was for sure.
And why was poor Caroline making excuses for Viv's rudeness?  Aisling
doubted that "Viv would have offered' her a cup of coffee.  Unless
Aisling's throat was on fire, she reckoned.

"Elizabeth isn't going to be in today, she's feeling a bit under the
weather."  Caroline poured herself a mug of coffee and stirred in three
sugars.  Opening a square tin of assorted biscuits, she selected two
chocolate biscuits and a pink wafer one.

"Want one?"  she offered before taking a large bite of
chocolate-covered digestive.

"No thanks answered Aisling, who hadn't even managed to finish her
Special K. "You'll love Elizabeth's office mumbled Caroline with her
mouth full of biscuit.

"Well, your office!"  It's quite the nicest of all the assistants'
ones.  Of course, it's a bit isolated up there at the top she added.
She took her coffee and led Aisling out onto the landing and up the
stairs.

"But the view is wonderful!

You're above Leo's office, Leo Murphy, that is.  He's your boss.

He's in court this morning according to Elizabeth, but he'll be back at
one."

Caroline stopped talking, breathless after the first flight of stairs.
They climbed another two flights, past panelled green doors and
sedately framed prints of Georgian Dublin in feathery ink and
watercolours.

This Caroline opened a door and showed Aisling another bright
high-ceilinged room, 'is Leo's office."

"Very nice said Aisling.

"You want to see Mr.  Richardson's office Caroline continued.

"It's beautiful.  He collects antiques, you know.  His office is like
Sotheby's and his house is the same.  Although I expect you know

"Er, yes answered Aisling, although she didn't.

Why would she know that Edward Richardson collected antiques?  She'd
only met him a few times at Fiona's house and even then they'd talked
about Fiona more than anything else.  And about Nicole, of course, the
apple of her grandfather's eye.

Obviously Caroline thought she was on intimate terms with Pat Finucane
and, therefore, with his father-in-law.  She followed Caroline up
another flight of stairs to a small landing at the top of the
building.  "I know it's small said Caroline, ushering Aisling into a
tiny office dominated by a large window, 'but just look at the view."

Aisling looked, and was impressed.  Five huge filing cabinets took up a
lot of the office space and there wasn't enough room to swing a cat,
but the spectacular view the window afforded over Dublin's rooftops
more than made up for the lack of space.

"It's wonderful," breathed Aisling, squeezing between the desk and the
cabinets to look out the window.

"I knew you'd like it," smiled Caroline smugly, as though she'd
designed the entire place herself.

"You may as well make yourself at home since Elizabeth isn't going to
be in today.  I'll get her calls transferred to my phone until you've
got the hang of everything.  You could start doing some typing, though,
couldn't you?  I'll give you some letters to look at so you can see the
format."

Aisling felt herself blanch.  How the hell was she going to be able to
type letters when she didn't know how to use the computer?

She gazed at the complicated-looking keyboard and knew she'd have to
confess.  Sort of.

"I don't know how to use this type of computer," she said nervously.

"Oh," said Caroline in surprise.

"This is an Apple Performa, it's a doddle, really.  What have you
worked on before?"

Aisling racked her brains for the name of the computer system the motor
department had been buying before she'd left.

ICBM.  That was it.

"An ICBM," she lied confidently.

"No, an IBM.  Sorry."  Moron, she told herself.  You've just said you
can use an inter-continental ballistic missile.

"I'd really prefer to be thoroughly acquainted with this."  system
before I start typing," she added quickly, hoping Caroline hadn't
noticed her gaffe.

"Perhaps I can do something else until Elizabeth can brief me
properly."  That sounded great, she thought.  Very professional.

Caroline's eyebrows were furrowed as she considered this.  "You could
do some filing she ventured.

"I know Elizabeth has been letting the filing slide a little because
she hates going up and down the stairs all the time.  There's a file
room downstairs, two cabinets in Leo's office and the ones here.  It's
quite a trip up and down those stairs."

"Of course I'll file Aisling said, relieved.

"Just show me where to start."

She was leaning over a cabinet in the file room looking for Ms Sandra
Burke's file when Vivienne walked in at a quarter past one.

"You're not at lunch?"

Aisling looked flustered.

"I didn't know when lunch was she said.  There's so much filing to do,
I just thought I'd keep working."

"You'll be working through lunch often enough without starting on your
first day Vivienne commented.

"Caroline was supposed to bring you to the canteen but she obviously
forgot, I'm sorry."

Amazing, thought Aisling, Ms Ice Queen is actually apologising for
something.  She was even more amazed when Vivienne told her to take a
break and get a cup of coffee from the percolator in her office.

"Leave this until after lunch she added.  The canteen is in the
basement, although it's not precisely a canteen, more a badly equipped
kitchen.  There's a kettle, a fridge and a microwave in case you want
to have something hot.  Go down the corridor and take the second
left,

OK?"

"Fine."  said Aisling.

"I'm going to Baggot Street.  Do you want anything from the shops?"

"No thanks, really.  I'll just get a cup of coffee and I've brought a
sandwich."

"Well, get some proper coffee from my office, won't you," Vivienne
added.  And I'll see you later this afternoon to see how you're getting
on."  She smiled briefly, then opened a filing cabinet near the door,
selected a file and left as quietly as she'd come in.  Marginally
cheered up, Aisling left the file room and thought briefly about going
down to the canteen for lunch.

If Caroline had accompanied her, she would have been delighted to meet
the rest of the staff.  But she just didn't feel up to marching in on
her own, explaining who she was and what she was doing here to a bunch
of curious strangers.

Instead, she knocked gently on Vivienne and Caroline's office door and,
when nobody answered, went in for some coffee.

She took a biscuit as well and looked at the desks with renewed
interest.  So Vivienne was the World's Greatest Mum, she thought.
Presumably, she wasn't such a tough career woman at home.  Maybe they'd
just got off on the wrong foot.

Some people were naturally prickly and needed time to get comfortable
with others, she decided charitably.

At her desk, she ate her tuna fish sandwich hungrily and drank a Diet
Coke.  She'd found a recent copy of Style in one of Elizabeth's wire
baskets and she flicked through the pages, only half concentrating on
an article about summer camps as she wondered how the boys were getting
on at theirs.

She hadn't planned on sending them to the day camp for the whole
summer, but she'd no option now that she was working.  Thank God that
Fiona had offered to pick them up at three the first week.

"Only until I get sorted out," Aisling said firmly when Fiona offered
to help.

"You can't spend your whole summer minding them."

Brave words.  She was finding it hard enough to cope with her first day
at work without feeling like an idiot.

She'd just taken another bite of her sandwich when her door opened
suddenly and a very tall and very dark man walked in.  He was heavily
built, with the sort of tan which spoke of lots of outdoor pursuits. 
He had a shock of jet black hair and a suit to match.

"Aisling, isn't it?"  he said in a deep voice.

"Yes," she answered.

"Hello."

"I'm Leo Murphy."

He advanced with one large hand held out and leaned over the desk. 
The way his eyes roamed over her made Aisling feel uneasy.

She didn't know whether it was his intense gaze or the way he was
smiling like an alligator who had spotted his lunch, but she felt, well
uncomfortable.

Since he was still holding out his hand, she reached out her left hand,
the one without tuna stuck to it, and awkwardly shook hands.  He held
her fingers for much longer than was necessary and, when he released
it, he smiled, a very self satisfied

"Aisling, I'm delighted you're going to be with me when Liz is away."

Nobody else had called the other woman Liz, but Aisling instinctively
knew that Leo Murphy would enjoy shortening his secretary's name,
turning the elegant Elizabeth into the snappy Liz.  "Liz, bring your
notebook in here now."  She could just imagine him saying it.  She
hoped he wouldn't start calling her Ash, only her closest friends and
family called her that.

"I hope you've been made to feel at home."  He pushed aside a pile of
files and sat on the side of her desk, his big body I dwarfing Aisling
as he leaned over her.

Tuna, mmm.  Health-conscious, are we?"  he didn't wait for her to
reply.

"I'm pretty health-conscious myself.  Rugby, you I know."  He patted
his bulky chest proudly.

"A man's got to work out, don't you agree?"

"Absolutely."  she answered.

"I can see we're going to get on very well," he continued!

"Come on down to my office when you've finished lunch.  I'll go over
what I want from you."

"Yes, Mr.  Murphy."

He slid off the desk and headed for the door.

"And Aisling," he turned to give her the benefit of another feral

"It's Leo, not Mr.  Murphy.  We don't stand on ceremony here."

She rinsed her hands in the tiny bathroom on the third floor and
knocked on Leo's door.  "Come in, Aisling.  Have a seat."

He sat behind the desk and stared at her.  God, there was something
about him she didn't like.  She didn't know what it was, but there was
definitely something odd about him.

"You haven't worked for some time, I believe.  Pat's been very good to
take you on, I'm sure you appreciate that."

Aisling felt sick.  The way he made it sound, Pat had given her the job
for services rendered, the sort of services you wore a French maid's
outfit and stockings for.

"Of course, I understand that you're going through a rough time," Leo

"It can't be easy.  We'll make this as pleasurable as possible, of
course.  We run a tight ship here and I need to know you're behind me
one hundred per cent.  Liz will fill you in on the day-to-day details
of the job."

He paused and Aisling wondered if she was supposed to say

"That's great, Mr.... er, Leo," she said.

"I want to work.  I know I'm a bit rusty but I'm a hard worker.
Elizabeth will be here for the next two weeks, won't she?"

"Yes.  But when she's gone, don't hesitate to ask me anything.

Anything," he repeated in a syrupy voice.  That's all for now."

He picked up his phone and started dialling a number.

Aisling got up to leave, anxious to get back to the solitude of her
little office.

"Can you get me the Law Directory?"  he asked suddenly.

"It's on top of the cabinet over there."

He held the phone to his ear but his eyes were on her

She turned around and was suddenly struck by the thought that her cream
skirt really needed a slip underneath it.  Was he watching her, eyes
taking in her VPL, she thought, horrified.

She blushed furiously.

Thanks."  He took the book and she left the room rapidly.

Outside, she took a long, deep breath and wondered what was wrong with
her.  He hadn't said anything awful, had he?  So why was she so
spooked?

When Caroline popped her head around the door at five to two, Aisling
was delighted to see her.

"Sorry I didn't get to see you for lunch.  I had to race up to Grafton
Street to look for a present for my husband.  It's his birthday on
Wednesday and they have shirts in Arnott's that he'd love.  Did you
find the canteen?"

"Vivienne told me where it was," answered Aisling, 'but I had a
sandwich here.  I didn't know anyone and I thought I'd wait until I met
everyone, you know," she finished lamely.

"That's awful!"  declared Caroline.

"I'll kill the girls for not coming and getting you.  We've got two
juniors who are so scatty that they'd forget their heads if they
weren't screwed , on.  And I bet you never had any coffee, either, did
you?"  "Yes, I did.  Vivienne told me to get some from your office,"
Aisling said.  "Come on down and get another one now and I'll send the
motorbike courier off with your percolator this minute.  Leo will go
mad if he doesn't get his coffee in the morning, you know!"

She laughed at this and Aisling decided not to ask about Leo's
decidedly odd behaviour.  She could have picked him up the wrong way.
It was only her first day after all.  No doubt things would look
different the next day with Elizabeth to guide her through the maze of
office politics.

"I don't want mash.  I want chips!"  declared Paul crossly. pushing
his plate away from him.
"You can't have chips," snapped Aisling.

"You're not leaving this table without eating your dinner, mash and
all."

She scraped the last bit of mashed potato out of the saucepan onto her
plate and dumped the saucepan noisily in the sink.  Granted, the dinner
wasn't one of her better efforts.

But mashed potato, fish fingers and beans were all she'd felt up to
cooking after her first day at work.

They should have been eating a delicious lasagne she'd made on
Saturday.  But she'd forgotten to time the oven to cook the damn
thing.

Phillip said nothing.  He stuck his fork in the small hillock of mash
he'd made in the centre of his plate and slowly mixed the beans into it
until he'd made a pale orange mess.  Since the boys had come over from
Fiona's at half six, just ten minutes after Aisling had got home,
Phillip had been stonily silent.

Feeling guilty at being away all day and for snapping at Paul, Aisling
tried again.

"Please eat your dinner, boys," she begged.  There's ice cream for
dessert and we can go to the video shop afterwards for a treat, all
right?"

"Do I have to eat this, Mum?"  wailed Paul.

"I'm not hungry."

Count to ten, Aisling.  She tried the honest approach.

"Paul, I'm very tired because I've been working all day.  I'm sorry
that dinner isn't very nice but it's the best I can do.

Please eat it."

For once, it worked.  Taken aback by such candour, Paul stuck his fork
into a fish finger and ate a bit.  And another bit.

Seeing his twin eating, Phillip stopped making fork tracks across his
mash and actually ate some.

Thank you God, Aisling said silently.  She didn't care what she'd
promised the previous night, she just had to have a drink tonight.

Back from the video shop, she left the boys watching Flipper for the
millionth time and went upstairs to have a bath.

She stripped off her work clothes with relief and put on the
peach-coloured satin dressing-gown she'd treated herself to the
Christmas before.  Soft and silky to the touch, it had always made her
feel faintly glamorous.  But not tonight.  Only a two-week stay in a
health farm and four hours under a beautician's expert care would make
her feel anything other than a harassed working mother with smudged
mascara, aching feet and limp hair from her hurried walk to the car
after work.

Aisling added a liberal dose of Body Shop Neroli essential oil to the
steaming, foamy bath.  Five drops were enough to relax you, the
instructions said.  Five wouldn't have a chance, she thought, counting
out ten.  With a glass of icy white wine the last bottle from
Michael's precious wine rack by her side, she lay back into the bubbles
and let the day wash away from her.

The sensation of warm water gently taking the aches and pains away was
pure bliss.  She took a big sip of wine and wriggled her toes with
relief.  High-heeled shoes were definitely the wrong thing for work.

What she needed was a pair of low-heeled ones like Vivienne had worn.
She had a black pair which would fit the bill perfectly, even if they
were a bit old.  They'd look fine if she polished them up.  There just
wasn't enough money in the kitty for a new pair.

As the water cooled, she reached up with her left foot and twisted the
hot tap on again.  Heaven.

For the first time since Michael had left her, she wasn't thinking
about him or crying over him.  Worrying about how she was going to cope
when Elizabeth was on maternity leave, not to mention dreading working
for the distinctly seedy Leo Murphy, was occupying too much of her mind
to think about her absent husband.  He'd got her into this mess, she
thought venomously, but she had to get herself out of it.  And she
would, damn him.

"Fine, it was fine," she said airily, when Fiona rang full of inquiries
about her first day at Richardson, Reid and Finucane.

After all Pat had done about getting her the job, Aisling couldn't very
well say she felt like she'd just run a marathon and was dreading the
next day, could she?

Tat was in court all day or he'd have been in to see how you were
getting on," Fiona explained.

"But he said Vivienne and Caroline were going to explain everything to
you.  How did you get on with them?  Caroline's very nice but Vivienne
always sounds like a bit of a workaholic to me."

"Caroline's lovely," Aisling was able to say truthfully.

"I

didn't see much of Vivienne, really.  Elizabeth, the girl I'm
replacing, was out so I did the filing all day.  It was simple enough,
but pretty tiring.  You see, I didn't want to admit that I couldn't use
the word processor so that's why I volunteered to file.  And I met Leo
Murphy.  He's a bit different she ventured.

"Yeah, Pat says he's an acquired taste Fiona answered.

"He's only been there a year or so, but he's great at conveyancing
apparently.  I've never met him.  What's he look like?"

Picture Jack Nicholson in The Shining, Aisling thought.

"Very dark haired and well built was what she said.

"He prides himself on being muscular she couldn't resist throwing that
in.

"He plays rugby and believes men should work out "Gosh, you sound very
well acquainted already!"  chuckled Fiona.

"Is he a bit of a hunk?"

"Not really, no."  If only she knew.

"Do you think you'll enjoy working there?"  Fiona asked seriously.

"I was on edge all day wondering how you were getting on You and me
both, Aisling said to herself.

"I really want it to work out for you Fiona added.

"Oh Fee, it's wonderful Aisling said warmly.  She had to lie so she
hoped she was doing it convincingly.

"It was a bit tough at first, but the girls are so nice, I know it'll
work out fine That's great said Fiona in relieved tones.

"You need something to keep your mind off Michael.  I was so worried
about you last week, you know."

"I do feel a lot better now Aisling admitted.

"Maybe it's just coping with all the practical things, feeding the
boys, paying the bills, that kind of thing.  I haven't let myself
descend into total misery.  And work will certainly help she said with
a laugh.

"I didn't have much time to think about Michael today!

Which is all thanks to you and Pat for getting me this job.

You've both been wonderful "What are friends for?"  demanded Fiona.

"Not all friends are as good as you Aisling pointed out.

"I've had a few calls from friends of ours and they just don't know '
what to say.  Poor Angela Dunn just stuttered and stammered?; and
finally said she'd ring me in a few months, like I was going into
mourning!  Nobody from Michael's office has rung, although I suppose it
must be awkward for them.  "She didn't say that this had hurt her
deeply.  All she'd wanted was a friendly voice on the phone, telling
her that even though she and Michael weren't together, the friends they
had known for the past ten years were still there.

Break-ups certainly made you realise the value of true friends, like
Fiona and Jo.

"Mum has been great," Aisling added.

"She arrived on Tuesday with a freezer full of pies and stews for us. 
I said Michael had left, he hadn't died!  Luckily, she saw the funny
side of it."

"Ash!  You're dreadful!"  laughed Fiona.

"What must your poor mother have thought?  You're dreadful for joking
about serious things.  Anyway, your mum's generation aren't used to the
idea of people splitting up and the poor woman must be in shock."

"Oh, Mum knows my sense of humour by now.  I think living with dad has
knocked her own sense of humour out of her, though.  He wouldn't
recognise a joke if it bit him on the bum.  Mum put him on the phone
the other night and it was like talking to the sideboard.  He was on
the verge of doing his "I'd hoped for more from you, Aisling" routine
but he stopped.  I think Mum must have grabbed the phone off him."

"Don't mind him," Fiona said indignantly.

"You've done so well with your life.  What did he want, Einstein for a
daughter?"

"Someone smarter than Einstein, I think Aisling said drily.

"Luckily Sorcha's achievements have made up for the shame of me being a
mere housewife.  I swear that his chest swells when he tells people
she's working in a bank in London.  Mind you she added, 'if Sorcha
lived here, he wouldn't be so delighted with her because they fight
like cats and dogs.

Distance is a wonderful thing."

"Has she heard?"  Fiona inquired.

"She rang on Saturday and told me I was a fool to have!  stayed at home
cleaning the toilet.  She has a great way with!

"words, that one.  I did point out that there was more to my life than
sticking my head under the rim to see what germs were lurking, but I
stopped myself.  It was easier to say nothing."

"Wait until she has a family and a home," said Fiona sounding vexed.

"She'll find out it isn't so easy to be mother and chief bottle-washer
after all."

"Sorcha isn't going to have any children, my dear," pointed out

"She wants to have her tubes tied."

"Around her neck, I hope," muttered the other woman.

"She has that effect on me too, Fee.  She completely ruined my ideas of
what a little sister was supposed to be like.  Thank God Nicola came
along or I'd have always thought that little sisters were like some
sort of biblical curse.  You know, "And the Lord said, a little sister
will be born, to ravage your bedroom, destroy your toys and keep you in
eternal trouble until you leave home."  "Was she really that bad?"

"Worse.  And talking of kids, thanks for picking up the boys this
afternoon, although Phillip has been like a briar since he came
home."

"He was a bit moody," Fiona agreed.

"I thought he'd cheer up when he saw you "No chance!"  said Aisling.

"I think I've just crossed the line from Good Stay at Home Mummy to Bad
Working Mummy.

You should have seen the look on his face when he got beans, mash and
fish fingers for dinner!"

"You've ruined all three of them with your gourmet cooking," started
Fiona, stopping abruptly when she realised what she'd said.

"Sorry."

"You're right," Aisling replied matter-of-factly.

"I did spoil them, Michael particularly.  Home-made bread for
breakfast, smoked salmon pate at the weekends because he loved it,
chicken en croute or fresh pasta for his dinner and he never had to so
much as wash up a cup or throw a towel in the laundry basket.  I wonder
is he allowed to get away with that type of behaviour with her!  I
don't think career women have much time for very old-fashioned men,"
she added sarcastically.  Lying on her own in their big double bed
later, she thought about what Fiona had said.  She was right.  Aisling
had totally spoiled the three men in her life.  She'd become obsessed
with being the best housewife possible.

The house could have won prizes for cleanliness, her interior
decoration was the same.  She'd prided herself on her cooking, as
though being a wizard with a food processor made up for her lack of
abilities outside the home.  And somewhere along the way, Aisling Moran
had disappeared.  That's what Michael had said.  Had he been right?

He'd married her because he loved her, her vitality and her sense of
humour.  When she'd slowly lost her self-assurance, her belief in
herself, she'd panicked.  And thought that becoming the perfect
homemaker was the answer.  Only it hadn't been.

Michael had wanted Aisling, the woman he married.  But she'd turned
into Super Housewife, handy in the kitchen, but out of water anywhere
else.  Would a job have changed all that, she asked herself?  A day in
Richardson, Reid and Finucane had certainly given her lots to talk
about.

She'd have enjoyed telling Michael about the different characters in
the office and with his support behind her she probably wouldn't have
been so uncomfortable in Leo Murphy's presence.  But if Michael had
still been with her, Leo would never have been so lecherous, she was
sure of that.

Being separated suddenly made her fair game for the likes of Leo.  How
the hell was she going to face him on her own?

Aisling sat up in bed and switched on her bedside light.  It was ten
past twelve, she had to be up in six and three-quarter hours and she
didn't feel even vaguely like sleeping.

She plumped up her two pale yellow pillows behind her, then suddenly
reached over and grabbed Michael's.  For the past week, she'd made the
bed every morning as if he was coming home that night, arranged his
pillows just the way he liked them.  She still slept on her side of the
bed.

Why the hell was she doing that, she asked herself crossly?

He wasn't coming back.  In fact, even if he wanted to, he wasn't
coming back.  So there!  He could stuff his pillows!  She laughed at
her own joke.  Now, what to read?  Something fluffy and romantic or
something wonderfully scary?

Leaning down to her bedside table, Aisling found the book she wanted.
It was funny how she'd got out of the habit of reading when she
couldn't sleep at night, she thought.

Michael always slept soundly and solidly, seven or eight hours no
matter what.  She'd never been so lucky but had rarely turned on her
light to read at night in case it woke him.  Not any more.  She could
read until dawn, steal all the duvet and all the pillows, and paint the
entire bedroom whorehouse pink if she felt like it!  So what if it was
after twelve, she'd go to bed early tomorrow night.  Satisfied with
herself, Aisling settled back against her comfortable back rest.
Perfect.

Tuesday was a good day.  Elizabeth turned out to be a funny and warm
woman in her early thirties who was delighted to be pregnant after four
years of trying for a baby.  Under her relaxed and expert tutelage,
Aisling quickly learned how to use the word processor once she'd
admitted that she had never used one before.

"I can't believe it's so easy Aisling exclaimed, after she'd managed to
open files, save documents, print letters and keep file copies on
floppy disks.

Technology is the Emperor's New Clothes of the nineties," said
Elizabeth.

"Everyone's so scared of it that lots of people are terrified to touch
a keyboard and the people who are good with computers try and lord it
over everyone who isn't.  Look how easily you've picked it up."

"As long as I can do it when you're gone," Aisling answered.

"I'm not going far laughed Elizabeth, patting her enormous bump.

"I'll probably spend the next few weeks stretched out on the couch at
home watching reruns of Knots Landing, so just pick up the phone if
you've got a problem."

Thanks.  It's great to know that Aisling replied.

"I just hope I can handle Leo as easily she added guardedly.  She was
desperate to know what Elizabeth thought of her boss, but wasn't sure
how to broach the subject.  Perhaps Leo and Elizabeth got on like a
house on fire.  It might be a terrible blunder to ask if he made her
feel as uncomfortable as he made Aisling.

"Oh, don't mind Leo," the other woman said dismissively.

"His bark is much worse than his bite.  He's moodier than any
premenstrual woman I've ever known!  Just ignore his moods.

As long as you keep the office running efficiently and don't overbook
him, he's a lamb, really."

A lamb, huh?  More like a wolf in sheep's clothing, Aisling reckoned.
However, he'd been pretty harmless all day, acting the part of the busy
boss.  Aisling wished he'd always be like that.  Unfortunately, she
suspected that Elizabeth's presence had a lot to do with it.  Who knew
what he'd be like when she was gone and he could stare insolently at
Aisling again?

Pat Finucane dropped into her office at lunchtime and apologised for
not welcoming her in" person the day before.

"How are you getting on?"  he asked kindly.

"Brilliant," said Elizabeth.

"She'll be running the whole place in a month.  I just hope there's a
job for me when I'm finished my maternity leave!"

Buoyed by Elizabeth's confidence in her, and by her improved
relationship with Vivienne, Aisling left for home a much happier woman
than she'd been the day before.

Her good mood wasn't to last.

"Hi, Aisling."  Michael's cold and distant voice on the phone hit her
like a punch in the stomach.

"How are the boys?"

"Fine," she replied, just as tersely.

"Now that I'm settled, I'd like to see them at the weekends.

They can stay with me on Saturday and go home on Sunday evening, what
do you think?"

She didn't know what to say.  They were talking like a divorced couple
already.

"I suppose that's all right," she answered grudgingly.

"Where will they be staying?  "He hesitated for a moment.  Could he be
trying not to hurt her, she wondered?

"I'm living with Jennifer."

God, it was like an ice pick in her guts.  How could she have thought
she was all right, she wondered blankly.  Don't cry, don't let him see
how upset you are.

"Where is that?"  she asked in what she hoped was a nonchalant voice.

"Sandymount.  It's just off Sandymount village."

"How nice," she replied.  They were like two strangers talking,
discussing property.  They'd be talking about auctioneers' fees and
stamp duty next.

"I don't want the boys to think that they don't have a father any
more," Michael said, suddenly intense.

"I want them to have two homes.  That's so important."

"It might be a bit of a shock to them to find you're living with
someone else, Michael," she interrupted caustically.

"This has all been rather sudden."

"I know, I know he said worriedly.  From the tone of his voice, she
knew exactly what he was doing, running his fingers through his dark
hair until it stood up in glossy peaks.  She'd always smoothed it down,
well, she used to smooth it down, a long, long time ago.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.  The silence was almost worse than
the stilted conversation.

"We have to talk about money," she said finally.

"I hear you've got a job," he put in.

"How did you know?"

"I rang Pat to find out how you were.  I knew Fiona would have been
talking to you."

"Oh, give me a break, Michael," she said angrily.

"If you wanted to know how I was, why couldn't you ring me.  I was
wondering why you were so silent, couldn't face talking to me, was that
it?"

He sighed tiredly.

"I didn't ring up to fight, Aisling."

"We're not fighting, Michael," she snapped.

"I just want you to be up front with me.  I'm not going to fall on my
knees every time you ring and beg you to come back, ok.  I've got over
the begging wife stage."

Damn him!  He made her so angry.  Why was he still playing games,
weren't they over that?

"Don't be afraid to ring me, Michael.  I want to talk about money,
about the house, about all the practical things.  And I want to know
where you are so that if there's a problem with the boys, I can reach

That's fair enough," he answered.

"I'm sorry, I should have rung.  I don't know what to say to the
boys."

She was amazed.  What an admission from Mr.  Know It All!

At least she'd faced up to the realities of the situation and told the
boys what was happening.  He was scared to.  Suddenly, Aisling felt a
lot better.  She was the strong one, she was the one who'd taken it on
the chin.  She was fighting back!

What a nice feeling that was.

"You could try the truth," she said smartly.

"You think so?"

"Well, they're ten years old, Michael, not ten months.  I think they're
going to put two and two together if they spend the night with you and
her."  Aisling couldn't bear to say "Jennifer".

"You're right."

Wow, it was a long time since she'd heard that.  A slight smile lifted
the corners of her mouth.

"Pick them up at one on Saturday," she said decisively.

They'll just be back from soccer and they'll be ravenous.  You could
always bring them to McDonald's, give them lunch and then tell them."

This was hilarious.  She was advising him on the best way to tell the
boys that he now lived with another woman.  Ironic wasn't the word for
it.

"That's a great idea, Aisling," he said sounding grateful.

Thank you for making this easier."

"I'm only doing this because I'm up for the Nobel Peace Prize," she
answered sarcastically.

"And because I want to protect the twins as much as possible.  It won't
do them any good to have us screaming at each other."  .

"You're great," Michael said.  Thanks.  I'll see you on Saturday,
then?"

He hung up and Aisling did the same with relief.  At least they'd
talked.  They had actually conversed like two adults.

That had to be good, surely?  She'd been dreading hearing from Michael
and yearning for it in equal amounts.  One part of her wanted to scream
abuse at him, the other wanted him to come back, to hear him beg
forgiveness and tell her he adored her still.

But there was no point harbouring secret hopes of a reunion when it was
obvious Michael wanted her back like he wanted a hole in the head. 
This way, she was forced to meet reality face on.

"Mum, can we go out to play with Greg?"  demanded Phillip, appearing in
the kitchen with a football in his hands.

"All right, but stay in his garden if you're playing football.

Don't play on the road, OK?"

"Yeah."

Phillip was gone in a flash.

"Be back by eight Aisling shouted after him.

The front door slammed loudly.  It was nearly seven, time for
Emmerdale.  The dinner dishes were still on the kitchen table but she
didn't feel like tidying up.  She quickly put the milk, butter and the
cheese back in the fridge and left everything else.  Time enough to do
it later.  Two weeks ago she wouldn't have been able to leave the mess
without tidying up.

Every dish would have been washed, dried and put away in fifteen
minutes and she'd have then swept the kitchen floor and hoovered up the
crumbs.

Not any more, she thought.  There were no prizes for faultless
housekeeping in the real world.

By Thursday evening, she was exhausted.  Too exhausted to join Fiona at
aerobics.

"Come on, you'll love it!"  wheedled Fiona on the phone.

"Nicole's got her friends in and if you send the boys over, Pat will
look after them all.  You can do the beginners' class."  "Oh, Fee, I
really don't feel up to prancing around in my awful old leggings and
spare tyre.  It's so long since I did anything like that, I'd be
hopeless," Aisling answered.

"I'd really prefer it if you lent me one of your library of exercise
tapes.  I can start at home and that way I won't feel so flabby and
unfit when I finally go with you."

"OK.  But you're definitely coming with me next week, aren't you?"

Aisling laughed.

"You never give up, do you?  Let me get semi-fit before I go to the
gym, Fee.  I don't know if my self-confidence could face jumping up and
down like an elephant in the middle of a group of Cindy Crawford
lookalikes."

There won't be anyone like that in the beginners' class," Fiona pointed
out.

"The Cindy Crawford types all go to the advanced step class and make me
feel like a heifer."

"I'm never going near that place if there are women who can make you
look fat!"  Aisling was horrified at the thought.  I'll come over and
pick up Mr.  Motivator or Jane Fonda now and go for the burn later."

"Nobody "goes for the burn" any more," Fiona rebuked her.

"Even Jane admits she was wrong about the "no pain, no gain" motto.
Anyway, she's had plastic surgery so I've lost my faith in her.  She's
too old-fashioned and I hate Mr.  Motivator.  I've got a couple of step
videos that are easier when you don't have a step; you could try them.
You should also try Callanetics.

It's not fat-burning but it's great for streamlining your shape."

That sounds painful," said Aisling.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not a bit," Fiona answered cheerfully.

Callan Pinckney's soothing American voice was telling Aisling how to
stand with feet hip-distance apart, with one hand on her hip and the
other reaching upwards.  Painfully upwards.  The video had only been on
five minutes and Aisling already felt tired.

She didn't think she could reach a little bit more than she thought she
could, as Callan kept saying encouragingly to a class of very
flexible-looking people.

Her arm was going to wrench itself out of her shoulder if she reached
over any further.  Thank God.  She'd done it.

"Do one hundred Callan said crushingly.

"One hundred!"  shrieked Aisling out loud, already wondering if she had
ruptured something vital.  You must be mad.  But Callan wasn't
listening.  She was leaning over like a gymnast, gently moving her body
back and forth, seemingly without excruciating pain.

I'll be in agony tomorrow, Aisling muttered to herself as she leaned,
watching the counter on the screen clock up every little movement.  She
had to give up at 54 but Callan and her class stuck it out to 100.

Masochists.  Then it was time for the other side.  

CHAPTER TEN 

"It must be good for you if it hurts that much, mustn't it?"

Aisling eased herself gingerly onto a bar stool in Larry Murphy's on
Baggot Street.

"Current exercising wisdom doesn't recommend pain Jo said, as she
picked up the bar food menu.

"I've never done Callanetics myself, but I've heard it's brilliant for
toning you up.  I suppose it's hard at first because your muscles
aren't used to the movements.  What do you want to eat?"

"A cheese sandwich on brown bread and a cup of tea Aisling answered.

"That sounds good Jo replied, and proceeded to order a sandwich for
Aisling and fisherman's pie and chips for herself.

Aisling was going to say something about how that eating for two stuff
was all old hat and just made you chubby as well as pregnant, but she
thought better of it.

"You look good, anyway, even if your muscles are in agony Jo commented,
taking in Aisling's definitely less bulky shape.

In a long navy skirt and slim-fitting pink silk blouse, Aisling was
looking better than she had for years, the long-hidden fine bone
structure beginning to show on her face.

After years of wearing only the barest hint of makeup, she had started
putting foundation, eyeliner and mascara on in the mornings as well as
the usual eyeshadow and lipstick.

Seeing Vivienne so smartly dressed and perfectly made-up every day made
Aisling realise that the bare-faced look she'd worn for trips to the
supermarket wasn't suitable for the

Her indigo-blue eyes were fringed by darkened lashes, a careful smudge
of eyeliner highlighting what had always been her best feature.  The
coral lipstick she'd always favoured had been thrown in the bin by a
disgusted Fiona who'd produced a pinkish-mauve one instead and
insisted on painting it on with a brush.

"Fiona, I'll never get to work in the morning if I have to use a brush
to put my lipstick on protested Aisling during the mini make-up session
on Wednesday night.

"You don't have to paint it, but it does stay on longer that way,"
Fiona said firmly, as she rooted through Aisling's top drawer.

"I can't believe you have silver eyeliner, Ash!"

"Jo and I bought loads of it in a discount shop when we were going
through our Abba phase," Aisling attempted to explain.

"It was supposed to make your eyes look bigger if you put it on the
inside lower rim ..."

"Give me strength!  You'd look like a reject from a Seventies Top of
the Pops Special if you wore that," said Fiona.

"Why are you keeping it?"

"I can't bear to throw anything out."

Fiona held up a bottle of congealed bronze nail polish.

"Darling, I think this has to go.  In fact, let me throw all of this
out."  She poked around in the drawer with flawless oyster coloured
nails, dislodging two Mary Quant eyeshadows in what looked suspiciously
like glittering purple and sky blue.

"Very Charlie's Angels, but not so good for anyone over seventeen,
despite what they've been wearing on the catwalk lately.  Dump this
junk, Aisling, and I'll bring over some decent stuff for you.  I do
tend to overspend at the cosmetics counter and you may as well get some
use out of my binges."

Aisling laughed.

"Tend to overspend."  she said.

"Famous last words, Mrs.  Finucane!"

She was glad of Fiona's expert advice though.  Her own attempts to look
made-up hadn't been precisely successful.

Pumping the brush in and out of her elderly mascara tube had left her
with lashes like tarantula legs.  With the right materials, however
what she reckoned was around thirty pounds' worth of Fiona's expensive
Lancome stuff she was getting much better at applying subtle amounts of
cosmetics and with excellent results.

"Fiona gave me this self-tanning stuff and I put some on last night."
Aisling revealed, as she poured a few drops of milk into her tea.

"It really does perk your complexion up."

"Whatever it is, you look great," complimented Jo.

"Maybe you should market the Dump Your Husband Diet."

Aisling giggled into her tea.  You could never stay maudlin for long
around the irrepressible Jo.

"I think it's too much of a crash diet Aisling pointed out.  A bit too
shocking to the system."

"I'm on the Seafood Diet."  announced Jo, taking a bite out of a
fat-glistening chip.  "I see food and I eat it."

She ate another chip, put her head to one side and stared at her friend
with narrowed eyes.

"Your hair she announced after a moment.

"You should do something with your hair."

"Like what?"  asked Aisling self-consciously, smoothing back the
escaping tendrils from her pony tail.  Her wavy curtain of light brown
hair reached to about four inches below her shoulders and was too long
and unruly to leave it loose when she typed.  She never coloured it-and
rarely used the hair dryer but Aisling knew her hair would have been
nicer in something more elegant than a pony tail.

"James, my hairdresser, could do wonders with your hair Jo said
enthusiastically.

"You need a little lift, a better shape or something.  But it needs to
be cut."

"I've had it this length for years Aisling said defensively.

"It's handy.  I can tie it back."

Ash, you need something career-womanish now, not handy.

Anyway, tying it back is the only thing you can really do with it at
that length.  It would take years off you if you cut it.  You don't
need to do anything radical, you know."

Aisling still wasn't convinced.

"Like what?"  she asked.

"Softer, shorter, more feathery."  Jo was getting into her stride

"With highlights."

"I'm a bit old for highlights said Aisling morosely, remembering the
Greek summer when she'd first met Michael.  Her hair was longer then,
longer and bleached gold in the sun.  She was never going to look like
that again.  "Do you want some more tea?"  asked Jo.

"I'm so thirsty, I just have to have another pot.  I'm off coffee for
the baby's sake."

"No thanks."  Aisling could feel the tears coming.  Damn, she'd been
doing so well.  She hadn't cried since Wednesday when she'd opened her
bedside drawer and found the snapshot of the family outside Kilkenny
Castle two summers

Michael had been shading his eyes from the sun and an eager
eight-year-old Phillip had moved away to talk to the friendly American
woman who'd offered to take the picture for them.  They'd looked such a
family then, a unit.  Staring at her own smiling round face as she held
Michael's hand and tried to hold onto Paul's T-shirt, Aisling wondered
if they really had been a happy family at all.  Or if she had believed
in the perfect family, while Michael had been planning his affair?

She'd cried.  Bawled her eyes out in fact, and woke up with red, puffy
eyes which didn't go terribly well with the red blouse she'd carefully
ironed the night before.

"I haven't cried since Wednesday," she said wetly, searching in her
handbag for a tissue.

"Sometimes I feel so strong and determined to succeed, and sometimes I
just cry."

That's allowed Jo sighed.

"I feel like sobbing my eyes out half the time, in between those
moments when I dream of strangling Richard with his camera strap."

"I'm sorry sniffled Aisling.

"I didn't mean to whinge.  Has Richard not got in touch with you
yet?"

"Yes and no answered Jo flatly.

"Yes, he got in touch and no, I won't be seeing him again.  Ever.
Unless I'm called up to identify him on a slab in the morgue, that is.
A girl can dream."

Shocked out of her tears, Aisling stared anxiously at her friend.  Had
pregnancy scrambled her mind?

"Richard is a little shit announced Jo after a moment.

"Correction, he's a big shit.  Another pot of tea, please."

"He did come and see me she explained to Aisling.

"Bearing gifts and begging forgiveness.  Or so I thought.  That big
shit let me take him to bed.  He let me think everything was
wonderful, fine, hunky dory until I found out that he's still going to
London.  With Sascha, the rocket scientist, I have no doubt," she

"I have my suspicions about that bitch and my ex-beloved."

"The pig!"  Aisling was outraged.

"Oh I did better than "pig", I can tell you that said Jo with
satisfaction.  That bastard had better keep away from me for the rest
of his life or he'll be getting dentures fitted!"

"Jo, you're priceless!  Tell me, what really happened?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you.  Do you know, my life is
turning into one of those mini-series things from the States.

You know the sort of thing She loved him, but he had a deep, dark
secret that rocked her to the very core of her being in a deeper voice
than I can do, of course.  I quite fancy Jaclyn Smyth in my part or
should that be Jane Seymour?  It needs one of those dark, sultry and
depressed heroines anyway.  I can't imagine who should play scumbag
himself."

Jo took the tea from the barman.

"It's nearly half one," she said.

"When do you have to be back?"

Two.  But it'll only take me five minutes from here."

"OK.  Here goes.  The story of my life: part twenty-six."

Aisling only made it back to the office in time by the skin of her
teeth.  She'd thought things were bad for her.  Poor, poor Jo.  Imagine
having the father of your baby dump you like a Christmas kitten that
had grown bigger and less chocolateboxcute in January?  Then, to add
insult to injury, imagine finding out that he'd done it all before,
that he'd already dumped another unwanted Christmas cat plus an unborn
kitten.  What a complete asshole.

"Thank God you're back," said Elizabeth gratefully when Aisling walked
into their tiny top-floor office.

"I feel awful.  I've just got to go home and lie down or I swear I'll
pass out!"

Of course you've got to go Aisling said automatically.

"Are you able to drive?  Should I ring Pete and get him to collect
YOU?"  Pete was Elizabeth's husband, an accountant who sounded as
though he cherished the ground she walked on, "No, I'll be fine.  It's
only to Stoneybatter.  I'm just sorry for you, Aisling."  Elizabeth
raised apologetic brown eyes to Aisling's.

"I think I'm going to have to take my maternity leave from today.  I
don't know if I could manage another week.  I know there's still loads
I haven't shown you ..."

"Don't be silly chided Aisling, trying not to think of what it would be
like to have the horrible Leo all to herself from this moment on.

"You need to get home and look after yourself.

Richardson, Reid and Finucane will keep going even if I do forget to
bring Leo his morning coffee and lose half his letters!

Don't worry."

By the time she'd walked Elizabeth slowly to her red Panda parked on
Fitzwilliam Square and made sure that she was in a fit state to drive
home, Aisling's mind was in overdrive.

Not only was she terrified of losing vital documents on the bloody
Apple, but she didn't know if she'd be able to cope with Leo's abrupt
and demanding requests.

"Where's the bloody Reilly file?"  he'd screamed only that morning,
forgetting that he hadn't actually asked for it.

That wasn't even mentioning his ability to make her stomach turn inside
out when he got her alone in either office and asked her how she was
getting on.

"Any problems?"  he'd breathed the day before when she'd brought him
his mid-afternoon coffee.  ("Black and no sugar.

I'm sweet enough!") "Fine, Leo."  she'd said breezily.

"Elizabeth is being great and I hope I make as good a secretary when
she's gone."

Secretary, you big sleazeball, she thought to herself.  Not a piece of
meat in a skirt.

It did occur to her that she'd envied Jo for her ability to make men
stare at her, dumbstruck by her sexy, totally natural charm.  But there
was a big difference between ogling and admiring.  If any man ever
dared to give Jo the same sort of insolent and undressing stare that
Leo Murphy gave her, Jo would have cut him down to size in a moment.

No, Leo didn't look he slavered and made her feel more uncomfortable
than she'd ever have imagined possible.  But what could she do?

This was the only job she was likely to get.  She couldn't leave just
because of Leo.  Women with two kids, an absent husband and no skills,
bar the ability to make a perfect cheese souffle, couldn't afford to be
picky job wise She'd have to get used to Leo, his slimy looks, little
grins and vaguely suggestive comments.

He was in subdued form all afternoon.

He barely registered the fact that Elizabeth had decided to go on
maternity leave early, muttering "Hmm' indifferently when Aisling told
him.  So much for loyalty.

"Get me the Wilkinson files he said finally.  There must be at least
three of them.  And get Tom Wilkinson on the phone afterwards.  By the
way, I won't be in on Monday, so cancel my appointments and leave my
diary free on Tuesday afternoon.

That's all."

He wasn't even looking at her, Aisling realised delightedly.

Yahoo.  She hurried down to the file room with a light heart.  I Maybe
she'd been imagining him as a big bad wolf when he was just a bored
boss who amused himself between cases by eyeing up the office temps.

When she went back into Leo's office with the bulky Wilkinson files, he
was on the phone.  Obviously a private call, since he made her or
Elizabeth call everyone for him, even his dentist.

"Don't give me that."

His strong fingers, covered with coarse black hair, played fiercely
with one of the red office pencils, twisting it around and around
rapidly, nearly breaking it.  Snap!  It broke.

Aisling dropped the files on his desk and almost ran to the door.  If
he was ringing Mrs.  Murphy, God help her.  For a brief moment, Aisling
relished the fact that she didn't have to endure any more of those
cross phone calls from a husband irritated by work and determined to
take it out on someone.

Safe in her office again, Aisling wished she could lock the door for
the rest of the afternoon.  She decided to start working on the
letters Elizabeth had been doing before lunch and prayed that he
wouldn't want her again.  No such luck.

"Aisling, come down here."

His voice on the intercom at a quarter to four made her heart sink.
She'd been kept busy getting Elizabeth's unfinished work in order and
cancelling Leo's appointments for Monday.

He hadn't even told her where he was going to be so she'd tried to
sound both firm and mysterious on the phone.

"Mr.  Murphy has been called away on urgent business and won't be able
to keep your appointment she'd said several times in her best posh

Aisling didn't know why, but she firmly suspected that she was lying
for Leo.  Instinct told her that his sudden change of plans had nothing
to do with a crucial conveyancing case.

Leo's face was still like thunder.

"Have you finished my dictation?"  he snapped.

"Er, yes.  Well, nearly."

"How nearly?"  he asked sarcastically.  Aisling could feel herself
getting red in the face and wished she was anywhere except in this
office right now.  Cleaning out the garden shed in the company of
several spiders and a few wasps would be nice by comparison.

"I've done six letters and I've got two left," she stammered;

"Is that all?"  Leo's heavy eyebrows were raised at least an inch as he
stared contemptuously at her.

Aisling thought that doing six letters in an hour and a half as well as
cancelling loads of appointments was pretty good for a novice.  But she
kept her mouth shut.  ,;

"You're not going to be much use to me if you can't keep;'.

up he said nastily.

"I'm sorry, Leo.  I'll get faster, honestly."  She was begging and she
knew it.  She couldn't afford to lose this job.  Please don't let him
sack me, she prayed.

"Mmm.  I hope so.  Can you do shorthand?  I've a letter to go, out this
evening."

"Yes."  She'd have said yes if he'd asked could she parachute out the
top window.  Shorthand had never been a requirement in the motor
department, but dealing with lengthy phone calls from irate customers
had taught her how to scribble at high speed.

This particular skill had not deserted her and after two attempts to
decipher what turned out to be 'contemporaneous' which Aisling would
have dearly loved to have changed to the more sensible and more
suitable 'at the same time' she finished Leo's letter in fifteen
minutes.

He was long-winded, but maybe that was simply his legal training.  If
he could say something in ten words instead of two, Leo went for the
ten words every time.  Nobody in Leo's world just did anything they
gave it due consideration, previous problems notwithstanding,
deliberated at length and finally reached conclusions, without
prejudice, of course.

Once the letter was signed and in the post, Leo was a different man,
charming, chatty.  All glinting, admiring eyes.

After sprinting noisily up the stairs, he casually dropped a few files
onto Aisling's desk and settled himself comfortably against its side.

"So, what have you planned for the weekend?"  he asked cosily, as
though he hadn't been bawling her out just half an hour previously.
Aisling smiled nervously as she opened another document on her computer
just to give her something to do other than look at him.

Had he been snorting some sort of recreational pharmaceutical down in
his office?  Or was his type of two-faced ness just part and parcel of
office life?  She was damned if she knew.

"Nothing much," she said cheerily, hoping the conversation would stop
there.

"You've two boys, haven't you?"  Leo loosened his red spotted tie and
opened the top button of his cream shirt.

"Yes," she said, surprised that he knew.

"So you're rushing home to them, right?"

Jesus, she could see where this conversation was going.  Leo was onto
the second shirt button.

"Yes, they get so upset when I don't get home on time," she lied with
as much sincerity as she could muster, thinking of the previous evening
when Phillip and Paul had been so glued to a Power Rangers video in
Fiona's that they hadn't wanted to come home at all.

"Pity."  Leo got up abruptly.

"We must have a drink some evening.  I can't have a new member of staff
without bringing her out for a drink, now can I?"  He smiled, baring a
set of wolfish canines.  She kept typing, wishing she could pull on her
cinnamon coloured cotton cardigan and do up all the buttons.  The pale
pink silk blouse she'd had for years had been washed to that
comfortable softness she loved but, precisely because it I' had been
washed to death, it was a bit on the see-through side.

She had that uncomfortable feeling that her white bra was visible
through the pink silk.  Guess who'd be looking.

She concentrated fiercely on her typing.  Her fingers were clumsy.

"Gotta go," he said after what seemed like an eternity.

"Be good."

"Bye, Leo."  She smiled at him as he left.  Please let him be gone for
good.  Please.

As she walked out the front door, Aisling felt like those military
cadets she'd seen in movies, the ones who threw their caps into the sky
with delight once they'd graduated despite the despotic sergeant who'd
made their lives a misery.  The week was over Finally.  Thank you God!
Suddenly fearful that Leo was lurking near the front door waiting to
drag her off for a drink somewhere, she hurried to her car.

She was dog-tired, had a ladder creeping up her tights, ?

knew she had to stop and get milk, and had promised the boys she'd pick
up a video for them.  But she didn't care.  It was Friday.  She could
crash out in front of the TV because the week was over.

Aisling felt tired but good as she sat in her car on More-hampton Road.
Five days ago, she'd been an outsider, the "( housewife masquerading
as a career woman.  Now she was sone of them, bunions, paper cuts and
all.  The week had been hell but she'd got through it.

She picked up a bottle of wine for herself in Superquinn and crisps for
the boys along with two lit res of milk.  Hell, she needed a treat.  In
an ideal world, they'd never eat crisps, she wouldn't drink wine and
cellulite would only affect supermodels.

But it wasn't an ideal world.  If the boys were happy watching TV and
stuffing their faces with crisps while she crashed out with a book and
a bottle of 4.99 plonk from somewhere unpronounceable in Spain, then
the evening would be going pretty well.

Phillip and Paul were like two athletes on performance enhancing drugs
on Saturday morning.

"You're only going for one night," exclaimed Aisling, taking Paul's
swimming togs and three squashed-up T-shirts out of his bag.

"I might need them."  He tried to stuff it all back in along with his
Independence Day alien spaceship and the dog-eared Paddington book he'd
loved since he was four.

"You won't, darling," Aisling said again.

"Let me do it.  Daddy will forget to pack all this stuff back again
tomorrow morning and you'll go mad if you leave anything behind."

"I can go back and get it the next day," Paul pointed out.

"I suppose you can."

Aisling wondered how Ms Carroll would cope with two energetic
ten-year-olds spreading muck through pale carpets and squabbling over
the remote control.

For a few gleeful minutes, she thought how thoroughly enjoyable it
would be to sabotage the trip.  She could almost hear herself telling
the boys that Daddy would want them to make themselves at home in his
new house, that they should behave exactly the way they did here.

"Daddy would be upset if he thought you weren't having fun, boys, and
I'm sure Jennifer wouldn't mind you bringing your soccer ball, your
Oasis tapes and your Power Rangers videos."

Stop it, she warned herself.  The only damage you'd do would be to the
twins.  Don't turn into one of those bitter women who use the children
as ammunition.

"Behave yourselves, won't you?"  she said as she packed their
toothbrushes and the peppermint toothpaste they liked into a small
sponge bag

"Yeah," muttered Paul from the depths of the bottom of the wardrobe. 
He was rooting around among the books, toys and plastic cars he
insisted on keeping.

"I'll miss you, you know she said quietly.  He didn't hear.

It was five past one when she drove up to the house after picking the
boys up from their soccer match.  Michael had parked his car on the
road, not in the driveway.  It was at once both frighteningly familiar
and terribly strange to see the silver gleaming Saab outside the
house

"Dad's home!"  yelled the twins in unison from the back

Aisling felt a prickle behind her eyes at the sight of the car, a
painful memory of those days when it had belonged there.

He climbed out of the driver's side when she drove in, tall and rangy
in chinos and a cream and blue striped casual shirt she didn't
recognise.

"Paul, Phillip, come here!"  he yelled unnecessarily as the boys
launched themselves at him.

"Dad, Dad, we missed you!"

"We won at soccer!"

"I got a medal in judo in summer camp!"

Michael picked Paul up and swung him around rapidly, releasing him
suddenly into a giggling heap on the drive before grabbing Phillip in
the same way.

They tussled for a few moments and then Michael picked up the soccer
ball Phillip had dropped and ran onto the grass with it.

Whooping with joy at playing with Dad again, they followed him happily,
tackling clumsily, tripping up and shouting at each other.

Aisling left them to it.  They didn't need her.  It wasn't right to
think of the boys as her private property, but that's what she'd been
doing.  She had to face the fact that they didn't belong to either her
or Michael.  They were their children, not their possessions.

She walked into the kitchen, flicked on the kettle automatically and
opened the washing-machine door.

Might as well get the clothes dry.

"How are you?"

Michael leaned against the jamb of the kitchen door, hands in his
pockets, a relaxed look on his dark face.  He stared at her, dark eyes
blank.  Blast him!  Here she was hyped up and nervous about seeing him
for the first time since that horrible Friday and he was looking at her
as if he hadn't a care in the world.  The shirt was definitely new.
Obviously expensive.  He hadn't been sitting home trawling through his
wardrobe looking for suitable things to wear.  He'd been shopping with Bitch.

"Fine," she answered curtly.

"You're looking well, anyway.  Have you lost some weight?"  , She
allowed herself to smile at him.  "I don't know.  I've just been so
busy.  Maybe I have."

"It suits you."

His voice was admiring.  What was he up to?  Flattery wasn't going to
get him anywhere.  "I hope you've figured out what to tell the boys,"
she said,!

determined to burst his bubble.  "I have."  A wary look appeared on
his face.  "I'm sorry you've had to deal with everything.  I didn't
want it to work out this way, you must understand that, Aisling."

Oh God, she was going to cry.  She'd been fine until he started this.

"I don't want to talk about it, Michael," she said, turning away and
bending down to drag the washing out of the machine.

"Make sure nobody gives them Coke before they go to bed, all right?"
She couldn't bring herself to say Jennifer.

"When will you bring them back?"

"Is six OK?"  he asked.

Fine.  "She didn't turn around, she couldn't.  She just wished he'd go
out to the car and let her say goodbye to the boys on her own.

"We have to talk sometime, Aisling."

"I know, I know.  Just not now."

"See you tomorrow then.  I'll leave my phone number on the pad in case
you need to contact me."

She heard him searching through the jam jar where she kept odds and
ends, looking for a pen that worked.

"I'll wait outside, Aisling.  Bye."

She slammed the door of the washing machine viciously and straightened
up.  The boys waved at her from the back seat, not a shred of sadness
on their happy, laughing faces.  She waved just as happily, a grin
super glued onto her face.

When they were gone, she felt her entire body sag miserably.

Whatever would she do until Sunday at six?

"Have dinner with us," begged Fiona on the phone five minutes later.

"I'd love to," said Aisling tearfully, glad that Fiona hadn't dropped
over to witness her sobbing into a tea towel.  She couldn't imagine
being even vaguely hungry and the last time she'd had dinner with the
Finucanes, Michael had been by her side.  But anything was better than
an evening on her own, an evening of remembering.

Dinner turned out to be Fiona's favourite menu, the simplest and
quickest thing she could cook or reheat.

Smoked salmon and brown bread "No cooking," she said triumphantly
followed by chicken Kiev straight from Marks and Spencer's with a few
wilting bits of broccoli and baked potatoes cooked by herself.

That was lovely, darling," Pat told his wife afterwards, before sinking
into an armchair, exhausted after an energetic round of golf.

The two women sat at the dining-room table picking at the chocolate
mousse which had turned out miles lumpier than it had looked on the
packet.

"I wish you'd teach me how to cook."  Fiona lit up a cigarette and
inhaled deeply.  "You can cook, Fee," Aisling pointed out.

"You know you can follow a recipe book as well as anyone else can, you
just get bored in the middle and forget about it all until it's too
late.

Anyway, there's just no point killing yourself cooking gourmet dinners
to the exclusion of all else.  I can vouch for that," she added
somewhat bitterly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to moan."

"You're allowed," the other woman answered.

"Shirley Conran said something about life being too short to stuff a
mushroom.  I wish I'd realised that long ago," Aisling sighed.

"She also said that she'd prefer to lie on a bed than hoover under it
laughed Fiona.

"I like that one!"

After this last week, I'm a convert to that way of thinking Aisling
said with a smile.

"Life is certainly too short to stuff mushrooms when you're working and
looking after two kids.  I finally tidied up the twins' room this
afternoon and you'd swear it hadn't been done for a month.  I've no
idea how they can make the place that messy in such a short length of
time."

They chatted, drank coffee and retired to Fiona's Scandinavian white
kitchen to stow the dinner dishes in the dishwasher.

By eleven, Pat was snoring in front of the TV and Aisling said her
goodbyes.

Thanks, Fee."  she said sincerely.

"I'm not sure I could have faced an evening of unadulterated
aloneness."

"Well, you got an evening of unadulterated excitement!"

laughed Fiona.

"Plus an haute cuisine microwave-inthreeminutes dinner and a sleeping
host.  What more could you ask for?"

That night Aisling slept fitfully.  She awoke in a cold sweat at five
past seven and knew she'd never get back to sleep.

Punching the pillows didn't help.

Tomorrow, she'd doubtless sleep through the alarm.  Today, when she
could stay in bed for hours, she was wide awake.

Plenty of time to clean, polish and hoover meant that the house was
spotless when the doorbell rang a little after six that evening.  You
could have licked your dinner off the floor, Aisling decided, if you
felt that way inclined, that was.
She opened the door gratefully and the boys exploded into the house, dragging their luggage after them
like dead bodies.

Michael hadn't come in, he just waved at her from the car.

"Darlings, I missed you so much," she said tearfully, hugging them both
tightly.

Paul shrugged her off and headed for the kitchen.  At least Phillip
gave her another hug before he followed his twin.

"How did you get on?"  she asked as brightly as she could.

Please say she was a hideous old cow and the house was like a pit, she
prayed unfairly.

"Jennifer is really nice," announced Paul with all the tact of a
traffic warden.

"She's got this great car, a Nissan 100X Tbar."  he added.

"Black.  And she's brilliant at Quasar."

Aisling felt about two feet tall.  Two feet tall and stupid.

And ugly.  Not content with taking her husband, this bloody woman had
managed to charm her boys as well.  What a pity she hadn't taught them
to hate the cowl "She can't cook, Mum," said Phillip loyally.

"Yeah, we're hungry."  Paul threw open the fridge door and peered
inside anxiously.

Bread and water for you, Aisling wanted to say angrily, but she
couldn't.  It wasn't their fault.

"I'll make you something," she said.  Tell me ..."  she hesitated,
'what was she like?  What's the house like?"

The How to Split Up Nicely books probably didn't recommend pumping your
ten-year-old sons for information on their father's new girlfriend but
she just had to find out something.

"She's got this great garage door that opens when you press this thing
in the car," Paul said enthusiastically.

Yeah, it's called somebody else's husband, thought Aisling sourly.

"But is the house nice?"

"It's OK.  She's got a big telly."

Great.  What do you expect from kids who wouldn't notice dry rot if
they saw it.  Aisling wanted hard facts, modernist or romantic, all
muslin curtains and brass headboards or Philippe Starck lemon juicers
and icy white sofas?

"She's got a conservatory volunteered Phillip.

"And lights in the back garden."

For candlelit dinner parties, no doubt.  Aisling ripped the plastic off
a frozen pizza and jammed it under the grill.

"You can't have chips.  Will you eat baked beans?"

"Yeah," they chorused.

God, the food must have been awful.  Beans were not high on the dinner
excitement-ometer.  Aisling cursed the rusty tin opener for the
millionth time and reminded herself to get a new one.  She slopped the
entire can into a saucepan and stirred it angrily with a wooden spoon.
She should have shares in Heinz by now.

"How's Daddy?"

"He brought us to McDonald's and got us a new video.  I said I missed
him, but he won't come home."  Phillip carefully poured orange juice
into a glass and drank the contents in one gulp.

Aisling's spoon stopped stirring.

"What did you ask him?"

"I said we wanted him back and he said you and he had rowed and decided
to be away from each other for a time," Phillip said quickly, obviously
repeating what he'd been told verbatim.

"He said you didn't love each other any more."

He looked up at her, big dark eyes welling up with tears.  Aisling
cursed Michael and his truthfulness.  How the hell did he expect two
ten-year-olds to understand what she couldn't?

Beans forgotten, she pulled Phillip to her and held him tightly.  His
green sweatshirt smelled of Michael's aftershave and another scent she
couldn't identify.  Something heavy and cloying.  Her perfume.

"Why can't he come home, Mum?"  Phillip asked.

There was no answer to that one.

"Daddy needs to be away for a while.  Not away from you boys," she
added hastily.  Away from me.  Mums and dads who've been married a long
time sometimes need to have a break, you know.  Lots of people do it.
It can be good for everyone."  She faltered.

"People get very bored stuck together for ever.  You wouldn't want to
be friends with just Greg and no one else, now would you?"

"No."  Paul had stopped poking around in the fridge and was looking
mutinous.

"But that's different!"

"Why?"

"We're boys.  Boys don't stay with boys.  They're just friends.

Not like girls and boys."

Oh well, thought Aisling.  She wondered how to explain that boys
sometimes ended up with boys, and girls with girls.

But that particular version of the birds and the bees would have to
wait until they'd got a grasp on the whole concept of mummies and
daddies breaking up.

"It's not that simple, boys," she said.

Phillip gave her a hard, inquisitive stare so like Michael's that she
felt her jaw drop.

"Why not?"

Ask your bloody father, she wanted to yell.  The beans began to
bubble.

"Get plates, Phillip."  she commanded in a voice that left no room for
arguments.

"Paul, lay the table."

For once, they just did what they were told.  She waited until they'd
washed their hands and were sitting quietly at the table, cutlery at
the ready, before she said anything.

"Boys, it's not easy for any of us.  But your dad and I have split up
for a while.  It's very difficult for me, I miss Dad too.

But he's gone for a while and we're just going to have to live with
that.  It's not your fault.  He loves you both just as much as ever. 
So do I."  she added.

This is a grown-up thing and we've got to get on with life.

I don't want you getting miserable thinking he's never coming back or
that he doesn't want to see you.  Of course he does.

That's why he brought you to see Jennifer today."  Even saying her name
hurt.

"For the moment, you've got two homes.  Isn't that great?"

she added brightly.  "Yeah," said Paul, 'and three cars.  I want
Jennifer to pick me up from camp in her car."

"Great idea said Aisling from behind gritted teeth.  Little turncoat.

"Here's your beans."

She slopped a puddle of beans onto his plate and wondered was it too
late to stick her head in the oven.  The prospect of Leo Murphy, two
irritable children and a glamorous rival turning up with a size eight
bum and a sports car to pick up the kids was just too much for one
woman to bear.  

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Jo climbed out of the car slowly,
grateful for the chance to stretch her legs after so long in the
driving seat.  Her back ached and her shoulders were stiff from
continually crunching gears as she passed trundling juggernauts and
carloads of tourists meandering along the road west.  It had taken two
weary hours to reach Longford, the half way point between Dublin and
Jo's home town in the West.  Holidaymakers enjoying the June sunshine
had dawdled along the road all the way from the Naas Road, admiring
cows, lamb-filled fields and the lush green countryside.

Fifteen years of travelling from Dublin to Sligo had made Jo immune to
the charms of the N4.  She didn't want to gaze at cows, so once she
left the outskirts of the city, she just put her foot down and drove,
eager to get the four-hour journey to Innisbhail over with.

By lunchtime, the rumbling in her stomach meant she just had to stop
somewhere for something to eat and a break.

How do you expect to grow if you won't let Mummy eat properly?  she
addressed her tiny bump as she walked into the Longford Arms from the
car park, massaging her aching neck with one hand.  Proper lunch or
just a. sandwich?  she wondered when she reached the reception area.

A handsome man standing at the desk followed her with his eyes, openly
admiring the tall, leggy brunette in the flowing saffron-coloured
dress.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jo saw him look and couldn't resist
giving him a come-hitherish little smile.  Then she casually flicked
back her curls with one hand and walked into the dining room, her dress
swirling around slender tanned ankles.  She couldn't be bothered with
men right now, but it was still nice to know that she hadn't lost her
touch.  Fortified by a huge chicken salad, cheesecake and a Lucozade
for energy, she was back in the car by two and overtaking tourists'
cars at five past.

As she drove past the villages and hamlets which had signposted every
journey home since she'd been nineteen, Jo felt a growing sense of
excitement.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd travelled down this road,
dying to see her mother, Shane and Tom full of news and eager to hear
theirs.  She certainly had some amazing news for them this time.  But
Jo had decided not to tell anyone until after Shane's birthday party.
You're only forty once, she thought and it wouldn't be fair to disrupt
the surprise party her sister-in-law, Mary, had been painstakingly
planning for weeks by announcing the existence of another addition to
the Ryan family.

She'd tell her mother, Jo decided.  She'd have to.  Her mother could
detect something out of the ordinary in about two seconds, which was
why Jo had only made a few hurried phone calls from the office since
she'd found out she was pregnant.  It wasn't that Laura Ryan would pass
out at the news that her only daughter was pregnant before they'd gone
through the big church wedding shenanigans.  Her mother had never been
one of those people who gossiped disapprovingly at the back of the
church before Mass, the ones who tut tutted over any poor girl who was
pregnant and unmarried.

But Jo knew what her mother had gone through.  It had been a huge
struggle to raise three kids on her own when their father died.  She
had been both parent and sole breadwinner for four-year-old Jo,
seven-year-old Tom and ten-year-old Shane.  While Laura was able to run
the small dairy farm her husband had left her, she was determined that
her children never wanted for anything.

When times were lean she sold eggs from her Rhode Island Reds and the
rich yellow butter she churned every week.  Jo loved her job of
collecting the eggs in the morning and evening, leaving one in each
nest to confuse the hens into laying there again the next day.  By the
time they were teenagers the three Ryan kids could drive the tractor
with ease, knew how to help a cow give birth and could milk in their
sleep.  When Tom decided to study to be a vet, Laura knitted Aran
jumpers for sale in Innisbhail's craft shop to help pay his fees.  Now
that Shane ran the farm and had turned it into a much larger business,
the bad times were over.  Laura still kept her hens and made her own
butter, but she'd handed over the farm to her elder son and was finally
able to relax after twenty years of difficult single parenthood.

So much had changed since Jo had first talked to her mother about
settling down and having a family.  She'd been seventeen then, in the
first flush of what she thought was the love of her life, dreaming of a
fairytale wedding, exquisite children, a bungalow beside the sea with a
tennis court out the back and a garden big enough for ten kids.

Seventeen years later, she could laugh at her teenage dreams.  At least
she could afford a baby now.  Then, her entire fortune had consisted of
a collection of much loved secondhand books, four David Bowie albums
and thirty pounds in her post office account.  Not exactly enough to
keep a small child in nappies, never mind pureed vegetables.

She'd planned to rely on Steve, of course, her well-off, clever
boyfriend.  Would he have been a better father than Richard, she
wondered?

She passed a bus bound for Dublin, ready to pick up scores of weary
office workers and students and bring them back home for the weekend.

That particular journey was burned into her head like a cattle brand,
hours of endlessly winding wet roads interspersed with mind-numbingly
boring stops in rush-hour traffic and only one longed-for break in
Mullingar for steaming tea.  Four hours in a rackety bus had never been
her ideal way to spend Friday evenings.

She remembered that freezing January night the bus had broken down
outside Foxford and she and the other passengers had been stranded
there for two hours before another bus arrived.  Three squares of
chocolate and a sip of tea from someone else's flask were not enough
to keep hypothermia at bay when the wind whistled wickedly outside and
the heating didn't work inside.

Her mother had been quite frantic when Jo finally reached home,
convinced that there'd been some dreadful accident.  Jo could
understand how she'd felt.  Just a few miles down the road from where
the bus had broken down, the tiny white cross was still there, tucked
neatly into the ditch at a deceptively gentle-looking bend.  A few
plastic flowers were jammed up close to the cross, just under the
letters "RIP'.

She'd thought those little grottoes were pretty when she'd been a
child, always full of flowers, the small Virgin Marys in their sky-blue
cloaks brightening the roadsides.

The road widened just before she reached Ballina.  Jo remembered
driving out that way with Steve, going to a party in his mother's
precious Mercedes.  Banana yellow with cream leather seats and an
opulent interior smell Jo would never forget.  It was Mrs.  Kavanagh's
pride and joy.

Being Steve, he'd taken the corner badly and the car had nearly ended
up in the ditch.  Jo didn't know which thought' had terrified him most
being injured or facing Mummy's wrath if he dented her car.

That had been Steve all over, but she hadn't seen it at the time.  Of
course, she hadn't seen it this time either.  She'd screwed up exactly
the same way seventeen years down the line.  Awful though it was to
face it, Richard and Steve seemed to share some awful genetic code,
Bastards' DNA, which helped them forget responsibilities and promises
as soon as something or someone more interesting appeared on the
horizon.

You'd think I'd have copped on by now, Jo thought all of a sudden. 
What if I have a baby boy and he turns out to be a mini-Richard?

Don't be ridiculous.  She patted her belly and turned up the volume.
Mariah Carey's clear, piercing voice filled the car singing "Always Be
My Baby'.  Mariah's man wanted to leave her but she knew he'd be
back.

Lucky girl.  Jo was beginning to wonder if she could keep any man.

The car crested the hill and Innisbhail lay before her, a small town
nestling in a shallow valley, facing a remarkably sedate Atlantic on
the fourth side.  On bad days, the sea was a murky grey, surf crashing
violently against the rocky shore.

Today it was calm and the couple of small fishing boats far out to sea
bobbed serenely on the water.

In the distance, she could see the remains of the old abbey beside her
mother's home and the small wood where she'd played as a child.

The view always brought a lump to Jo's throat.  Today was no different.
This is where your mummy comes from, she told the baby tremulously,
wishing she didn't feel so emotionally precarious all the time.

Just last week, she'd cried when the owner of a health farm had rung up
to say thanks for the lovely piece they'd written in the June issue.
And on Wednesday, when she'd stupidly pulled out of a parking space in
front of another driver on Capel Street and he'd responded with angry
gestures and lots of honking, she'd felt like dissolving into tears.

Cop on, Jo, she commanded.  Don't wimp out now.

She drove down the familiar winding road and into the town, past the
convent where she'd gone to school and along the main street where she
and Marie Brennan had spent five years walking their bikes wearily up
the hill before the long cycle home.  Everything looked exactly the
same, apart from the bright orange plastic burger bar sign hanging over
the old post office, jarring with the sedate black and white shop
fronts on the left side of the road.

The seats outside O'Reilly's Bar had been repainted, and someone had
finally replaced the tired-looking hanging baskets with new wire ones
from which rampant nasturtiums hung in wild clumps.

The Birkenstock twins were walking along past Dillon's, the butchers,
their once-auburn hair tied back into greying sensible plaits as they
marched steadily up the hill, nattering non-stop in German, no doubt.

They'd tried to teach Jo once but she'd never got beyond the "How are
you?  I'm fine' stage.

She was sorry now that she hadn't made the effort to learn German. 
Then again, she was sorry she'd never learned how to play the piano,
how to knit Aran and how to change her own spark plugs.

Well, there'd be plenty of time for that when she was the size of a
house and could spend hours reclining on the settee, reading
educational books and waiting for baby to make an appearance.

A man on the footpath was waving energetically at her.  She jerked back
to reality and stopped the car, opening the window all the way down.

"Hello!"  roared Billy Gallagher enthusiastically, dragging two small
cross-looking boys over to Jo's car.

"How are you?"  His sunburned face was warm with greeting, as friendly
as it had been when they'd been in high infants together and she'd
stuck up for him when the big boys bullied him because he was the
teacher's son.

"I'm fine, Billy.  How are you?  God, the boys are getting so big now,
I can't believe the size of them!"

"Say hello to your auntie Jo, Connell and Michael," he demanded,
pulling the boys closer to the car.

No joy.

"Ah sure, they take after me."  He grinned.

"Shy."

"You were never shy, Billy, don't give me that!"  Jo laughed.

"A slow developer, then "How's Marie?"

"Bringing her granny into Ballina to get her glasses changed.

She'd have been here if she knew you were coming today," he said,
mildly reproachful.  Jo knew that Marie would be vexed if she found her
old friend was coming home for Shane's fortieth birthday party a day
early and hadn't told her.

"It's so busy in the office now that I didn't know if I'd be able to
get away a day early," she said, not quite truthfully.  It was
difficult to pacify everyone when you lived a long way from home.

Everyone thought they should be first on your visiting list.  She
didn't want to upset Marie, but once she'd told her exactly what was
going on, the other woman would definitely understand why she had come
home early without mentioning it.

"Will I get her to ring you when she gets home?"  asked Billy, as
three-year-old Connell started to pull in the direction of an ice cream
van.

"Do that.  Bye boys, bye Billy."

After that, she waved at people but didn't stop.  You could be stopping
all day, saying hello to this one and that, giving potted histories on
what you'd done or where you'd been.  Jo loved the friendliness of
Innisbhail, the sensation of being enveloped in a warm, welcoming
blanket.  But it could be a bit overwhelming, especially when you were
in a rush.

Two miles out of town, she took a left turn at the abbey and drove a
quarter of a mile before turning left again, past the old green gates
and over the cattle grid to park beside her mother's Mini.

The Albertine climbing rose was out in force, covering the front of the
small, whitewashed cottage in a wreath of baby-pink flowers.  She could
smell its rich, heady scent on the afternoon air as Prince, the old
sheepdog, stumbled sleepily out into the sunshine and started wagging
his tail as soon as he saw her.

"Hello, old boy," she said delightedly, rumpling his fur.

Prince panted and wagged, gazing up with rheumy eyes, happy to have
someone new to pet him.

"Darling, how wonderful to see you!"  Laura Ryan stood at the porch,
her hands covered in flour and more than a bit of it on her dark curly
hair.

"Mum."  Jo ran up and hugged her mother, breathing in the smell of
lemon soap she always used along with the scent of Charlie Red she'd
worn ever since her seven-year-old grandson, Ben, had bought it for her
for Christmas.

"You look good," her mother said slowly, standing back and taking in
her daughter's ever-so-slightly fuller figure which was admittedly well
hidden by her flowing dress.  "Have you been baking or bathing in
flour?"  Jo demanded, laughing as she brushed flour from her mother's
hair.

"Baking until Flo Doyle rang me to say she'd seen your car in the town.
It's impossible to answer the phone when your hands are covered in
flour."

"Good to see the old bush telegraph is still working as reliably as
ever."  Jo said.

That woman has nothing better to do but look out her front window and
use the phone all day long," her mother answered, heading back into the
kitchen to put the pastry lid on her apple tart.

"She rang "so I'd be prepared for you" to put it in her words.  What
does she think I'd be doing that I wouldn't want you to see?  Having it
off with the postman?"

Jo laughed and automatically went to the black iron range to move the
heavy metal kettle onto the hottest plate.  Prince followed her, his
nose snuffling her dress in the hope that she had a couple of Mixed
Ovals hidden somewhere.  The kettle hissed satisfactorily, already
nearly boiled.

"Just give me a moment to finish this one and I'm all yours," her
mother said, putting the finishing touches to the tart.

"There's coffee in the cupboard if you want it," she added.

"No, I've given up coffee."  It had been nearly two weeks since Jo had
tasted a drop of coffee.

"You've what?"  Tart forgotten, Laura turned around and stared at her
daughter.  Dark brown eyes met dark brown eyes as her mother's
quizzical gaze bored into Jo's head.

"Given up coffee, that's all," Jo answered.  Then she laughed out loud.
She should have known better than to try and hide the news from her
mother for even one millisecond.  She should have just announced it as
soon as she'd got out of the car.

"It's not good for babies, is it?"  she said simply.

"Oh Jo!"  Her mother's face crumpled into tears and she threw her arms
around Jo, clinging to her as if for dear life.

"Oh my darling, that's wonderful news.  I'm so happy for you, so happy.
Now sit down she said, leading Jo to the old faded green armchair
which had been in the kitchen as long as Jo could remember.

"Sit down and tell me everything."

Jo sank gratefully into the chair, feeling immeasurably comforted by
her mother's love and affection.  The small kitchen, with its flowery
wallpaper, lace curtains and gallery of Seanie, Dan and Ben's finger
paintings, was so familiar.  So what if Richard had left her.  She
still had her family.  Her mother pulled up a small stool and sat down
beside Jo.

"When did you find out?  And why are you only telling me now?"  she
demanded.

"If you told Richard's rat bag of a mother before me, I'll murder the
pair of you!"  She was only half joking.  Although Laura Ryan had never
actually met Richard's mother, she'd heard enough about her from Jo to
loathe the other woman.

That's the problem," said Jo, wondering how best to broach the subject.
Head on, she decided.

"Richard doesn't want to know.  He's baby-phobic or commitment-phobic
or something like that..."

Her mother's freckled face paled visibly.

"What do you mean, he doesn't want to know?  It's his baby, what is
there to know?"

"I mean that he didn't want me to have it, Mum.  It was an accident, we
didn't plan it or anything.  But I thought he'd be happy, it's my fault
really."  She sighed.

"Don't be ridiculous!"  Laura said angrily.

"It's not just your fault.  It takes two people to make a baby and he's
old enough to know the consequences of sex.  What did he expect?"

Jo barely registered that her mother was talking about sex in such a
nonchalant manner.

"He expected me to be the sort of career woman who wouldn't want a baby
messing up her perfect life," said Jo in a wobbly voice.

"He wanted me to have an abortion, but I wouldn't."

She broke down finally and sobbed.  Her mother wrapped her arms around
Jo, holding her close and whispering the same soft nothings she'd
whispered thirty years before to comfort a little girl frightened of
shadows in the bedroom after her father's funeral.  "There there my
love.  Don't worry, Jo.  We're all here for you, I promise.  Anyway,
I've always wanted to be there for the birth of a grandchild and this
is the perfect opportunity."

They sat like that for a while.  Prince lay on the floor beside them,
knowing something was up and waiting with his nose between his paws in
an expectant manner.

"I'm OK, Mum, honestly."  Jo felt around for her handbag and got a
tissue.

"I'm used to the idea, thinking about the baby is giving me some kind
of strength."

"Are you eating properly?"  demanded her mother, getting up to make
tea.

"Yes, Mum."  Jo laughed.

"Like a horse, in fact.  I'm going to end up like the Michelin Man if
I'm not careful.  I've had the most dreadful morning sickness and I
can't keep anything down, before twelve.  After that," she said, "I eat
everything I can get my hands on!"

"You'll have some fruit cake, then, won't you?"

"Definitely."

Jo laid out the china cups and saucers her mother always insisted on
using and settled herself at the kitchen table.  Hot sweet tea and
mouthfuls of soft, crumbling cake gave her an energy boost and she
started her story.

The scent of perfectly cooked apple tart filled the kitchen by the time
she was finished.

"What's the plan for Shane's birthday anyway?"  she asked.

"For a start, he'd better not see you or he'll know something's up,"
her mother said, carefully laying four perfectly golden tarts on the

"He's gone to Killalla to look at some cows and he won't be back until
late.  Mary's coming over here with the boys and we're going to finish
the cooking.

We've got a hundred coming so that's a lot of sausage rolls."

"Don't tell her, will you?"  begged Jo.

"I don't want to ruin Shane's night.  It's his party."

"It's more Mary's, the amount of work she's done," Laura said.

"She's made enough cakes and quiches to feed the five thousand, so if
nobody's hungry we'll all have full freezers for the next month.  I've
said I'm going into Ballina shopping tomorrow so I won't be over to
them for lunch," her mother added, carrying the tarts away to the tiny
pantry.

"It was the only excuse I could come up with.  Mary's telling him she's
going with me, but we plan to make up the salads here and bring
everything down to O'Reilly's.  She bought banners and balloons and
everything, God bless her."

- "Shane is going to get quite a shock," commented Jo.

"Shock isn't the word for it.  Mary's been telling him he shouldn't let
being forty bother him and that she's not going to make a fuss.  I told
him I'd get him a nice pullover and some socks and bring the pair of
them out to the pub tomorrow evening before I go to bingo.  Poor Shane.
He hasn't a clue."

They laughed together.

"He hates the thought of being forty, but I think he's a little upset
that Mary and he aren't doing anything special tomorrow night.  I can't
wait to see his face when he realises he's been had," Laura said with a
grin.

"How are Tom and Karen?"  asked Jo.

"It's been hard for them now Karen's back at work," said Laura.

"Oisin is some handful and Anna, the girl who runs the creche, is
driven demented with him.  Karen hates leaving him in the morning and I
wouldn't be at all surprised if she gives up work to mind him
herself."

Lord, thought Jo to herself when her mother had gone outside to make up
the hens' feed.  If Karen couldn't cope with six-month-old Oisin
despite having the back-up of a husband, two unmarried sisters living
round the corner and a helpful mother-in-law, how the hell was she
going to manage totally on her own?  She knew that her extrovert
sister-in-law loved her job as a beautician.  The idea that Karen, of
all people, wasn't able to combine motherhood and career gave Jo a
headache thinking about it.

"I'm not giving up my job for any baby," Karen had said defiantly when
she was pregnant and an elderly neighbour commented that she'd better
stop working before she began looking pregnant.

Mary had coped with two small children and her job as a nurse, Jo
reminded herself.  Mary had worked four days a week in the local
hospital even when Ben was going through the terrible twos and made
valiant efforts to demolish any room he was left alone in for more than
three minutes.

When Mary arrived at half seven, honking her horn excitedly and
sprinting into the house to see her sister-in-law, Jo was desperate to
ask her how she coped with both a new baby and a job.  But she
couldn't.  She'd never really been interested in Karen and Mary's
pregnancies, but now she was fairly bursting to ask questions.

Instead, she rolled out layer after layer of flaky pastry, leaving her
mother and the nimble-fingered Mary to handle the lumps of sticky
sausage meat.  Prince sat glued to Mary's side, knowing she was
soft-hearted enough to slip him the odd bit of sausage meat, something
his mistress, who was watching his weight, never did.

"How's that gorgeous man of yours?"  asked Mary with the smile she
hadn't been able to take off her face all evening.

It would have been cruel to ruin Mary's evening by telling her the
truth.  She was so excited at the thought of the surprise birthday
party that she was running on pure adrenalin.

"He's fine."  Jo didn't dare look at her mother.

"How's his back?"  Mary inquired, her professional interest sparked by
Richard's constant lower-disc problem.

"Fine," Jo answered tautly, wondering whether he was getting a soothing
massage from that Sascha bitch.  A nice kick in the backside, that's
the sort of treatment she'd like to give him now.  She thought of all
those evenings when she'd worn herself out gently rubbing massage oil
into his aching muscles.

"He'd really want to watch his back, you know.  He could have a lot of
problems later in life," Mary continued seriously, blithely unaware of
the looks being passed between Laura and Jo.

"Tell us, love, what should we be wearing for autumn?"

asked Laura, as though she actually gave a hoot for fashion.

"Oh yes!"  said Mary eagerly.

"I was going to wear my velvet dress tomorrow night, but if you think
I should try something else, Jo?"

"What else have you got?"  Jo asked, delighted to change the subject.

"I love that amber two-piece you wore for Oisin's christening.  What
about that?"

"Do you think that would be nice?  I've gone off it because my tummy's
sticking out," sighed Mary.

"Get out of here!  What tummy?"  demanded Jo, thinking of her own
expanding belly.

"Do I look all right?"  begged Mary, adjusting her bra strap in the
toilet mirror in O'Reilly's the following evening.

"Shane hasn't said I look nice at all."

"He's shell-shocked, Mary," Jo pointed out practically.  The poor man
still hasn't got over how you managed to set up this entire party
without him hearing a whisper.  He certainly hasn't got his brain
sorted out enough to tell you that you look beautiful.  And you do,"
she added.

"Oh, I don't know," said Mary tearfully, fiddling with her lustrous red
curls.

"You look lovely Jo said firmly.

"Now come on out and get the dancing started.  It's like a wedding out
there, everyone's waiting for you two to start dancing!"

After several duty dances with old family friends, Jo was about to head
outside for a breath of fresh air when a hand on her shoulder made her
whirl around.

"Hello, Jo."  She'd have known that husky voice anywhere.

Steve Kavanagh hadn't changed a bit.

He was still good-looking although he certainly hadn't got any younger.
The gleaming blue eyes that used to dazzle her now had a generous
scattering of tiny lines around them.

"How are you?"

For a moment, Jo couldn't think of anything to say.  Her social smile
deserted her and she just looked at him blankly.

What did you say to the first man who'd ever broken your heart?

Get a grip, Jo, she told herself sharply.  What have you been doing for
the last seventeen years, if it wasn't learning how to get one up on
this sneaky, two-timing pig?

"Wonderful, Steve, I'm wonderful," she breathed in her best sexy
voice.

"And how are you?"

Was it her imagination, or did his eyes light up at the tone of her
voice?

"Fine.  But you look fantastic," he said, a hint of awe in his voice.
Thank God she'd worn the Lainey Keogh dress that moulded her figure
like a second skin.

"Thank you, Steve."  She smiled like a cat who'd just found a cat-flap
in the cream bun factory door.

"Isn't Miriam with you tonight?"

"Yes, she's over by the bar We were on our way back after dinner and
thought we'd drop in."

Thought you'd crash the party because you can't bear to miss anything,
Jo thought nastily.  There's no way you and your horrible wife were
invited to this party.

"It's been a long time, Jo," he said.

"Gosh, I suppose it has, she replied.  Ten years at least, she added,
knowing well it was fifteen.

"I think about you, about us, sometimes."  Steve stared at her, giving
her the benefit of the lethal Kavanagh smile she'd never been able to
resist when she was a teenager.

"Do you?"  Jo smiled at him indulgently.

"Weren't we the mad things, convinced we were in love at seventeen?"
She laughed, as though she hadn't spent months crying when she heard he
was going to marry Miriam Timmons.

"Sometimes I see your picture in the magazine and wonder what it would
have been like if we'd stayed together ..."

"Goodness, Steve, you old romantic.  We'd have killed each I other if
we'd stayed together.  I couldn't imagine it!"  it gave her a dart of
pleasure to see him flinch as the barb struck home.  Serves you right,
you bastard, she thought.  He wasn't ageing well.

Funny, thought Jo, eyeing him up surreptitiously.  She used to think he
dressed so well.  Now she was a fashion editor and Steve Kavanagh was
standing before her wearing a red polo shirt which didn't go with his
red cheeks and a pair of cream jeans which did nothing for his beer
belly.

"Joanne, nice to see you."  Jo swivelled around to face her old-time
enemy, the only person who'd ever called her by her full name since
she'd insisted on being called Jo at the tomboyish age of ten.

"Miriam, what a surprise!"  The chubby Miriam Timmons she'd known had
grown up into a very thin woman, with a short helmet of frosted blonde
hair and the sort of mahogany tan which would have cancer specialists
shaking their heads in disbelief.

She was dressed beautifully, in a coffee-coloured suede skirt and a
silk blouse, but the clothes hung on her bony frame like laundry on a
clothes-horse.  A cluster of gold bangles and gold necklaces rattled as
she moved and she made sure that her ostentatious engagement diamond,
in a setting as big as a knuckleduster, caught the light as she waved
her hand.

"Well, Joanne, you're looking well.  Are you here on your own?"  Miriam
looked around the room pointedly as though trying to seek out Jo's
boyfriend.  Jo would have bet a year's salary that Miriam knew damn
well she was here on her own and wanted to rub it in.  Boyfriend
couldn't be bothered to come with you, huh?  Jo could almost hear the
words.

Miriam's heavily made-up eyes dropped to Jo's bare ring finger

Two can play at that game, thought Jo.

"I didn't expect to see you two here," she said.

"Mary didn't mention inviting you."  Take that, you gate crashing cow,
she thought venomously.

Miriam blinked nervously.  She'd done that in French class when she
tried to pretend she'd mislaid her grammar copybook.

"We, we were ... just passing and thought we'd drop in!"

she faltered.

Score one to me.  Jo smiled to herself.

"Steve was telling me you buy Style," she added.

"It's lovely to know that the people at home follow your career.

Although I should point out, Steve," she said, 'that the photo they've
' been using on my bylines recently is at least a year old.  It was
taken when I was at the Paris fashion shows last spring and it's
ancient!"

Miriam was simmering.

"Duty calls."  sighed Jo regretfully.  She slipped an arm around
Steve's waist and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"So nice to see you, Steve," she added warmly.

"Bye, Miriam."

Jo turned and walked away, aware that two pairs of eyes were glued to
her back.  A little sexy sway wouldn't go amiss, she decided.  What
wouldn't she give to hear the conversation between Steve and Miriam

Maybe it had been plain old bitchy to vamp it up so much and kiss Steve
goodbye, but she didn't care.  Miriam deserved it.  And the wonderful
thing was, she hadn't felt a thing when she kissed Steve.  Not a
smidgen of regret at what might have been.  She'd shed quite enough
tears over him.  Thank God she was cured.  All she needed to do now was
cure herself of Richard.

"It's so wonderful to be back!"  Rhona stood at the office door, a huge
smile on her tanned face and bags hanging off her arms.

"Did you miss me, darlings?"  she trilled, dropping the bags to hug Jo
warmly.

"Sorry I didn't ring last night, pet," she whispered.

"We didn't get in until after eleven and I didn't want to interrupt
your and baby's beauty sleep.  And how has this place been while I've
been away?"  she added more loudly for the benefit of the rest of the
staff.

"Great," said Jo.

"We had a ball and it looks as if you did too."

"I want to make loads of money and retire to France."  Rhona retrieved
her bag and dragged out a batch of tiny tissue paper wrapped
packages.

"Now these," she said, doling them out to everyone, 'are only small
pressies, but don't say I ever forget

"Oooh lovely," squealed Brenda, who'd found a pair of shell earrings in
her package.

On the phone as ever, Nikki waved a hand-painted pottery candle-holder
at Rhona and mouthed 'thank you'.

"I didn't know what to get you, Tony."  said Rhona, as the chief
sub-editor emerged from the advertising office with a pile of papers in
his hands.

"I knew you wouldn't like anything but booze, darling, but this lot
would complain if I gave you any and not them, so I got you this."

She produced a tiny bottle.  Tony took it and peered through his
glasses to see what the label said.

"Aphrodisiac oil!"  he exclaimed.

"I just thought you might need some," Rhona said innocently, batting
eyelids sooty with mascara.

"You didn't complain the last time we went to bed, Rho Rho," he
countered.

"She said I was a tiger he told everyone with a dramatic sigh.

"Women ..."

"What about them?"  A deep voice behind them made everyone hop
guiltily.

Standing outside Rhona's office, holding a heavy black briefcase, was
Mark Denton.  He did not look terribly amused.

But then, Jo decided, he rarely did these days.

If Jo had been asked to describe Mark Denton, she would never have said
that he was handsome.  Some women said he was attractive, sexy even,
although she could never see it.  She had to admit that he was well
built with rugby player's shoulders topping a lean, tall frame.  But
his Roman nose was crooked, his jaw could have broken rocks and the
only sign that his chin had ever yielded against anything was the
off-centre dent in it.  Short, greying dark hair was raked back over a
lined forehead.  And his shrewd and piercing eyes looked as if they'd
never shone with delight over anything apart from a successful deal.
Everything about Mark screamed money, power and taste.  If you liked
that sort of thing.

Today, he was dressed in a beautifully cut grey suit with a subtle
yellow silk tie and polished shoes.

"I'm here for the sales meeting he announced.

Jo could have hit herself.  She'd completely forgotten about the
meeting and she should have reminded Rhona the moment the other woman
came in.  Mark Denton was invariably early, 'to catch people out' Rhona
always said cheerfully and correctly.

He wouldn't be pleased to see the entire office having a whale of a
time at half ten on a Monday morning when the publication of the August
issue was only a week away.

He strode into his large office and slammed the briefcase onto the
highly polished conference table.

"Coffee, Brenda."  hissed Jo.  Brenda scurried off like a rat let out
of the lab to make the rich Colombian coffee the boss preferred to
instant.

Presents completely forgotten, the staff dropped everything and rooted
around their desks for folders, sheets of ideas, notebooks and pens.
Mark Denton had that effect on people.

Jo knew she had those papers about the advertisement feature on safe
tanning, but she was damned if she could find them.  Even the usually
unflappable Nikki was frantically trawling through her briefcase,
muttering curses as she went.

Only Rhona remained calm and cool.  She picked up her bags, sailed into
her office, sat back in her chair and lit a cigarette with relish.

"God, I miss this place when I'm away for longer than two weeks," she
shouted out the door.  "Maybe I wouldn't be happy in a French chateau
after all.  I really do get itchy feet after too long simply lolling
around in the sun, drinking wine and reading novels."

"Don't torture me," moaned Jo, who was longing to lie down in the sun
and read novels even if she couldn't have kept more than a teaspoon of
wine down.  That sounds like sheer bliss.  I'd kill to be doing that
right now, to be anywhere rather than here she added in a quieter tone
so Mark wouldn't hear.

"I don't know how you deal with him, Rhona, he's so difficult."

"That's because you spark off each other, darling."  Rhona put out her
cigarette and picked up a fresh notepad from her desk.

"You two are like bullfrogs in a pond, each one determined to be in the
right and boss of the pond."
"I am not!"  Jo was shocked.

"You never said that to me before.  You said he was difficult!"

"Don't mind me."  The editor got up and slipped her arm around Jo.

"I'm still woozy from the journey and probably saying things I'll
regret when I calm down.  You're just the sweetest creature imaginable
when Mark is on the premises, honestly."

Jo sat back in her chair at the conference table whiles Nikki and Tony
discussed ideas for the Autumn beauty supplement and mulled over what
Rhona had said.  There was no way she sparked off Mark, she decided
crossly.  It was all his fault.  He irritated her beyond belief.  Look
at that meeting two weeks ago when he'd deliberately annoyed her by
mentioning the poster campaign.  All right, she should have noticed
that the designers had spelt three words wrong on the mock-up, but at
least she'd caught it in time.  Lord knows what it would have cost to
reprint two hundred posters because of a few careless spelling
mistakes.

But they didn't have to reprint so why did he have to bring it up at
all?

"What do you think, Jo?"

Startled, she looked up to find them all looking at her expectantly, a
distinctly quizzical look on Mark's face.  Damn.

She hated to be caught out by him of all people.  There was no way she
could brazen it out and pretend she knew what they'd been talking
about.

"Sorry, I was miles away."

"Obviously."

Was she imagining it or was there a slight smile on his face?

Probably a smirk, the pig.

"I've a lot of things on my mind," she started hotly but got no
further.

"I know the feeling," Mark interrupted gently.

"Are you OK, you look a little pale?  Would you like someone to get you
some water?"

"No, no thanks," answered Jo weakly.  What was going on?

Was Mark Denton, tough guy extraordinaire getting soft in his old age
or did she look absolutely dreadful, so dreadful that even he'd
noticed?

"Mark's got a great idea for the September, issue, but we've really got
to get working on it immediately said Rhona briskly.  She poured some
Ballygowan into a glass and sent it down the conference table to Jo.

"He wants us to do a big fashion feature from New York, linked with an
advertising supplement centred around the Mademoiselle chain of
shops.

It's pretty hush-hush right now, but they're opening two shops here,
and four in the UK in November.

"Linking up with them would be a brilliant chance for us to push the
readership figures up, especially if we could do some sort of
competition with them Rhona continued.

"It would mean a higher profile for Style and lots of ads."

"And lots of money said Aidan, the advertising manager, excitedly.

"I've made tentative inquiries and what we need to do next is to go to
New York and try and put things in motion."  Mark paused for a moment
and slowly took a sip of coffee from his cup.  The thing is he began,
"I'd like you to get involved right now, Jo.  I need you to come to New
York with me.  You'll know the right way to talk to these people and
it'll be useful for setting up fashion shoots later, when we send a
model and photographer out."

"Oh."  Now she was stunned.  Mark wanted her help in setting the deal
up?  Amazing.  Jo's mind turned somersaults thinking about it all.  A
month ago she'd have hated the idea because it would have meant being
separated from Richard.

Not a problem she had now.

And it meant she could spend hours in Bloomingdale's, wandering through
miles of beautiful designer clothes with her credit card at the ready.
Of course, travelling with Mark would hardly be a thrill, but at least
it would be a break.

"Do you think you could manage it?"  Mark was looking at her very
strangely now, heavy eyebrows knitted together in consternation.  Was
he actually asking her and not ordering?  What was happening to him?

"I'd love to, of course she replied in a businesslike manner.

"When do we go?"

"Saturday?"

Saturday!  She'd hardly be packed by Saturday.  It took her at least a
month of planning and thinking about her wardrobe to go away for a
weekend, never mind a business trip to New York.  She just nodded her
head and said "Right."  I'll set up meetings for Tuesday and Wednesday,
which gives us Monday to recover from jet-lag," Mark was saying.

"We should be finished by Thursday, Friday at the latest."

"Lucky old you," said Nikki enviously.

"I love New York and I adore the Village.  Weren't you there only last
year with

Jo felt her stomach lurch at the mention of his name.  She hadn't told
the other girls in the office that she and Richard had broken up.  She
hadn't heard a word from the bastard since that horrible morning in her
flat so it was pretty obvious that he was out of her life for good. 
She knew she had to tell people, but she kept putting it off.  How
could she tell them she was single again and pregnant all in the one
fell swoop?  It was so embarrassing, so humiliating.

"Nikki, do you have the pictures for the perfume ad feature?"  said
Rhona loudly.  She knew that Jo was on the verge of tears and guessed
the reason why.

For the next half an hour, the conversation around the conference table
ranged from advertisement features to production problems.  Jo sat
quietly, answering questions and trying to join in.  But she didn't
feel up to it.  Damn Richard.

Under the table, her hands caressed her tiny bump, gaining solace from
the thought of the life inside her.  Baby, baby, you make me strong,
she said to herself.

When the meeting was over, Mark dismissed everybody curtly but asked Jo
to stay.  Instead of remaining at his seat at the top of the table, he
moved into the chair beside her.

"I got the feeling that you're not keen on going to New York."  he
began, splaying his hands onto the table as he spoke.

He had strong fingers, more suited to a builder than a man who made
deals on his mobile phone and drove a Porsche.

There was no wedding ring on his left hand, something which never
ceased to amaze the entire office.

Why wasn't Mark Denton married?  There were always plenty of women
hanging around him, Jo knew that.  Quite a few of Jo's journalistic
pals had expressed an interest in him and told Jo she was a lucky bitch
to work for such an attractive man.  She couldn't see it herself.

Rhona knew more about him than she let on, Jo knew that for sure.
Whenever there were rumours about Mark and a mystery companion, Rhona
pretended to know nothing.  That was why she was such a good person to
confide in.  No secret would ever pass Rhona's lips once she'd sworn to
keep it.  He certainly wasn't gay.  Definitely not.

"If there are personal reasons why you can't be away, I'll understand,"
Mark said slowly.

"But I'd really like to have you with me.  I know you'd make an
excellent impression on these people, you talk their language and
understand their ideas.  I'm good on the business end but hopeless in
that respect."  He laughed.

"I don't know the difference between one designer and another, but I
know you do."

Charmed by his frankness and complimentary manner, Jo relaxed.

"I'd love to go she replied.

"It was a surprise, that's all."

"I've been thinking about it for a few days," Mark said.

"I'd hate one of the other magazines to steal a march on us which is
why I want to get this sorted out immediately.  I hope this isn't
disrupting your calendar too much, I hope you've nothing planned with
Richard or anything ..."  His voice trailed off.

Was he pumping her for information about Richard?  Jo wondered for a
second.  No, he couldn't be.  How could he know?

"I've nothing planned," she said brightly.

"Where are we going to stay?"

"The Manhattan Fitzpatrick.  It's a beautiful hotel and it really is a
home away from home.  Sitting in the bar you'd think you were in
Dublin because the place is packed with Irish people."

"Lovely."  said Jo, meaning it.  When she and Richard had gone to New
York the previous summer, they'd stayed with one of his friends in a
small apartment in Queens, an apartment with dodgy air-conditioning at
that.

"By the way, thanks for putting me wise to Emma," Mark added.

"I really had no idea what she was up to.  I suppose I'm the doting
uncle who sees her through rose-coloured glasses.

She was always a handful as a child, so I don't know why I thought
she'd change that much when she grew up.  But she really is a good kid.
She just needs to mature a bit, that's all."

"I understand," answered Jo automatically.

"Do you have any plans for lunch?"  he asked.

"I'll be away all week so I won't have a chance to talk to you about
the trip.

If you're not doing anything, we could go to Dobbin's."

"I'd love to have lunch," she said truthfully.  Might as well be hung
for a sheep as for a lamb and anyway, she was starved.

Dobbin's was a fantastic place for lunch even if it was too expensive
for her purse.  Mark Denton could certainly afford it.

She stood up and smiled at him.

"I've just got to finish an article and make a few phone calls," she
said.  She didn't want him to think she'd drop her responsibilities
like a shot at the mention of a free lunch.

"Fine.  We'll go at half twelve."

Back at her desk, Jo returned to the article she was writing on
autumn's essential fashion buys and the ten wardrobe staples every
woman needed.  She flicked through an album of pictures from the top
designers' autumn winter collections" and chewed the top of her pen.
She hated following fashion blindly, telling ordinary women with
ordinary curves that over-the-top Seventies stripes or snakeskin jeans
were going to look as good on them as they did on skinny little Kate
Moss.

Jo's idea of fashion was the sort of outfit which suited each
individual wearer.

"Tailored black trousers are a must-have," she wrote, as she had for
the past three years.  "I'm glad to know I'm in fashion," said Rhona,
peering over Jo's shoulder at her VDU.

"Are elasticated waists allowed?"  she asked, smoothing down her black
tailored trousers.

"Of course replied Jo.

"Where did you get those trousers?"

she demanded.  The way my waist is going, I need elasticated ones
myself."

"Welcome to the club," said Rhona.

"All you need is a belt to hide the elastic bit and you can breathe in
comfort.  Tell me," she asked innocently, 'what did Mark want to talk
to you about all on your own io

Jo looked up suspiciously but Rhona's expression was serious.

"We're going to lunch to discuss the trip," she said, knowing she
sounded defensive and wondering why.

"Oh."  Rhona said.  "That's nice.  Don't forget to come back to the
office afterwards, will you?  No sloping off for indiscreet drinkies in
O'Dwyer's and ending up in Joy's nightclub at four in the morning."

"Rhona!"  Jo was scandalised and shocked.

"Are you mad?"

Realising she was almost shouting, she whispered, "Just because we
manage to talk for the first time without coming to blows, doesn't mean
we're engaged you know.  For God's sake Rhona, I know I'm single, I'm
not desperate!"

"You don't have to be desperate to fancy Mark," Rhona answered
mildly.

"Just because you're blind to his charms doesn't mean that lots of
other women wouldn't rip out your contact lenses to be in your place,
Jo."

"Well, I'm not one of them," hissed Jo.

"For a start, I won't be drinking and there's as much chance of him
fancying me as there is of you winning the 3.30 at Leopardstown!"

"Fine," grinned Rhona.

"I'll expect you back at two with a doggy bag and a bottle containing
the two glasses of wine you couldn't drink."  She waggled one finger at
Jo.

"Don't have fun, whatever else you do!"

At half twelve on the dot, Mark appeared beside Jo's desk, briefcase in hand.


Are you ready?"  he asked.

"Yes."  replied Jo nonchalantly.

"See you later."  she called in to Rhona's office on the way out.

Rhona's response was a wicked wink.

Knowing that Mark was behind her and couldn't see, Jo stuck her tongue
out at Rhona.  Fun with Mark Denton?

Honestly, all that Chardonnay and the French sun must have scrambled
Rhona's brain.

"Nice car she said as' she settled herself into the low-slung passenger
seat of the Porsche.

"It must cost a bomb to insure."

"It does Mark answered wryly.

"But she's worth it he added, patting the steering wheel lovingly.

Here we go, thought Jo, another man in love with his car.

She waited for the spiel 'it goes from nought to sixty miles an hour in
half a second and has triple cylinders and buckets of horse power ..."
Boring, boring, boring.

But he didn't say anything like that.

"I always dreamed of having a car like this he said instead.

"My father loved cars but he never had the money to buy anything but
old wrecks.  I remember him bringing me to a car show once, and we
spent hours looking at all these beautiful sports cars.  He said he'd
love to drive one of them, just once before he died."  He paused,
concentrating on turning right down Fitzwilliam Place.

Jo sneaked a sideways glance at him, amazed at this sudden softening of
the hard-as-nails image.  For once, his jaw wasn't as firmly set and he
looked younger than his forty-three years, more approachable somehow.

"He died before I got my first business off the ground Mark explained,
'so he never got the chance to ride in a sports car.  When I bought my
first BMW, I drove to the graveyard in it.  It was as if I was showing
him that I'd done what he'd always dreamed of doing.  I suppose that
sounds very sentimental to you, does it?"  He turned to look at Jo.

She shook her head, still seeing a younger version of Mark standing
beside his father's grave with tears in his eyes.

"I understand completely she said finally.

"I never really knew my father.  He died when I was four and I can't
remember him at all.  But I like to think he looks down on me
sometimes.  I'd like to think that he could see me and be glad that I'm
doing well," she said quietly.

"He has a lot to be proud of Mark said.

"You have done well."

Jo flushed and then laughed to hide her embarrassment.

"I wouldn't say that she started.

"Why wouldn't you say that?"  demanded Mark, braking at traffic lights
and turning to look her straight in the face.

"Things aren't always what they seem, Mark."  she explained
hesitantly.

"We all look at other people, see that they have X, Y and Z and think,
"They're happy, they've got everything."

But we don't see the other side of things at all, the problems people
hide."  She shrugged.

"If you put up a good enough facade, you can fool everyone.  Even
yourself Yeah, she'd managed to fool herself all right, fool herself
that Richard cared for her.

The car purred to a halt outside Dobbin's and Mark switched off the
ignition.

"Do you want to talk about it?"  he asked.

"Not really Jo replied, amazed that this man could be intuitive enough
to know that she was talking about her own problems.

"Let's have lunch and talk about business."

That's fine by me he answered.

Seated in a booth up beside the wall, they stared at the menu silently.
Everything sounded so beautiful, thought Jo hungrily.  Tarragon
vinaigrette, deep-fried brie on a red currant sauce ... "I love the way
they describe food she said to break the silence.

"You couldn't imagine how it could taste any better than it sounds!"

He chuckled.

"That reminds me of an awful joke he said.

"Tell me she commanded.

"OK.  This American guy goes into a restaurant in Ireland and says to
the waitress that he wants a chicken smothered in gravy and she says,
"If you want it killed in that cruel way, sir, you better do it
yourself!"  I know, it's a dreadful joke."  Jo broke out laughing and
crumbs of the bread roll she'd just bitten into spewed out onto the
table.

"Sorry."  she mumbled, her mouth still full.  She swallowed and grinned
over at him.

"That's daft but it's still funny.  I used to love silly jokes like
that, especially the elephant ones."

"Elephant jokes?"  he asked.

"Oh, they're totally silly but I love them," she said.

"Here's one.  Why do elephants paint the soles of their feet yellow? 
So they can hide upside down in bowls of custard."

He laughed and said, "You're right, that's silly."

Just then the waiter appeared.

"We better pick something to eat," Mark said, serious again, 'or we'll
never get back to the office."

"I'll have the avocado salad," Jo said straight-faced, 'and chicken
smothered in gravy!"

Mark burst out laughing while the waiter stood there with a bemused
expression on his face.

"Sorry."  Jo grinned up at the waiter.

"I'll have the avocado salad, the monkfish and some water, not the
sparkling stuff."

She looked at Mark as he scanned the menu.  He was a strange man and no
mistake.  He'd never been anything other than abrupt and businesslike
with her during the three years she'd worked for him.

Today was startlingly different.  He was still the boss, no doubt about
that.  If his dinner arrived with a single flaw, it would be dispatched
back to the kitchen like a shot, she knew.

Yet it was as if he'd suddenly decided to open up to her, to let , the
tough businessman facade drop a little.  Wait until she told Rhona.

"I'll have the brie and the monkfish," Mark announced, 'and a bottle of
number 33."

He hadn't even looked at the wine list, Jo realised.  He obviously
visited Dobbin's so often that he knew exactly what he wanted.

"I'm not drinking anything she said quickly before the waiter left.

"I'm sorry.  I should have asked.  Make that a glass of red wine, will
you?"  he asked the waiter.

Jo was waiting for him to ask why she didn't want wine, but he didn't.
He leaned back in the wooden bench seat and smiled at her over the
small vase of carnations, a warm smile that lit up his face.  He was
almost handsome when he smiled.

Maybe that was what made other women fancy him, his smile, something he
rarely produced when he was in the office.

"So tell me, Ms Ryan, what spurred you on to become a journalist and a
fashion journalist at that?"

She looked at him curiously.

"What's brought this on?"  she asked bluntly.

"I suppose I don't know that much about you, other than what you've
done for Style over the past three years, which has been excellent," he
added.

"And seeing as we're going to be travelling together, I thought it
would be nice to know each other a bit better."

His face was serious as he spoke and she found herself noticing that
his eyes were a beautiful cool grey colour.  Jo was suddenly glad she
had washed her hair that morning and worn her navy silk dress even
though she'd felt so weak when she woke up that she'd felt like wearing
her dressing-gown into the office.  And was it her imagination, or was
he gazing at her in a distinctly un-boss like way?  Stop that, Jo, she
reprimanded herself.  He hasn't been interested in you in three years,
he's hardly going to start now.  There's got to be some ulterior motive
for this 'tell me about yourself stuff.

"Don't you have my CV in your files?"  she asked smartly.

"Yes," he admitted.

"But CVs are limited.  They tell you when and where a person is born,
what they got in Leaving Cert English and whether they like
hang-gliding or knitting, all useless when it comes to getting to know
someone."

Amazing.  He wanted to know about her.  Maybe he was interested in her
after all!  How weird.  Was she interested in him, she wondered?  No,
she couldn't be.  She was pregnant with another man's child, a man
who'd dumped her.  She couldn't possibly fancy any man.

"Fair enough, I'll spill the beans, on one condition she said
firmly.

"What's that?"  he grinned.

"You tell me the same about you."

"I'm afraid I'm very boring, Jo."

That doesn't matter.  You don't talk, I don't talk."  She smiled
triumphantly at him.

"You drive a hard bargain."

"I thought that's why you were bringing me to New York with you she
said cheekily.

"Of course, of course.  For that, and because you understand the world
of clothes.  I've never been able to understand how they can make two
yards of fabric into a dress and charge two grand for it he said.

"It's a complete rip-off."

"I'd keep that particular sentiment to yourself when we're in New
York."  Jo laughed, 'or we'll be going home empty handed.

The secret of understanding the fashion world is to tell all designers
that they're either the new Coco Chanel or the most innovative designer
you've ever seen, not that they're rip-off merchants!"

Their first courses arrived and Jo attacked her salad with gusto.

"No breakfast she explained between mouthfuls of avocado.

"Want some brie?"  he said, holding out a piece on his fork, the sort
of intimate gesture lovers make.  She felt that ache in her chest

"No thanks she said, remembering all she'd read about avoiding soft
cheeses during pregnancy for fear of Listeria She stared down into her
plate, shuffling pieces of radicchio around in the oily dressing,
terrified that the tears would start.

What the hell was she doing wondering whether Mark Denton fancied her
or not when the man she'd loved had walked out on her?

If Mark noticed her sudden change of face, he didn't mention it.

"Were you always interested in fashion?"  he asked blandly.  Fashion
yes, she could talk about that for hours.  Grabbing the life belt he'd
thrown her, Jo started talking.  She was still at it by the time Mark
had paid the bill.

That was lovely, I really enjoyed it she said truthfully as they left
the restaurant.

"I'm glad," Mark said, opening the passenger door for her.

"Actually, I brought you out because I wanted to talk to you about
something."

"Of course," Jo replied.  What would she do if he asked her out to
dinner?  Say yes?  She'd have to say yes.  Anyway, it would be fun.  He
was a very entertaining companion when he wanted to be.

He opened his door and slid into the driver's seat.

"It's Emma.  After what you said to me when Rhona was away, I've been
worrying about her.  She really needs a firm hand and some guidance.
I'd love it if you could take her under your wing, Jo."

Jo felt herself deflate like a burst balloon.  So that was what it was
all about.  He wasn't even vaguely interested in her.

He'd simply been softening her up before asking her to look after his
bloody niece.  What a fool she'd been to even imagine that Mark Denton
would be interested in someone like her.

You're a complete moron, Jo Ryan.

"What would you like me to do?"  she asked tersely.

Take her on like a student.  Train her how to write, how to interview
people, you know the sort of thing.  If you agree, I'd be delighted and
so would Emma."

It wouldn't kill me to be nice to the scheming little bitch, Jo
decided.  But she wasn't going to take any cheek from her.

"I'll take her on, Mark," Jo said coolly.

"However, I want her to understand what I'm doing for her.  She better
be prepared to work hard and not whinge or run to you every five
minutes if she wants my help."

"I'll talk to her," he said quickly.  Thanks, Jo, this means a lot to
me."

She sat in stony silence until the car stopped outside the office.

"I'll see you at the airport at ten on Saturday morning, OK?"

he said.

"Right.  Thanks for lunch," she said quickly before slamming the car

"How did you get on?"  Rhona asked eagerly when Jo stalked into her
office.

"Bloody awful," Jo snapped.  That man drives me insane."

"Oh."  Rhona looked pensive.

"Maybe he'll grow on you when you're away."

"I doubt it.  "

CHAPTER TWELVE 

Jo's fingers tightened their grip on the
seat's armrests and she swallowed deeply.  For the tenth time in five
minutes she wished she'd never watched that bloody movie about the
plane crash in the Andes.

She hated take-off, hated flying full stop.  But taking off was the
worst.  At least when you were flying, you had no idea what was going
on.  The air-stewardesses smiled and passed out booze and the clouds
were usually so thick that you hadn't a clue how far away the ground
was.  Taking off, however, was so immediate and fraught with danger.
You could see everything.  If she looked out the window, Jo knew, she'd
see the runway and Dublin airport and lots of housing estates growing
smaller by the minute.  She couldn't help herself, she had to see.  Big
mistake.  The sprawling airport had turned into a matchbox-sized
arrangement and the fields were beginning to develop that patchwork
look.

The plane banked slightly and Jo wondered if you were allowed to leave
your seat and sprint to the toilet when the seat belt sign was still
on.  Her old friend, nausea, was back.

She'd have to climb over Mark Denton and the person in the aisle seat
to get out, but she could do it.  Or could she?  Maybe she'd just
breathe deeply and pray.

Are you all right?"  asked Mark, putting one large hand on her clenched
left one.

"No."  She was too scared to lie.

"I hate flying," she muttered.

And I hate the window seat."

"Let's talk about something to take your mind off it, then," he said
comfortingly.

"Did I ever tell you how Rhona and I met?"  he asked, settling himself
sideways in his seat, and keeping her hand firmly gripped in his large
one.

"No."  Jo didn't feel like being humoured.  She wanted to behave like
a spoiled child and ignore him, make him suffer for bringing her out to
lunch purely to talk about his horrible niece.  She'd practically
ignored him since they'd met in the airport.  She'd given him a cool
little smile when he'd brought her into the Aer Lingus business-class
lounge where there was free tea, coffee, booze and newspapers and lots
of comfy armchairs to sink into.

Mark had managed to ignore the fact that she was ignoring him and had
been consistently pleasant to her, as though he was humouring a spoiled
child.  She hated that.

"After that, I had to give her the job," he was saying.

"You know Rhona."

Yes, she did.  She remembered Rhona's parting words to her which had
been along the lines of, "If you fall desperately in love with Mark
when you're living the high life in New York, don't forget that I want
to know all about it when you come home."

Some bloody hope.  A why would anyone fall in love with a man when they
were nearly three months pregnant with the child of another man who'd
done a runner?

B how could anyone feel even vaguely romantic squashed into a jumbo on
a never-ending flight to New York?

And C why would anyone be stupid enough to fall in love with Mark
Denton?  Rhona was mad sometimes, Jo decided.

Mark had stopped talking and was patting her hand.

"Better now?"  he asked.

"Fine," she muttered.

He ignored her cross expression and started talking again, obviously
under the misapprehension that he was somehow being helpful.  He kept
the conversation going through the meal roast chicken and rice, with a
brown-bread scone, some sort of cheesecake thing and a foil-wrapped
mint chocolate which he handed to Jo only stopping while they watched
the in-flight movie.

"I hate Julia Roberts," grumbled Jo sleepily, wondering how in the
hell she could be tired when it was only lunchtime.

True to form, she'd slept badly the night before, waking up in a cold
sweat at three a.m. after dreaming that she'd arrived at Dublin airport
for the eleven a.m. flight minus her passport, suitcase and, worst of
all, her handbag.

A few minutes dozing would make her feel better.  She wriggled around
in the small seat, rolled up her sloppy grey sweatshirt into a
makeshift pillow and closed her eyes.  She woke two hours later,
shocked to find that she was leaning comfortably against Mark's
shoulder, snuggled up to him cosily.

"Sorry," she said abruptly, sitting bolt upright.  She hoped she hadn't
snored or something equally awful.  Richard used to say she snored in
her sleep; it would be too embarrassing to snore on the boss's
shoulder.

"You missed the coffee Mark said, stretching his arms and massaging the
shoulder she'd been leaning against.  Oh no, she groaned inwardly.  He
obviously hadn't been able to move for hours because she'd been glued
to his side.  He probably thought she'd done it on purpose, that she
fancied him.  How awful.

"I didn't wake you because I thought you needed the rest," he said.

"You look very pale.  Anyway, the coffee wasn't very nice.  Nothing
like the stuff in the office.  Are you all right, Jo?"

Mark looked at her with concern in his eyes.  Nice eyes, she decided.
Kind eyes.  It was time she stopped ignoring him and started behaving
like an adult again.

"I'm fine," she answered.  As fine as you could be when you felt like a
complete moron.

"Sorry about squashing your arm for so long."

He grinned.  That's OK.  Would you like some water or orange juice?"

"Water would be lovely."  She was desperately thirsty all of a sudden.
Since she always wrote that drinking lots of water on the plane and
keeping your moisturiser handy were vital for flying, she might as well
practise what she preached.

Mark waved in the direction of the air-stewardess.  An attractive
redhead appeared at their seats a moment later.

"Can I help you?"  she asked, giving Mark what Jo considered a very
warm, come-hitherish smile.  The stewardess's eyes took in Mark's cream
polo shirt with the Ralph Lauren designer logo, his expensive Tiffany
watch and the absence of a wedding ring on his strong left hand.  Her
smile deepened.

Mark certainly had his own quiet charm, Jo realised with a jolt.  It
was just as well he wasn't her type.

She'd always gone for handsome men, the sort of smooth,
chiselled-featured boys who could model Armani suits.  Mark was tall,
well built and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him, but he was a
million miles away from Richard Kennedy.

Richard was movie-star gorgeous while Mark was rugged, a hard-working
self-made man to Richard's model-boy look.

"Could we have some water?"  Mark asked the stewardess before turning
to Jo.

"Or do you want juice, Jo?"

"Water, thank you," Jo said, watching the stewardess's smile shift from
admiring to professional once she realised that Mark wasn't on his
own.

You're welcome to him, Jo felt like saying.  He's not mine.

Of course, she didn't say anything of the sort.  She sipped her water
and eyed Mark surreptitiously.  He was attractive really, very
attractive in fact.  Would it look bad if she got out her powder
compact and put on some lipstick?

Kennedy airport was hot, sticky and crowded.  Exhausted from the
flight, Jo was glad when Mark took charge of the luggage, especially
since her suitcase "was crammed with at least a quarter of her
wardrobe.  He lifted her case and his leather suit-carrier effortlessly
onto a trolley without demanding to know why hers was so heavy and what
had she brought, the way Richard always did and led the way through the
crowds out to the noisy arrivals hall.  It was bedlam.

People of every skin colour imaginable pushed up against the barriers
like a human rainbow, anxiously watching passengers emerge and
shrieking loudly in different languages when they spotted their
visitors.  It was like being in Marks and Spencer on the first day of
the January sales.

Jo was poked in the back by a child with a tennis racket and had her
ankles bashed by someone else's trolley as she followed Mark through
the throng.  The blissful airconditioned cool of the plane seemed miles
away from the humid New York air.

Her white cotton T-shirt and jeans were pasted to her body.

What she wanted most in the world was to lie down in a cool room and
rest, then stand under a cool shower.

She was considering flinging herself on the trolley and letting Mark
push her to the hotel, when she spotted him a uniformed man in his
twenties holding a sign that read, "Fitzpatrick Manhattan Hotel, Mr.
Mark Denton'.  Mark waved at the driver who immediately hurried over
and took control of the trolley "Welcome to New York," he said in a
strong Cork accent.

"I'm Sean.  Nice to meet you."  Jo could have kissed him.  Sean loaded
the cases in the back of the stretch Cadillac limo the hotel had
provided while Jo slid onto the cool leather seats and sighed with
relief.

She didn't care if her luggage ended up in Hong Kong, as long as she
didn't have to look after it or anything else for that matter.

As Sean wove through the heavy airport traffic, Jo stretched out her
legs and wondered why she'd never travelled in a limo before.  Was this
what movie stars felt like when they eased from airport to airport in
the comfort of a luxury car, distanced from the world behind darkened
windows?

There was what looked like a tiny drinks cabinet fixed into the back of
the driver's seat and she'd have loved to open it, just to see what was
in it.  But that would probably be as gauche as hell and she didn't
want Mark to think she was overawed by sitting in a limo.  She adopted
her best "I do this all the time' expression and stared out the window.
Huge American cars -raced past, gleaming Cadillacs and Buicks which
would dwarf her own Golf.

Mark and Sean talked, discussing the quickest route into Manhattan
with many of the city's roads under repair.  Half listening to them
talk about parkways, expressways and toll roads, Jo stared at a skyline
dominated by shining skyscrapers.

It was like looking at the opening credits of Dallas.

This was her third trip to New York, but she knew that no matter how
many times she visited, she'd still feel that special buzz from
visiting the city she'd dreamed about when she was a kid.  She loved
it.  The sprawling city buzzed with vitality, it was alive like nowhere
else she'd ever been.

She was also amazed by how much Mark appeared to know about New York
judging from his conversation with Sean.

He'd never mentioned living there, but he seemed to know it so well. 
He talked about watching a Yankees game in Yankee Stadium was that
football or baseball, she wondered?  Then again, she hardly knew
anything about him other than what he did for a living, how he met
Rhona, why he liked fast cars and that he had an unbelievably soft
spot for his niece.  Oh yeah, that he could talk the hind legs off a
donkey to comfort someone with airsickness.

When the limo pulled up at the hotel on Lexington Avenue, Jo clambered
out of the back gratefully.  Inside, the Fitzpatrick Manhattan was an
oasis of calm, away from the buzz of traffic, screaming police sirens
and the ever-present blaring taxi-drivers' horns.  More European than
American, the hotel was quiet and elegant, with Irish accents of all
varieties mingling with American ones.  From the bar to the right, the
sound of Christy Moore's gentle singing drifted out on the air along
with the sound of laughter.

"Do you like it?"  asked Mark, who'd been watching her reaction from
the moment they'd stepped inside.

"It's wonderful, a brilliant choice."  Jo's smile was genuine.

The idea of staying in a glorious and sophisticated slice of Ireland in
the middle of New York was just perfect.

Registration was speedy and, within minutes, Jo was being shown her
suite, an airy sitting room furnished with beautiful reproduction
furniture, two large settees, a writing desk and a massive TV concealed
in a huge armoire.

The bedroom was nearly as big, with another TV and enough drawers to
hold four times the contents of her suitcase.  Even more importantly,
it was perfectly cool, thanks to the magic of air-conditioning.

"You need a rest," advised Mark, looking at her pale face and tired
eyes.  He stood awkwardly in the sitting room while she admired the
bedroom and peeked into the bathroom.

"I'll go.

If you want to have dinner with me, I'll ring you about eight and we
can go out to eat.  But you might have friends you want to meet," he
added hesitantly.

"No, I'd love dinner she answered.

"Just let me crash out first."

"We're only here five minutes and you're already talking American!"  he
grinned down at her.  She'd never noticed how tall he was before, he
must be six foot, nearly as tall as Tom her brother.

"I'll call you at eight he said and was gone.

Ten minutes later she lay up to her neck in bubbles in the black and
white tiled bathroom.  The bath, an old-fashioned deep enamelled one,
had just cried out to be used and since every muscle in Jo's body
ached, she'd given in and filled it.

So what if she was lying in a warm bubble bath in the middle of a
sweltering July afternoon?  Outside, New York buzzed in the heat.  But
inside, it was calm, serene and, since she'd turned the
air-conditioning up, almost chilly.  The Four Seasons rippled through
the air from the New York classical radio station Jo had found on the
radio after much knob twiddling

She had turned the music up loud but she was amused by the idea that
she'd still hear the phone if it rang because there was one in the
bathroom.  What a howl, she thought, picking it up with soapy fingers.
Who would you ring from a bathroom phone?  Hi, Mom, I'm having a pee,
how are you?  She just loved hotels.

When the phone rang at eight, Jo had dozed for an hour, ordered a pot
of decaff from room service and dressed in her navy crepe Mandarin
shirt and trousers.

"I'll meet you downstairs said Mark.

He was waiting for her when she arrived, lounging in a wing armchair,
dressed in an expensive-looking charcoal-grey jacket, pale grey polo
shirt and jeans.  Jo nearly did a double take.  Mark Denton in
jeans."

"I even wear T-shirts sometimes," he said drily, noticing her

"I expect that you sometimes wear a tracksuit, no make-up and stick
your hair in a pony tail," he added with a grin.

"Nothing like the elegant Ms Ryan we're used to in Style."

Touche," she replied.

"And yes, I do sometimes forget to apply my make-up with a trowel.  But
a tracksuit?"  she asked in mock horror.

"Never.  I have jogging pants though, have occasionally worn odd socks
because they've got separated in the wash, and I've got a pair of
rather tattered leggings.  Does that count?"

"Of course."  He slid an arm under her elbow and they walked to the
door.  It felt nice to be accompanied, to have a man escorting her out,
even if it was only for show.  Richard's absence made her feel so alone
most of the time, as if she'd never have someone to hug and kiss
again.

They walked slowly south along Lexington Avenue and Jo tried to forget
her troubles and savour the sense of being somewhere totally different
from home.  The traffic jams of the afternoon were a thing of the past
and now the streets were almost quiet by comparison, large sedans
cruising along sedately with only the bright yellow cabs roaring up and
down the streets at high speed.

The Fitzpatrick Manhattan was in an affluent area of Manhattan.  Park
Avenue was just one block over while Fifth Avenue was only another two
blocks away.  Well-dressed people walked along the streets, rushing the
way all New Yorkers did.  But they avoided eye contact as they
walked.

That was the big difference between many American big cities and
Dublin, Jo felt.

On Jo's last visit, Rhona had filled her so full of warnings on being
mugged or staring people in the eye in case they turned out to be
complete weirdos, that Jo had been in a constant state of anxiety.
She'd even carried the ubiquitous 'mugger's wallet', a purse containing
a few dollars to give to any prospective muggers until she'd relaxed
and stopped worrying.

Now, walking at a leisurely pace with Mark she'd swear he was walking
particularly slow for her, as if he knew she didn't have the energy to
walk quickly she wasn't even slightly nervous.  He knew New York, she
felt safe with him.

"Here we are Mark announced, stopping at a brightly coloured cafe on a
street corner.  The Starlite Xpress Diner.  He peered in the window at
the board behind the chrome bar and read out the menu: "Arnold
Schwarzenegger Burger, Dolly Parton Sandwich ... Oh look, Jo.  You can
have a Cindy Crawford hot dog!"

"Probably lettuce and a minuscule bun."  Jo laughed, taking in the
customers sitting at small tables with paper cups, cans of Coke and
styrofoam burger boxes.

"I just thought you'd like to experience dinner in a genuine New York
diner," Mark said with a deadpan expression.

"And it's only six dollars each."

Jo eyed him speculatively.  Was he kidding?  Or was he serious?  She
didn't know.  If he wasn't joking, he could have told her they were
going casual and she'd have dressed accordingly.  She certainly
wouldn't have wasted her lovely and very comfortable navy outfit on the
Starlite Xpress Diner.

"Right."  she said, with a firmness she didn't feel.  Men.  She'd never
understand them.  Mind you, Mark was so well off it was probably a
thrill for him to eat in a diner instead of a ten-pounds-a-starter
restaurant.

"Let's eat."

He took pity on her.

"Jo, you are so gullible.  I'm joking."

"Pig!"  she declared, giving him a light slap on the arm.

He laughed and grabbed the hand that had slapped him.  Jo felt a shock
of electricity shoot through her at the touch of his hand.  She would
have pulled her hand away, but his grip was so firm, firm and warm.

"I'm sorry.  Forgive me."  His grey eyes glittered and the corners of
his mouth turned up into a disarming smile.

Silhouetted against the lights of the diner, he looked like a great
big bear of a man.  Jo had the strangest desire to feel those big arms
wrapped around her.  Get a grip, Ryan!

"You looked so lovely and dressed up, I just couldn't resist teasing
you," explained Mark with a grin.

"I've actually had the Bill Clinton Burger here, and it was lovely but,
like all his meals are reputed to be, absolutely huge.  I couldn't
finish it.

We're going somewhere much nicer than this."

"What could be nicer than this?"  demanded Jo in mock amazement.

"I'm mad for a Dolly Parton Sandwich but I hope they've got curried
chips on the menu."

"Curried chips!  You can't be serious!"

Jo tried to look offended.

"I love them, especially with onion rings and battered sausages.  Oh
yeah, and mushy peas."

There was me thinking you were one of those types who live off crisp
breads remarked Mark.

"I've never had to diet," explained Jo.

"Never used to, anyway," she added ruefully, thinking of how she'd been
eating for three, never mind two, most afternoons when the morning
sickness wore off.

"Come on, then," said Mark.

"I'm starving."

He tucked her arm under his and they walked on.

Jo felt a spark of excitement ripple through her body at his touch. 
She didn't know why, but she wanted to slip one arm around his waist
and feel him pull her in close as they walked.

This could not be happening, she thought.  She was three months
pregnant with one man's child, an absent man at that, and here she was
getting all love struck over another one.  Her boss into the bargain.
Had jet-lag completely scrambled her brain?

"You'll love the restaurant we're going to," Mark promised.

"It's like stepping into a scene from Wall Street.  The whole place is
full of business types in button-down shirts and braces and women with
those hard-looking hairdos.  All they do is talk about shares, stocks
and deals."

"You're kidding?"

"No, the men really do wear braces.  And bow ties sometimes.

If you were into stock-market espionage, you could learn something
here.  Well, probably not," he conceded.  The tables are so close
together that all the business types know that what you say in Smith
and Wollensky's at half nine at night will be around the city by the
time the Dow Jones opens the next morning.  So they probably talk in
code."

"It sounds marvellously high-powered," said Jo in delight.

"It is."

Smith and Wollensky's was jam-packed by the time they walked in the
door, but an advance call from the Fitzpatrick's concierge meant that
they'd skipped the queue.  A table would be ready by nine, the maitre
d' assured them.  Jo and Mark squeezed through the people crowded up
against the long bar, managed to grab one bar stool for Jo, and ordered
drinks.

"I always forget that they don't measure spirits in this place said
Mark with regret, looking at the massive vodka the barman was pouring
into a solid glass tumbler.

"It's like Spain," Jo said.  They don't seem to have measures there,
they just keep pouring until you say stop.  If you don't know the rules
and don't say stop," she continued, 'every drink is a hangover waiting
to happen.  I remember the first time I went to Spain, it was a press
trip when I worked with the Sunday News," she explained, 'and the
entire party spent four days fumbling for aspirin in the morning after
the previous night's party."

There's a real drinking culture to journalism, isn't there?"

asked Mark in a slightly tense tone.

"Is getting drunk all the time part of the scene?"

Jo took a sip of her orange juice and stared at him.  He looked stiff,
anxious, worried somehow.

"Well, it used to be, years ago.  We spent a lot of time in the pub
when I started in journalism.  Everyone drank a lot more than they do
now."  Why was she justifying it?  She'd had every right to be drunk
and silly if she wanted to.  She was only twenty-one at the time, for
God's sake!

"Why do you want to know?"

"No reason," Mark said quickly, staring at her bottle of orange juice
as if he was memorising the ingredients.  He picked up his drink and
drained it.

"I think you're right.  I'll stick to orange juice too.  Do you want
another one?"  he asked.

The penny dropped.  Mark thought she was off the booze because she'd
been an alcoholic.  What a howl!  She'd certainly been to enough press
receptions where people got pie-eyed, but she'd never been stupid about
drinking.  It had been years since she'd been plastered.  In fact, she
could remember precisely the last time it had happened.

"Mark," she said hesitantly.

"I'm not an alcoholic, I'm not on the wagon, you know.  When I started
off in journalism, the only people I hung around with were journalists
and they all drank like fishes.  But not any more.  I think we all got
sense," she said, thinking of how the office booze-ups had changed nine
years previously.  Cirrhosis of the liver had finished off one of the
paper's most talented reporters, a man famous both for his addiction to
Scotch and his brilliant investigative journalism.

His death had shocked them all and they drank his health in one
five-hour binge at the funeral.  Jo said goodbye to the days of
non-stop partying at that moment.

"I like wine and an Irish coffee now and again, and that's it," she
said firmly.

"Well, good champagne is nice, but only if it's good stuff, not the
champagne cider they try and palm you off with at some press
receptions."

Mark stared at her intently.  Jo considered the options for a moment
should she tell him the reason why she wasn't drinking?  Or should she
keep it to herself and have him constantly wondering why she wasn't
joining him for a glass of wine?

No, she decided.  She'd keep her pregnancy to herself.  Even though
Rhona was an excellent editor who'd juggled pregnancies, Caesareans,
teething and first days at school along with an incredibly demanding
job, Mark mightn't have the same faith in her doing it like that.

"I have this stomach problem, too much acid," she improvised quickly.

"I can't drink when it flares up because alcohol makes everything
worse.  But I'll be fine in a few weeks."  "I'm sorry to hear that
you're sick Mark said, sounding concerned and relieved at the same
time.

"You should have told me you weren't well, I would have got someone
else to come to New York."

"And there was me thinking that I was the only one who could help make
the deal," Jo said in mock misery.

"I think I'll go home now that I find I'm expendable ..."

"No you won't," said Mark quickly.

"I'm sorry.  You are vital to the deal.  I just didn't want to think
that you came because you had to, because I'd ordered it," he finished
slowly.  He turned away from her and raised his glass at the barman.

"Another screwdriver and an orange juice," he commanded.

He didn't turn back, he kept facing the bar as though he was fascinated
by the bottles lined up against the back of the bar.

The change in the atmosphere was palpable.  It was as if he'd decided
to close himself off, to put up the cool and aloof Denton facade
again.

He thought she'd come because he was her boss and his word was law.
Maybe it had been like that at first, she reflected.  Of course it had.
But now, everything was different.

She liked him, liked the warm and funny man who'd been kind enough to
keep her mind off her fear of flying, the man who'd noticed her pale
face when they were pushing through the airport and had taken care of
her luggage.  None of these things were the actions of a boss.  They
were the actions of a friend.  She'd worked for him for three years and
it was only in the last week that she'd got a glimpse of the sort of
person he really was.  It was suddenly vitally important that he
understood that.

"Mark."  Jo reached out and touched his shoulder, feeling the soft
fabric of his jacket under her fingers.  Cashmere, she realised, her
fashion editor's instincts coming to the fore.

He turned and his grey eyes stared into her dark ones.

"Nobody made me come," she said softly.

"I wanted to, and I'm glad I did because I'm really enjoying myself."

He smiled, the tiny lines around his eyes crinkling up again in a way
that Jo was finding unsettlingly sexy.

"Good."  Was it her imagination or was his voice deeper than usual?

The moment was charged with emotions.  Jo didn't know what to say.  He
held her gaze, then his focus shifted and he stared intently at her
face, eyes moving over her flushed cheeks, full lips painted in a
burnished bronze colour, eyes fringed with chocolate-coloured lashes.

"Your table is ready, sir."  The slight, Italian waiter broke the spell
and they both came to their senses again.

"This way."

Mark gestured for Jo to go first and she followed the waiter, weaving
through a maze of small tables, turning sideways to pass between the
gaps where diners had pushed their chairs out from the tables.

She was thinking so hard about the tall man walking behind her, and
hoping she looked all right from the back, that she nearly cannoned
into another waiter with a tray of shellfish held high above the
crowded tables.

"Sorry."  she apologised, stepping aside clumsily.  In an instant,
Mark's hand was on her waist, steadying her.  It was like being touched
by a burning poker, her flesh felt scorched by his touch.

"Madam," said the waiter as he reached a table for two at the back of
the restaurant.  He held out Jo's seat and she sank into the chair.
Across the table Mark smiled at her, but said nothing as the waiter
handed them menus and a wine list.

The waiter reeled off a list of specials, but Jo heard none of it.
Although her eyes were fixed on the waiter's face, her mind was racing
back over the last few minutes, wondering exactly what had happened,
what unspoken tension existed between them.  She gazed down at the menu
blankly.

"What do you think looks good?"  asked Mark.

Choose something quickly, she thought.  Scallops, yes, she'd have
scallops.  And melon and Parma ham for a starter.

The melon and scallops," she said quickly.

The scallops are off the menu, or so the waiter said," Mark pointed out
gently.  Jo felt herself blush, a warm flush of colour rising up her
cheeks.  It was like being fifteen again.  "Did he?  I mustn't have
been paying attention she answered.

"Maybe I'll have the grilled sole."

"That sounds great," Mark said.  He flicked his wrist and the waiter
appeared.  Jo marvelled at his ability to summon people instantly.  It
was his presence, she decided, that made people jump to attention.

When the waiter had been dispatched with their orders, Mark leaned
forward with his elbows on the table.

"We haven't talked business all day he remarked.

"I know we should just enjoy ourselves, but we better discuss our
strategy for talking to these people on Tuesday."

Jo felt herself shrink in her chair.  So that was it.  The moment was
over.  Obviously the spark of electricity she'd felt between them had
been one-sided.  Or else he wasn't interested and had decided to talk
business to make sure she didn't get the wrong idea.  The boss didn't
mingle with the staff.  She could take a hint.

"What sort of strategy did you have in mind?"  she said coolly,
determined to prove that she could be just as businesslike as he.  If
Mark Denton wanted to give her a message, she'd show him what a fast
learner she was.

After dinner, they walked back to the hotel in silence.

Unaccountably tired, Jo could think of nothing more to say.

They'd discussed business tactics for over two hours and she was tired
of talking about the importance of readership surveys and ABC market
share.

She just wanted to close the door of her suite and slap herself for
being stupid enough to think there could be anything between her and
Mark.

This time he didn't take her arm.  They walked several feet apart. 
When they reached the hotel, he stopped on the footpath.

"I think I'll go for a walk," he said abruptly.

"I don't think I can sleep yet."

"Fine!"  she answered, not even looking at him, but gazing at the
leather shop across the road as though something amazing in the window
had suddenly caught her eye.

"Do you want me to call you for breakfast?"  he asked.

"No!"  she said sharply.

"I think I'll have a lie-in and then wander down to the Village and
Chinatown to the markets.

I'm sure you've lots of things to do, you don't want me tagging along
with you."  Her voice was harder than she'd intended it to be.  But she
couldn't help herself.  She felt hurt, bruised by his sudden
indifference and the way he'd turned the evening around.  He'd changed
it from a magical, electric moment into a cold business meeting.

If he thought she was going to follow him like a puppy, desperate for
attention, he'd another think coming.

"Fine."  he said crisply.

Jo marched into the hotel without looking back.  In her suite, she
threw her handbag onto the desk and picked up the TV remote control She
flopped onto the huge settee, kicked off her shoes and put her feet up
with relief.  Damn Mark Denton.  Damn him to hell.  Who did he think he
was giving her all sorts of enigmatic looks and then treating her as if
she were his bloody secretary, someone who'd come along to do his
bidding?  He was a pig, just like all men.  Just like Richard.

She flicked through the shopping channels, CNN, a late night chat show,
the bizarre Manhattan Cable TV and some rubbish with a Barbie
doll-style nurse taking the pulse of a patient transfixed by her bosom.
Jo watched the show for a moment, waiting for the requisite handsome
doctor to come in and tell the nurse he loved her, despite the fact
that he'd married her half-sister, slept with her mother, whatever. 
She hated American soaps with a passion.  Nobody in them ever looked
like normal people, all the women had plastic smiles, plastic boobs and
twenty-inch waists.

She felt her own waist, remembering when she had been just as slender
as the women on the TV.  At nearly three months pregnant, her body had
changed only a little but the extra inches on her waist felt so
noticeable to Jo.  With careful dressing, she didn't look pregnant at
all.  Only someone with hawk eyes like her mother or Rhona would guess
her secret.  But she was hungry so often that she knew she'd start
putting on too much weight if she wasn't careful.

She still swam twice a week and had been doing step aerobics at the
gym.  But all those chocolate biscuits, Twixes and ice cream had to go
somewhere.

She changed channels again.  Goldie Hawn was standing on a yacht
screaming at Kurt Russell.  Overboard, Jo realised happily.  She loved
that film.  There was just one thing missing.

She picked up the phone.

"Could you send up a pot of tea and, er ... do you have any chocolate
biscuits?"  she asked.

"Chocolate chip would be lovely, thank you.  You have shortbread ones
made in the hotel?  They sound great too."

Jo awoke in a cold sweat at half eight.  Even the soft cotton sheets
felt damp and she sat up in the bed, dazed by her dream.  What had she
been dreaming about?  Mark, that was it.

She'd been in a hotel bedroom with Mark Denton, a room decorated with
crimson wall.  hangings and with a four-poster bed in the middle,
scarlet and gold muslin curtains hiding the bed from prying eyes.  She
could just about make out lots of people trying to look behind the
curtains, men in striped shirts with braces and bow ties.

And she and Mark lay on the bed, half wrapped up in silk sheets, his
naked body curled around hers.  He'd been kissing her, stroking her
belly and telling her he couldn't wait for the baby to be born.  She
was naked too, she had been able to feel his skin burning into hers,
his hands roaming all over her body ... Oh my God, what a dream.

She pushed back the covers and went into the bathroom, her puffy-eyed
and tired face showing the after-effects of a troubled night's sleep.

She wet a white face cloth under the tap and gently wiped her hot face.
You look awful, she told her reflection.  Her lustrous dark hair was
greasy at the roots, her skin was flushed and wrinkled from the way
she'd been sleeping on creased sheets and her eyes were puffy from a
mixture of jet-lag and dehydration.

Tea, that's what she wanted.  It mightn't improve her face, but it
would make her insides feel better.  She wrapped the hotel's fluffy
white bathrobe around herself and phoned room service.  She could get
used to this type of thing.

Fifteen minutes later, she had showered and washed her hair.  A gentle
knock at the door signalled that breakfast was ready.  A freckle-faced
young man with a broad smile and a broader Belfast accent carried a
heavily laden tray into the room and left it on the coffee table.  Jo,
who was never quite sure how much to tip, gave him three dollars.  She
hoped that was enough.  Thanks.  Enjoy your breakfast," he said with
another smile.

Sitting comfortably on the settee, Jo turned on the TV and listened to
the news as she lifted the silver lid from a huge Irish fried
breakfast.  It smelled beautiful and she hadn't had to cook it herself.
Perfect.  She poured herself a cup of decaff, buttered some hot brown
toast and tucked in.  Why were you always ravenous the morning after a
big meal?  she wondered, munching toast.  Well, she hadn't been eating
breakfast much lately.  Jo stopped mid-munch.  She wasn't sick, didn't
feel even vaguely nauseous, for the first time in nearly three months.
She was thrilled.  Of course she'd read that morning sickness could
disappear as quickly as it had arrived, but she had begun to think that
she'd always feel sick.  Yahoo!

After breakfast she dressed quickly in jeans, a white Tshirt and a
periwinkle-blue cotton sweater, put some money into a small leather bum
bag and hung her sunglasses on the neck of her sweater.  New York on a
clear, sunny Sunday morning was quiet and relaxed.  Only a few bright
yellow cabs drove down Lexington Avenue, mingling with the light
traffic speeding up to Central Park or down to the book shops and
coffee houses in the Village.

Jo walked for a few blocks, savouring the sun on her face and the
feeling of warmth on her skin.  Two well-dressed New Yorkers strode
past her, arms full of newspapers and brown delicatessen bags.

Everyone rushed on the east coast, thought Jo, watching a young man
glide past silently on rollerblades, overtaking a cruising taxi.

Taxi!"  yelled Jo, waving her hand in the air.  The car stopped and she
sidestepped a fat pigeon who'd been scurrying around on the pavement
ahead of her.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art."  she said to the driver, a
pale-skinned man with dark hair and a skinny moustache.

"Fifth Avenue and 82nd."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly.  She tried it again, slower and
more clearly.

"Sure.  I know!" said the driver in a heavy foreign accent.

"Fifth Avenue.  I get you there!"

The cab lurched off and immediately picked up speed, dodging traffic
recklessly.  Now that he knew where he was going, he was going to get
her there in double-quick time.

Hopefully, alive.  Just my luck to get one of New York's novice
taxi-drivers, thought Jo, sitting well back in the tattered seat and
wondering if a quick novena would save her from death by automobile
accident.

Somebody was watching over her, definitely.  She emerged from the cab
outside the Met feeling decidedly shaky.  The driver grinned manically
when she handed him a ten-dollar bill and drove off rapidly.

Once inside the gallery, Jo headed for the European galleries where the
early Flemish paintings she loved hung.  She'd never been in the
gallery before, even though she and Richard had planned to spend two
days there the last time they'd been in Manhattan.  Somehow they'd
ended up spending all their time with Richard's friends listening to
jazz in smoky clubs in the Village and had never got around to doing
any of the things she'd wanted to do.  But she knew exactly where to go
now thanks to her guidebook.  So did lots of other tourists.

Even early on a Sunday morning, a large group of Japanese tourists
walked along staring blankly at the museum signs before consulting
their guidebooks.  The Met was so big there was no way to see
everything in a few hours.  People did what Jo was doing and just
picked one or two things they had to see, hoping to absorb as much as
they could before everything began to blur.

After two hours staring at Van Eycks and Brueghels, Jo was weary and
her stomach was rumbling.

She bought some postcards of her favourite paintings on the way out and
dithered about buying two pretty Manet prints she wanted to frame.  It
would be too difficult to lug them around all day, she decided finally.
They'd either get bent or she'd leave them behind somewhere.  She could
always come back and get them during the week.

The cab ride to Greenwich Village was uneventful, mainly because the
driver knew where he was going and wasn't trying to break some sort of
land-speed record.

It was nearly lunchtime and the small pavement cafes on Bleecker Street
were full of people enjoying Sunday brunch and reading newspapers.  Jo
bought a New York Sunday Times and wondered how she'd ever read it all
in one day.  It weighed nearly as much as her handbag and that was
saying something.  As a couple left a table outside a chic coffee shop,
boasting every sort of coffee under the sun, Jo quickly dumped her
paper on the white metal table and sank into a chair.

Within fifteen minutes she was tucking into a soft bagel spread with
velvety cream cheese laced with morsels of smoked salmon.  It was
wonderful to sit in the sun, sipping her fragrant coffee and watching
the world walk by.  But Jo she
couldn't help but feel a little sad,
sitting on her own while everyone and their granny seemed to be in
pairs.  There "Were couples everywhere, couples laughing and talking
with their arms draped around each other or couples simply holding
hands. She found a tissue in her bum bag and blew her nose,
remembering the last time she'd been in New York.  It had been
Richard's birthday, the day before they flew home, and they'd had a
marvelous lunch in the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station.  Then they
wandered around the shops, stopping off to spend an hour in
Bloomingdale's where Richard dragged her, giggling, into the lingerie
department.  He'd whispered all the erotic things he was going to do to
her as she picked out a selection of sexy, lacy bras and knickers.

Typically, he'd got bored quickly.  By the time she'd actually decided
what to buy, Richard had vanished into the camera department and she
ended up paying for the underwear herself.  When he took off the
coffee-coloured silky bra set later, she'd forgotten that he hadn't
actually bought it himself.

They'd done every crazy, romantic thing you could do in New York and
even visited the Empire State Building.  They stared down at the city
from the windy eighty-sixth floor and held hands.  Richard laughed that
they were recreating Sleepless in Seattle.

"No, it's An Affair to Remember," she'd argued.

That had been over a year ago.  Everything had changed so much since
then.  Jo gently laid a hand on her belly, as though she could feel the
baby's heartbeat with her fingers.  She wouldn't have turned back the
clock for anything.  Maybe she had Richard then, but now she had
something much more precious.  Her baby.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed writing her postcards in the
late afternoon sun when the phone rang.  It was Mark.

"Hello," she said coolly.

"Did you have a good day?"  he asked.

"Marvellous," she replied.

"I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a few hours this morning.
I wanted to try out Robert De Niro's restaurant in TriBe Ca so I could
write a funny piece about it," she said airily, 'but I didn't get that
far.  I might go down later.  Then I read the New York Sunday Times,
well, read a bit of it, in a coffee house in the Village."  Stick that
in your pipe and smoke it, she thought defiantly.  Your employee wasn't
moping in her room, dying for you to bring her out.  She was enjoying
New York and its rich cultural life.

So there.

"That sounds great."  He sounded unmoved by the bite in her voice.

"I'm going to dinner with some friends of mine on the Upper East Side
this evening.  I wonder if you'd like to come It's OK if you've
something else organised.  I just didn't want to leave you going to
dinner on your own."

Jo didn't know what to say.  She'd been thinking he didn't want
anything more to do with her and now he was asking her out to dinner
with some friends.  She would never understand this man.  For a moment,
she considered saying no.

Then she thought of the alternative.

Dinner on her own in a strange city was something she'd never enjoyed,
although she'd tried it often enough when she was a news reporter for
the Sunday News.  She'd found that a single woman invariably got the
worst table in any restaurant.

Returning to the hotel to have a drink in the bar afterwards was out of
the question unless you liked strange men chatting you up.

She'd spent enough of the day on her own, Jo decided firmly.  She
needed to get out.  Who knows, she told herself, an evening out with
Mark could even be mildly enjoyable.

When the taxi drew up outside a tall, elegant apartment building off
Madison Avenue, Jo was very glad she'd decided to dress up and wear the
hand-painted chocolate brown Mary Gregory dress.  The whole place
reeked of wealth and opulence.

She stared at a vast marble entrance hall, not one but two doormen in
green uniforms with gold frogging and what looked like an antique table
between the two lifts in the hall.

Even the lift smelled of old money, Jo thought, as she stood beside
Mark, checking her reflection in the darkened mirrors on either side of
the lift.

"You'll like Rex and Suzanne," said Mark.  They're very warm friendly
people."

And very bloody rich, thought Jo, when the lift stopped at the top
floor and opened onto a small hall with just one door off it.  They
even had their own landing.  Mark pushed the bell and the door was
opened by a plump dark-skinned woman in the maid's outfit of black
dress and frilly white apron that Jo thought only existed in black and
white Forties movies.

"Manuela," said Mark warmly to the woman, who managed to blush and
grin at him at the same time.

"Signer Denton she grinned.

"You have not been here for a long time.  We have missed you.  Madam is
in the drawing room."

Jo looked around the huge entrance hall, a white oval room with three
pieces of modern sculpture and an utterly stunning art deco chandelier
hanging over what must be a Persian carpet.  If this was the hall, Lord
only knew what the rest of the place was like.

Mark took her arm and they- followed Manuela, heels tip-tapping on the
marble floor, into a huge, airy room filled with paintings, enormous
glass vases of exotic lilies and the sound of Mozart.

"Mark, darling."  A stunning blonde woman got to her feet and hurried
over to hug him warmly.

"Suzanne, it's lovely to see you," he said affectionately.

"And this must be Jo."  Suzanne turned towards Jo and took both Jo's
hands in hers.

"We're delighted to meet you," she said earnestly.

Nonplussed by her friendly welcome, Jo smiled back brightly,
immediately liking the tall, graceful woman whose hair fell in soft
curls to her shoulders.  She was wearing a chic caramel-coloured wrap
dress and what looked like a real pearl choker around her neck. 
Suzanne could have walked off the couture fashion pages in Elle.

Only a faint creping around her throat and small lines around the
beautiful blue eyes indicated that she would never see forty again. 
She looked the way Jo hoped she'd look when she was older.

"Now come and say hello to everyone.  We're all dying to meet you
Suzanne said in a soft Southern accent, still holding one of Jo's
hands.

"This is Rex."  The tall, grey-haired man, who'd risen when Jo and Mark
entered the room, took her hand firmly in his.

"So nice to meet you, Jo.  We're delighted you could join our little
dinner party tonight.  I hope you like New York."

"How could you not like New York," interrupted a man with the faint
accent and olive skin of an Italian.

"I'm Carlo and I'm pleased to meet you."  He kissed her on both cheeks
and then smiled at her, lustrous dark eyes openly admiring.

"I can see why you've been keeping this lady a secret, Mark."  Carlo

"I haven't kept anything a secret, Carlo," Mark said sharply, bending
down to shake hands with a woman who was dressed in a navy linen dress
and was sitting back on one of the settees.

"Hello, Margaret, how are you?  I was so sorry to hear about your
accident."

"I'm fine," said Margaret.

"I've just got to take care of my ankle."  She gestured at the cast on
her right ankle.

"It's just so irritating, not being able to ride, you know."

Suzanne introduced Jo to the other members of the party, each one more
charming and elegant than the last.  Gold cuff links and diamond
earrings glittered in the light from the Thirties up lighters on the
walls.  Jo knew that the clothes the women were wearing were genuine
Gucci, Jil Sander and Dior.

Even their handbags had labels, Jo realised, as she caught sight of a
brown leather bag peeking out from the side of Margaret's chair.
Definitely a Kelly bag from Hermes, she realised with a jolt.  About
four grand's worth of handbag.  It was like stepping onto the set of
Dynasty.  These people had serious money.  They had serious jobs too.
Carlo was a publisher, Margaret and her husband were in banking not
behind the bureau de change counter, either Rex was in property, the
redheaded woman in black velvet worked in Sotheby's, the short grey
haired man did something to do with computers and the plump woman who
chain-smoked was an artist.

"I used to be involved with an interior design firm Suzanne

"I'm so busy with my charity work these days, I've rather let my design
skills go.  The last thing I did was this room."  She waved one
graceful, manicured hand at the pale mint walls with their museum-load
of paintings.

"It's truly beautiful Jo replied.  The paintings are fabulous, and I
love the sculptures in the hall."  That's my husband's hobby explained
Suzanne, 'he loves collecting things.  Every time we go to Europe, he
drags something back, usually something huge that takes a month to
ship."

"Champagne, madam?"  inquired Manuela, who had appeared at Jo's side
with a champagne flute and a bottle of Cristal.

"Just a little Jo said.  Three-quarters of a glass wouldn't kill her.
She needed it to stop her staring around openmouthed.

Her entire apartment would fit into this room.

The guests talked about stocks, shares and the shocking price of
duplexes on Fifth Avenue, while Jo simply sat and listened.

Tell us about your work Suzanne said, turning to include Jo in the
conversation.

"I've always imagined that being a fashion editor must be very
glamorous.  Is it?"

Since it was difficult to imagine anything more glamorous than these
sophisticated New Yorkers, Jo laughed out loud.

"Not really she said.  There's a certain amount of glamour about
fashion shows.  But the real work often involves crawling around on
your knees in a photographic studio, trying to pin up the legs of a
pair of trousers on a model who's five foot eight instead of the
six-foot girl you booked!"

She kept Suzanne entertained talking all about Style with Carlo
listening intently from his position across the fireplace.

Jo didn't think he was even vaguely interested in what she was saying
but, from the way his eyes were glued to her chest, he obviously
fancied women with curves, even if the curves in question were
pregnancy ones.  She'd have loved to be able to tell him that she used
to be a 34B pre-pregnancy.

At exactly half eight, Rex got up and helped Margaret to her feet.

"Dinner should be ready now, people he announced.

"I believe it's lobster tonight."

Everybody made appreciative noises.

"I hope you eat lobster Suzanne asked Jo suddenly.

"Of course," Jo said with a straight face.  I eat it all the time,
especially with baked beans and chips.

She stood up as Carlo approached, one tanned hand held out to take her
in to her dinner but, before he reached her, Jo felt Mark's strong arm
link hers.

"Won't you let me escort you into dinner, Madame Jo?"  he asked with a
grin.

"Only if we're eating lobster," she whispered back, glad that he'd got
there before Carlo.

She was put sitting opposite Mark at the highly polished round dining
table, with a delighted Carlo on one side and Rex on the other.

"We're not standing on ceremony tonight," Rex said, handing around a
latticed silver basket filled with warm bread rolls.

"Carlo, pour the wine."

"Will you have some?"  Carlo murmured, holding a bottle of red over her
glass and smiling at her with hot, Latin eyes.

"No thanks," said Jo, hoping he'd take the hint.  No to wine and no to
you, Carlo.  The just-baked scent of the rolls filled Jo's nostrils and
made her all too aware of her empty stomach.

She ate hungrily, enjoying the Caesar salad, lobster and summer
pudding, swollen with ripe berries.

It was going to be a culture shock to her stomach when she returned to
Dublin and had to put up with frozen pizzas, eggs scrambled rock-solid
in the microwave and lasagne from a packet.

Carlo tried to monopolise Jo during dinner, asking her to tell him
about Ireland before launching into his life history, ending with the
story of a particularly bitter divorce.

At that point, his eyes stopped being lascivious and looked merely sad,
but Jo had enough trouble dealing with her own problems without
counselling anyone else.  Feeling a little heartless, she patted his
arm in a sisterly manner and turned towards Rex.

The discussion ranged from the price Amanda hoped a Degas statue of a
dancer would fetch, to the difficulties faced by parents of bored
English literature students.  "She says she's bored," shrugged Ned,
'wants to give up college and go abroad for a year.  I just don't know
what to do."

"We've tried everything," added Margaret.

"I even promised to buy her a new BMW if she stuck it out for another
year, but she says no."

"Do you have children, Jo?"  inquired Rex.

"No."  She grinned to herself.

"Not yet, anyway."  And when I do, they won't be getting BMWs in return
for going to college, either.

"Don't rush into it," shuddered the grey-haired man.

"My boys have cost me thousands of dollars, always changing what they
want to major in.  I tell them I never had any choice when I was their
age.  My family didn't have two dimes to rub together and I had to work
my way through college.  I think that's their problem, they've had
everything handed to them on a plate."

Jo couldn't resist glancing at Mark.  He was looking at her intently,
fingers locked over his empty plate, the grey eyes locked onto hers
with a frightening concentration.  He was definitely thinking of Emma.
Good.  It would do the little cow good not to have everything handed to
her on a plate for once.

If Mark got the message, that was.

"Maybe that's the secret," Mark commented, 'having to work for
everything.  I had to, so had you, Rex.  It made us fighters, it made
us determined to succeed.  And when we have youngsters to spoil," he
paused and grinned at Jo, 'we spoil them.  We give them all the chances
we never had and more.  And then we wonder why they haven't our fire,
our drive to succeed."

Suzanne clapped.

"You said it."  she said.

"Bryony never did anything we wanted her to until the day I stopped her
allowance.

"Go mad in Donna Karan, travel to Morocco and hang out on the beach,"

"Just do it on your own money"."  She smiled triumphantly.

"Bryony soon found out she couldn't afford to pay for her own
dry-cleaning.  By Fall, she'd got over wanting to travel to Morocco
like a hippie.  Hippies can't buy nice clothes, eat in good
restaurants and put gas in the Jeep.  In fact, they can't even insure
their Jeeps!"

Everyone laughed, even Jo, who remembered what it was like to put three
pounds' worth of petrol in the car when she was broke.

"So what does Bryony do now?"  asked Jo.

"She's working in Sotheby's with Amanda, as an assistant."

Amanda must be the redhead, Jo thought.  The pay is dreadful, but she's
being trained in the china department.

One day," Suzanne paused and winked at Rex, 'she may even earn half as
much as Amanda."

Amanda, a tall and stately woman in what was either a knock-off peach
boucle Chanel suit or the real thing, peered over her glasses at
Suzanne and shook one bejewelled finger slowly.  An emerald the size of
a Malteser winked in the light.

"My dears, I earn peanuts.  Or at least, that's what I tell the

IRS."

They chattered over the cheese and then strolled back into the living
room where Manuela had a huge tray of coffee and tiny forest-green
china cups ready.

"Are you happy you came?"  Mark asked Jo slyly.

She looked him in the eye.

"I'm having a lovely time and I'm sorry for being so childish earlier.
You do bring out the worst in me."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, leaning close to her so she could feel his
breath soft against her neck.

"I'd hoped to bring out the best in you."

There was no chance to say-anything in return.  They had caught up with
the others and everyone was sinking back into the comfortable brocade
sofas.

Jo and Mark sat beside each other on a sofa made for two.

When he leaned forward to take a cup of coffee from Suzanne, his thigh
touched Jo's.  It was like the other night, she thought.  His very
nearness unnerved her, made her heart beat faster.  The hand holding
her coffee cup shook slightly.

When she'd finished her coffee, Suzanne asked Jo if she'd like to see
the view from the balcony and the study.  The study is my favourite
room," the other woman confided, walking like a model down the hall.

"I decorated it like my grandfather's study in Mississippi.  He was a
judge and he had hundreds of leather-bound law books.  They lined the
walls and gave the place such character, I always thought."

"I'd love to have a room like this," said Jo.  Huge dark bookcases
stood from floor to ceiling, while an old mahogany desk and a worn
leather chair sat in one corner.

"I have a small apartment and there's no room for any sort of office or
study explained Jo, moving around the room, touching the gold leafed
spines of the books, 'but I have a dream of buying a little stone
cottage in Wicklow and having lots of bookcases.

And lots of books, of course!"

"I'm sure Mark would love that," Suzanne said earnestly.

"He certainly loves books, never stopped reading that one time he
stayed with us in Colorado."

Jo didn't know quite how to respond, so she picked a leather-bound
volume off a shelf and examined it carefully.

Washington Square by Henry James.  She'd been in the real Washington
Square that afternoon.

Did Suzanne think that she and Mark were an item?

Whatever had given her that idea?  Jo couldn't very well blurt out that
she and Mark had shared nothing more than one dinner, one lunch and a
very long, boring transatlantic flight.

She turned the pages slowly, wondering if Suzanne and Rex were the sort
of people who bought books they'd never read just because they looked
good.

"Maybe I shouldn't say this," said Suzanne suddenly.

"But when he asked could he bring you this evening, Rex and I were so
thrilled.  He hasn't even so much as mentioned another woman since,
well, you know ..."

Jo didn't know and she really wished she did.  But she didn't want to
let the side down by asking.  So she nodded sagely.

"Rex and I were very worried about him.  He's never missed visiting us
for Thanksgiving since we met him in Boston all those years ago.  And
last year he just called the day before and said he couldn't come.  We
really missed his company.  He's such a fascinating man, but then,
what am I telling you that for, Jo.  You already know!  Anyway,"
Suzanne patted Jo's hand, 'we're so glad he's got over it all, and so
glad that he's got someone as wonderful as you.  And I can tell he
loves you, just from the way he looks at you."

"You can?"  asked Jo faintly.

"You bet.  Just remember to ask us to the wedding!"

It was nearly half four on Wednesday afternoon when Mark and Jo finally
left Mademoiselle Inc.  The heavy white door, with MI emblazoned on it
in gold, slammed behind them as they walked onto 39th Street after two
hours of negotiating.

The director of the Mademoiselle chain of shops was eager to work with
Style and their in-house designer was even keener, thanks to Jo's
praise for his beautiful designs.

The New York traffic was building up into rush-hour proportions and Jo
sighed with exhaustion as she realised they hadn't a hope in hell of
getting a taxi.  But she hadn't reckoned on Mark's ability to whistle
up a cab as well as any New York doorman.

"I think that went pretty well," commented Mark, slamming the taxi door
and dropping his briefcase onto the seat beside him.

"You were brilliant, Jo.  You really impressed them and telling Marco
that his designs were, what was it, "... a breath of fresh air into the
jaded world of fashion", clinched the deal!"

"I'd have told him he was the new Karl Lagerfeld to get everything
signed and get out of there.  Thank God it's all over Jo said
fervently.

"All this wheeling and dealing is exhausting.  And I don't think I
could have managed another cup of herb tea, no matter how many fashion
supplements they were going to advertise in."

"I thought you liked that stuff Mark said, astonished.

"You certainly drank enough of it."

Jo looked at him incredulously.

"I was trying to be polite.  Have you ever seen me drink anything that
smelled like boiled socks before?"

Mark burst out laughing.

"You never cease to amaze me, Ms Ryan."  His eyes gleamed with
amusement.

"I'm beginning to wonder what else you'd do to clinch a deal.  Marco
certainly liked you and I'm sure Tony wouldn't have turned down an
intimate dinner date if you'd asked him nicely."

It was Jo's turn to laugh.

"I might stand a chance with Marco, but I think you'd be more Tony's
type."

"Damn," said Mark quickly.

"You mean I missed the chance of a date?  You could have told me.  He
was just my type."  He flicked his head in a camp manner and did his
best to pout.  He never stopped surprising her.

"I'll tell you what," she said, 'make a detour to Bloomingdale's to
drop me off and I'll ring Tony and tell him you're willing to meet him
but only if he brings you to a gay biker club, all right?"

"Maybe not," grinned Mark, patting her knee.

"I've gone off gay biker clubs since PVC became fashionable. 
Everyone's doing it and I prefer leather.  Anyway," he said, leaning
forward towards the driver, and adopting his normal voice, "I want to
do some shopping myself.  Bloomingdale's," he told the cab driver.

"I want to buy a present for my sister.  It's her birthday next month
and I'd love to get her something really nice.  Will you help?  I hate
shopping," he admitted.

"Of course.  What were you thinking of getting?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't be asking you," he pointed out.

Silk scarves were out because Denise already had loads of scarves.
That's what I usually buy her," admitted Mark sheepishly.

"I never know what she'd like."

He might not know what Denise would like, but he certainly had very
fixed ideas about what she wouldn't like, thought Jo after half an hour
trailing around Bloomie's, where he vetoed every suggestion she made.

Perfume, jewellery, handbags and a glorious chenille jumper in a
mulberry shade had all been rejected and even Jo, steadfast shopper
that she was, was getting tired.

"I'll tell you what, Mark, I want to have a look around myself, so why
don't you potter around and think about what you want to buy Denise
and meet me back here in three quarters of an hour, right?"  Before I
kill you, she added silently.

Jo spent a blissful half an hour riffling through racks of Donna Karan,
Prada and Emporio Armani.  She hadn't enough time to try anything on
and, since she didn't know how strapped she was going to be for money
with the baby, she decided to keep her credit card firmly in her
handbag.  It wasn't easy.  Being a cash less fashion editor in
Bloomingdale's was like being a chocoholic with wired-up jaws in
Cadbury's.

Next time, she promised herself, taking one last look at a beautiful
jersey dress that would look perfect on her.  She was passing the
children's department when she stopped abruptly.

They probably had the most divine baby clothes in the world:

just a quick look wouldn't delay her too much.

Everything was so pretty, she thought, stroking the soft fabric of a
tiny denim pinafore.  There were even socks to match, tiny soft blue
ones with miniature denim bows on one side.  They'd look so beautiful
on the baby, if it was a girl... "I thought it was you."  Mark was
beside her, leaning over to see what she'd picked up.

"I came looking for you because I assumed I'd have to drag you out of
the premises once you'd got into a clothes-buying frenzy.  You buying
presents as well?"

The little socks felt so soft, so lovely.  For some bizarre reason, Jo
suddenly felt sad, felt like sitting down on the floor of the baby
department and sobbing for herself and her baby, a baby with no
daddy.

"No."  she mumbled, shoving the socks blindly at the rack they'd been
on.

"Not presents."

He caught up with her by the perfume counters.  One large hand on her
arm stopped her from rushing out the door.

"What's wrong, Jo?  Did I say something wrong?"

"It's not you," she sobbed.

"It's me."

"Do you want to try some Poeme?"  interrupted a heavily made-up
saleslady armed with a huge yellow bottle of perfume and a fixed
smile.

"No thanks said Mark, putting an arm around Jo.

"Not you, sir.  The lady."

"No."  he snarled.

"Come on Jo, let's go."

"I'm sorry," Jo sniffled.

"I'm so sorry.  It's just the baby, the baby's making me all mixed up
and sad."

"Baby.  The baby?"  repeated Mark in amazement.

"I'm having a baby and Richard has left me she mumbled.

Then she leaned against his jacket and cried as if her heart would
break.  

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Aisling zipped up her skirt and turned to
look at herself in the mirror.  Three months ago, she wouldn't have
been able to get the grey herringbone skirt over her hips.  Now she
could slide into it with ease.  Two months of Callanetics, lots of
brisk walks and no chocolate digestives had worn her once-plump thighs
and hips down a dress size.

She couldn't help feeling smug.  When Michael came to pick up the boys
tomorrow, she'd go outside and talk to him something she'd avoided
doing for ages just to show him how well she looked.  Nowadays when he
picked up the boys at lunchtime on Saturdays, they ran out the front
door with their overnight bags and Aisling never ventured out to say
hello.  When he brought them home on Sunday evenings before seven, she
sat in the sitting room keeping an eye out for his car in order to have
the front door open for the twins.

She hadn't actually seen Michael for at least six weeks.

They'd talked on the phone of course, cool conversations with lots of
silences and plenty of 'anyways'.

Two weeks ago he'd rung on a Thursday night to say he'd have to change
his day to see the boys, thus ruining Aisling's plans to help Jo
house-hunt.

"I can't pick up Phillip and Paul on Saturday because I'm going to
London," he announced.

"I'll pick them up on Sunday morning instead and bring them out to
lunch."

Aisling was furious, both at the cool way he'd told her the news and
the fact that he'd given her only one day's notice of his change of
plan.  How dare he assume she wouldn't have any plans of her own!

Thank you so much," she hissed, 'for giving me plenty of notice.  Do
you have any idea of how this is going to affect the twins, do you,
Michael?  No, I suppose you don't.  It's bad enough that you've left
us," she said, determined to put the boot in, 'but letting them down
like this is appalling.  How do you expect two ten-year-olds to
understand that you can't see them as usual?  They'll think you've
dumped them too."

Aisling knew she was being vicious, full of the bitterness she thought
she'd managed to conceal for so long.  But she couldn't help herself.
She wanted to hurt Michael and she'd used the twins to do it.  In
reality, they appeared to be coping with the break-up quite well,
something which amazed her.

They seemed confident of Michael's love and loved visiting him at the
weekends, excited at the idea of calling another place home.  And since
she'd started to get on with her life and no longer broke down crying
at the drop of a hat, the happier atmosphere had cheered them all up.

"I'm sorry, Aisling," Michael said, his voice suddenly hollow and
exhausted.

"I've only just found out I have to go away.

Letting the boys down is the last thing I want to do."

Hearing the desolation in his voice, she immediately regretted the way
she'd tried to hurt him.  It wasn't as if she couldn't bring Phillip
and Paul out with her and Jo.  They'd love the chance to spend time
with their auntie Jo, who always brought sweets, told them jokes and
let them fiddle around with the windscreen wipers in the front seat of
the car the way their mother wouldn't.

Anyway, Aisling missed them so much when they were gone at the weekend
that she knew it would be lovely to have them with her on Saturday for
a change.  Guilt at her bitchiness overwhelmed her.  She'd been a
nasty, manipulative bitch on the phone, everything she hated in other
people and Michael hadn't deserved it.

He hadn't phoned her since then.  At least he'd had two weeks to forget
what she'd said, she reflected.  She wasn't proud of shrieking that
he'd left her feeling less than useless.

Damn him, she'd never meant to let herself down so much.

Now she had the chance to show him how much she'd changed, what she'd
achieved.  He'd get a bit of a shock to see that his wife wasn't the
same old drudge.

The sight, of Aisling Moran, career woman, would certainly take him by
surprise.  Not that she was exactly that a career woman, she thought
wryly.

Keeping her nose to the grindstone in the employ of Richardson, Reid
and Finucane did not exactly qualify her for any Businesswoman of the
Year awards.  Nor did ignoring barbed and often salacious comments from
Leo Murphy, in between doing his typing and answering the phone.  But
she wasn't about to tell Michael that.  No way.

Let him admire her new figure, her increased selfconfidence and her air
of calm.  Aisling sighed at herself in the mirror.  Who was she
kidding?  She certainly felt more confident about lots of things, but
unfortunately, her confidence wavered when she needed it most.  With
Leo.  Losing nearly three-quarters of a stone had given her more energy
and a smidgen of her old self-assurance.

Dealing with all manner of problems with clients and other lawyers'
secretaries had given her a sense of job satisfaction that cleaning the
oven never had.

But everything fell to pieces when it came to Leo.  Aisling loved the
days he was out of the office.  She typed up letters, filed documents,
made appointments and dealt with clients effortlessly.

She was good at the job, she realised happily, great at organising
things and coolly competent when it came to the finer details of office
work.

Then she'd hear him bounding up the stairs to her tiny office and she'd
feel a queasiness in the pit of her stomach.

"How's my lovely Mrs.  Moran today?"  he said sometimes, when he was in
a good mood.

"Gimme my appointment book," he'd snarl when he wasn't.

If a woman had behaved the way Leo Murphy did, with mood swings verging
on the psychiatric, she'd have been called a premenstrual nuisance or a
menopausal old cow.

Leo was just moody, Caroline said the day Aisling had ventured to ask
if he'd always been so 'difficult'.

Moody.  He should have been locked up, she decided.  In fact, he was
so nasty when he was in his bad moods, that she had almost preferred
him when he was playful, patting her on the shoulder in an overfamiliar
way or calling her "Honey' or "Sweetheart."  Almost.

Wednesday had been the last straw.  He'd come back from what was
obviously a boozy lunch not for the first time in rare good humour.

"How are you, Aisling?"  he said sauntering into her office.

He placed both hands on her desk and leaned over, as though trying to
see what was on her computer screen.  He was too close for comfort. 
The smell of brandy on his breath was enough to make Aisling recoil.

"Mr.  Reid was looking for you," she stuttered, the hairs standing up
on her arms.

"He can wait," Leo said in the precise tones of someone who was drunk
but determined not to show it.

"So."  he clumsily-pushed her wire in-tray to one side and sat down on
the edge of her desk, less than two feet away from her.  Aisling slid
her chair back furtively, but she was jammed up against the window.

"So," he repeated, 'how's your husband, Aisling?  Still gone?"

Had anyone else said something so blatantly rude to her, Aisling would
have been furious, maybe even walked out of the room and slammed the
door.  But Leo Murphy wasn't anyone.  He was her boss.

The phone on her desk leaped to life, its shrill ring breaking Leo's
spell.  Aisling grabbed it.

"Leo Murphy's office," she said quickly, wondering how she could still
speak with her mouth so dry.

"Of course, Caroline.

He's here now.  I'll tell him Mr.  Reid's waiting for him."

She didn't have to say another word.  Leo left as quickly as he'd come,
leaving her wondering whether she'd just imagined the whole scary
scene.

He'd been so normal and businesslike the next day that she'd been able
to relax a little, able to think she'd overreacted.

"What would I do without you, Aisling?"  He smiled when she brought
him a sandwich at lunchtime.  She smiled briefly, glad that everything
was back to normal.

But the incident still simmered in her mind, looming large in her head
when the lights were out and she lay on her own in the big double bed.
Should she say something to someone?

To Vivienne?  Two months ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of asking the
other woman what time it was, never mind what she should do about
Leo.

Yet she'd come to really like Vivienne, to admire her courage and
determination.  Once Vivienne had realised that Aisling wasn't some
bored housewife toying with the idea of a job and using her contacts to
get it, she'd dropped her frosty demeanour.  In fact, she'd become a
good friend.  A single mother to eight-year-old Christine, Vivienne was
a veteran of the child minder search and had given Aisling lots of
advice on finding the right person to look after the twins.

Maybe she should tell Vivienne about Leo, Aisling mused.

She really wanted to.  But she hated to admit to anyone that she didn't
know what to do, that he'd beaten her.

Aisling unzipped her small make-up bag, found her mascara and applied
some to her upper eyelashes.  She quickly ran her new lipstick over her
lips and she was ready.  She couldn't resist turning sideways again to
see her reflection in the mirror.  Yes, she could feel her hipbones,
she thought happily, smoothing her hands over the soft wool of the
skirt.

Vivienne caught up with Aisling as she hurried along Fitzwilliam
Square.  It was ten past nine and they were both late.

"Bloody Leeson Street Bridge," fumed Vivienne, walking as rapidly as a
long, sleek red skirt and spindly high heels would allow.

"Some moron stalled his car and I was stuck for three changes of the
lights.  That made me so late, I'm parked practically at Baggot Street
and today's the day of the director's lunch, so I really needed to be
in early."

"I got stuck on the bridge too," said Aisling.

"I hope Leo isn't in yet, he'll go mad if I'm late.  But I know he's
going out about eleven, so if you need any help with the lunch today,
call me."

"You're a star Vivienne said gratefully.

"I could do with some help because Caroline is on holiday this week and
she usually gives me a hand.  And we're using new caterers today, so I
need to double check to make sure everything is perfect."

"Just ring me, I'd love to help."

Aisling felt slightly comforted by the fact that Vivienne was late.  It
could happen to anyone.  If Leo was already in the office, she'd tell
him Vivienne had been stuck in the same traffic jam.  Then he'd know
she hadn't simply overslept and was lying about what had delayed her.
That was it, she'd tell him about Vivienne and the traffic on Leeson
Street Bridge.

Leo was already there when she arrived at twelve minutes past-nine,
hair flying as she bounded up the stairs.  He always locked his office
at night and it was now open, proof that he was at his desk and
listening for her.

"Aisling," he called out, as she put a foot on the staircase to her
tiny office.

"Come here."

Breathing heavily from her sprint from the car to the office and aware
that she looked hot and flushed, she went into his office.

"I'm sorry, Leo," she apologised, 'the traffic was dreadful and I got
stuck on Leeson Street Bridge for five minutes behind ..."

"I don't want excuses," he snapped, obviously irritated.

"I

want you here before me in the morning.  I want coffee on my desk when
I arrive and," he stared at her with distaste, "I want a secretary who
looks respectable and not like she's just run the mini marathon."

Shocked, Aisling blinked rapidly, feeling her eyes prickle with tears.
If he said one more thing, she'd cry.  As if she hadn't cried enough
recently.

But Leo had obviously said all he wanted to say and had started reading
his newspaper.

Aisling turned on her heel and fled.  Once inside her own sanctum, she
shut the door and dropped her handbag.

He's a pig, a pig and I hate him, she howled.  I hate him.

How dare he speak to me like I'm some sort of slave.  How dare he think
he can ask me personal questions, leer at me and then treat me like
this.  I hate him!

After ten minutes, she felt calm enough to get him a cup of coffee.  He
was still reading the paper and didn't even look up when she entered
the office.  She placed the cup on his desk and left as silently as
she'd come in.

Then she took the mug of strong, sweet coffee she'd poured for herself
and went to the women's toilet.  She fixed her hair back into a neat
pony tail, washed her face and reapplied her make-up.  She added a
squirt of perfume from the tiny Allure sample she'd got in the
chemist's.

Finished, she took a draught of coffee and looked at herself in the
mirror.  She stared at her reflection as if she was a stranger seeing
her own face for the first time.  Dispassionately, impartially.

An attractive woman stared back at her, a woman with recently
discovered cheekbones, an oval-shaped face, a strong chin and large,
expressive eyes the colour of just-washed denim.  It was a strong face,
a womanly face.  The face of a woman who was a working mother, a
survivor, someone who refused to let life knock her down.

She'd done a lot in the past three months, coped with her marriage
breaking up, coped with going back to work, even coped with looking
after two boisterous boys.  She wasn't going to let some jumped-up
bully ruin everything she'd achieved so far, was she?  No way, Aisling
said aloud.  No way.

Watch out Leo Murphy.  Don't try your bullying tactics any more."  She
remained in her office all morning, talking several times to Leo on the
intercom as she transferred phone calls.  He didn't ask to see her. 
She was grateful to be left alone.

"I'm going out now.  I'll be back for the lunch at one he said in
clipped tones on the intercom at five to eleven.  Hope you crash, pig,
Aisling said to herself.

He had just left when Vivienne rang.  "Can you come down and help,
Aisling?  I saw Leo go out, so I hoped you'd be free."

"Sure.  I'll be down in five minutes."

Vivienne was wrestling with a sash window when Aisling walked into the
boardroom.

"Damn thing's stuck," wheezed Vivienne, pink-faced with exertion.  That
painter we had last month glued everything together with paint.  I'll
kill him.  I just can't open this window and it's like an oven in here
if you don't."

It took both of them to free the window from the painted frame, but
once they did the window slid up easily.  A welcome cool breeze drifted
in along with the noise of cars and motorbike couriers racing over to
Leeson Street.

"It's a lovely room said Aisling, admiring the gilt-framed hunting
prints and an imposing mahogany table in the centre of the room,
surrounded by twenty high-backed chairs.

Aisling had peered in the door a few times but she'd never been at one
of the monthly directors' meetings where Vivienne took minutes in her
perfect Pitman shorthand.

She knew that Caroline usually brought in coffee, tea and biscuits
midway through the meetings, and that sometimes the senior partner,
Edward Richardson, opened a bottle of vintage port if the company had
enjoyed an especially profitable month.

Not that anybody ever got drunk, Vivienne explained.

"Except that time when Tom Reid was taking this flu remedy and he had
two glasses of port at the meeting and practically fell asleep."

Today was going to be different.  Richardson, Reid and Finucane were
welcoming two new partners to the firm and celebrating the most
successful year of business in their thirty-two-year history.  So
Edward decided to celebrate in style.

They could have taken a room in Le Coq Hardi or any one of Dublin's
posh restaurants, but he preferred to host a private luncheon in the
boardroom, a tradition dating back to the early days of the business.

There are eight clients coming," Vivienne said, looking at a notepad
where she'd drawn up a list of things to do.  That makes sixteen place
settings and I hope they all fit.  We've never had so many people at a
lunch before.  I just hope the caterers are up to scratch," she added
fervently.

She'd been responsible for organising these annual lunches for seven
years and had used the same caterers every year.

Until this year.

"I can't believe they've gone out of business," she told Aisling two
weeks previously.  They were so reliable and the food was always
beautiful.  I just left it completely up to them.

Lord knows where I'll get anyone as good."

Exclusive Dining, picked out of the phone book, sounded perfect.
Vivienne had been crossing her fingers for ten days now, praying that
everything would go according to plan.

"Is this the right room?"  asked a masculine voice.  A sulky looking
young man in jeans and a fluorescent yellow Tshirt stood at the door
with a big cardboard box in his arms.

"Yes," said Vivienne.

"Put it over there, thank you," she added, gesturing at a long table
which stood at the far end of the room covered with a white tablecloth.
He put the box down with an ominous clatter.  I hope that's not the
china, thought Aisling with a twinge of unease, or they'll be eating
off cracked plates.  Miraculously, nothing appeared to be broken.  He
took white plates out of the box one by one, banging each one noisily
as he stacked them on the table.

"Sabrina is supposed to be coming at half eleven with the food, isn't
she?"  Vivienne asked him.

"Sabrina's sick.  Debbie's doing the food," he muttered, shoving the
empty packing case out of the way under the table.

"I'll get the rest of the stuff out of the van.  There are two more
boxes, if you come with me to help."

"What do you mean, "Sabrina's sick"?"  asked Vivienne anxiously.

"She was fine yesterday.  And who's Debbie, is she a partner or what?
I've never met her."

"She works for Sabrina sometimes," he answered disinterestedly.

Vivienne caught Aisling's eye and grimaced.  "I'll get the rest of the
stuff and you ring Sabrina," advised Aisling.

"I'm Aisling."  she said to the packer.

"What's your name?"

"Bob."

"Right Bob."  she said resolutely.

"Show me the way to the van."

She and Bob had unpacked all the china, cutlery, wine glasses and
napkins when Vivienne returned, her face as white as her blouse.

"Sabrina has a twenty-four-hour bug and she can't work.

But she says Debbie will be here on the dot of half eleven and she's
very reliable although she hasn't done many lunches on her own ... I
have a bad feeling about this," she whispered to Aisling.  You and me
both, thought Aisling.

It was nearly a quarter to twelve before Debbie arrived with lunch.
Vivienne had carefully arranged place settings and adjusted the four
baskets of flowers with uncharacteristic nervousness.

"I hate doing this," revealed Vivienne.

"Leave me a mountain of documents to organise or get me to type
hundred-page contracts, and I'm fine.  But organising catering is a
complete nightmare.  I've never been much of a cook.  Christine makes
better toast than I do and I certainly can't come up with menus at the
drop of a hat.  Oh, here she is.  Thank God."

Debbie was energetic, fresh-faced and about nineteen.

"Hello all," she said brightly, as she walked into the room carrying a
large aluminium cold-food container.  "I'm Debbie, Sabrina's stand-in.
Oh, everything look so pretty.  The carnations are nice, I love
carnations.  Grab this for me, Bob?"  she

She and Bob blithely carried in the cold and hot food containers, while
she chatted away volubly, discussing the traffic, the weather and how
she was dying for a coffee.

"Can I smoke in here?"  she asked, producing a pack of cigarettes when
Vivienne handed her a mug of coffee.

"I'm afraid not," replied Vivienne.

Debbie shrugged good-humouredly and sat down to drink her coffee.  The
fact that she was late wasn't even mentioned. Aisling wondered whether
Debbie had ever catered professionally before.

For all she knew, Debbie could have been a junior Masterchef winner who
simply wasn't into the formalities of catering as a business.  Maybe
cooking was her forte and she wasn't interested in making the clients
feel relaxed and confident about the meal.

But when she got a look at the dressed salmon, Aisling knew they were
in trouble.  The fish was the see-through rose colour of undercooked
salmon.  Food poisoning time, she

It was perfectly arranged, dressed with beautifully cut pieces of lemon
and cucumber, and almost definitely half-raw.

She ran an experienced eye over the dressed crab with Dublin Bay
prawns.  The crab looked cooked but, if the salmon was undercooked, God
only knew what condition the prawns were in.  Shellfish food poisoning
registered about eight on the food poisoning Richter scale, bested only
by botulism.  They really were in trouble.

Aisling might be nervous about her typing and scared of dealing with
her difficult boss, but if there was one thing she was perfectly sure
about, it was food.

"Vivienne," she said.

"We've got a problem."

"What is it?"  asked Vivienne, busy positioning the white and red wine
goblets in exactly the right places.

There was no point in beating around the bush.  The salmon is
practically raw, Vivienne," Aisling said as gently as she could.

"Debbie hasn't cooked the fish properly.  It's definitely still raw.
And I don't like the look of the prawns either.

We'll give everyone food poisoning."

"Oh my God," said the other woman in horror.

"You're not serious.  What can we do, it's twelve now, they'll be here
in forty-five minutes.  Debbie."  she shrieked.

"Yes?"

"The food is raw!"

"Don't be silly, it couldn't be.  I mean, I did my best," began Debbie
defensively.

Aisling bent down and tasted the coleslaw.  It was faintly bitter,
definitely off.

"We're in big trouble, girls.  This is off too.  When did you do all
this, Debbie?  Coleslaw wouldn't go off that quickly."

Debbie's face was shocked, but Vivienne's was worse.  They both looked
as if they were going to cry.

"I swear I did the salmon the way the book said," wailed Debbie.

"I let the water boil and turned it off... honestly."

"Did you leave the fish in the fish kettle until it cooled?"

asked Aisling.

"No.  Was I supposed to?"

"That's part of the cooking, Debbie.  What happened to the coleslaw?"

"I don't know.  I'm a pastry chef really.  I've never taken on this big
a job myself.  I'm so sorry."  She looked horrified.  But then so did
Vivienne.  For once, the cool and calm senior secretary was totally at
a loss.

"Look," Aisling took a quick glance at Vivienne's face and decided to
take charge, 'what cooking equipment have you got here?"

"We've got a microwave in the van ... I'm so sorry Debbie repeated
miserably.

"I did my best Aisling calmed her down.

"Look, Debbie, we don't have time to start blaming anyone.  We've got
to come up with something else fairly rapidly.  Bring the microwave
into the canteen.  That way, we've got two microwaves which we can use
to heat the salmon up.  It's the only way we can use it.  We don't have
enough time to recook it and cool it and we better have a proper first
course if we don't have the buffet any more.  OK, let me think."
Aisling stood back and looked at the food Debbie and Bob had brought
up.  There were plenty of salads, along with a cooked ham, a huge bowl
of mixed lettuce and a cheese board.

Vivienne sat down on a chair and rubbed her temples shakily.

"I can't believe this is happening," she said.

"I just can't believe it.  Today is so important to Edward and I can't
let him down."

The difference between the two secretaries' relationships with their
bosses was amazing, thought Aisling briefly.

Vivienne didn't want things to go wrong because she'd be letting Edward
down.  If Aisling had arranged a lunch for Leo and it had gone wrong,
she'd have been terrified that he'd kill her, never mind not wanting to
upset him.

"Don't worry, Vivienne," she said calmly.

"I've an idea.  Bob, get the microwave and any pots you have from the
van.

Vivienne, you go with Bob to Quinnsworth in Baggot Street he can
double-park while you shop.  I want you to get a pound of beef
tomatoes," she instructed.

"Debbie, do you have any herbs with you?"

"Er, yes," answered Debbie.

"I need oregano, basil, thyme, parsley and olive oil.  Oh yes, we need
to make a vinaigrette.  Have you got the ingredients for that?"

"Yes.  I'll get everything I have."

"Put it in the canteen, it's downstairs, Vivienne will show you.  Right
Vivienne, get the tomatoes, three or four French sticks, potatoes and,
let's see, courgettes.  Debbie and I will divide the cooked ham into
starters with salad and when you get back we'll cook the potatoes and
salmon.  We better forget about the prawns."  She reached out and
patted Vivienne's arm.

"It'll be fine, don't worry."

Vivienne ran to her office to get money from petty cash.

Aisling carefully transferred the food to the basement canteen.  A tiny
white-tiled room with a table and four plastic chairs, a microwave, a
kettle, a fridge and a grill that looked about twenty years old, it was
totally unsuitable for cooking and serving a meal for sixteen people.
It would have to do.

She slipped one of Debbie's white aprons over her clothes and washed
her hands carefully, her mind on the best way to turn a disastrous
buffet into a top-class lunch.  It was seven minutes past twelve and
lunch was supposed to be ready at one.  But she felt remarkably calm
and focused.

She cut the salmon into large chunks which she put into one of the
large serving dishes Bob had just carried in.  Debbie arrived panting,
with a box of herbs, oil, butter and cooking equipment.

"We'll use the ham, the potato and the pasta salads and make individual
starters Aisling explained, breaking open a garlic bulb and expertly
peeling and crushing several cloves with an old bread knife she'd found
in a drawer.

Debbie handed her a sharp Sabatier knife from her box.

Thanks."  said Aisling, never taking her eyes off what she was doing.

"Keep it very simple, all right she added, assembling a speedy
vinaigrette as she talked.

"Just drizzle a little vinaigrette on each plate, place the radicchio
in the centre, a little of the cooked salads on the left and the ham on
the right."

Delighted that someone else had taken charge, Debbie started arranging
the plates immediately.  They were nearly finished ten minutes later
when Vivienne and Bob arrived back with the shopping.

"You were quick said Aisling astonished.

"Necessity is the mother of invention answered Vivienne.

"I

skipped the queue by begging everyone in front of me on the express
checkout to let me go first.  I said I was going to be fired if I
didn't get back to the office on time and it worked!"

Debbie blanched at the mention of the word 'fired'.

"OK, Bob and Vivienne, you peel the potatoes ordered Aisling.

"Then wash them and cube them into very small cubes.  We need them to
cook very rapidly.  Debbie, you prepare the courgettes.  We'll just
cook them in the microwave and serve them with a little butter and
black pepper."

"What are we making?"  asked Vivienne as she carefully rolled up the
sleeves of her blouse.

"Salmon with tomato and fresh herb salsa and courgettes and mashed
potatoes.  Because men love mashed potatoes and it's the quickest way
to cook them with two microwaves."  By one o'clock, all the guests had
arrived and the boardroom was full.  The salmon and mashed potatoes
were being kept hot in Debbie's portable ovens.

Vivienne dispensed drinks while Debbie carried the starters up from
the canteen and left them on the long white-covered table.

"Make up a couple of starters with just salad, Debbie instructed
Aisling when the other girl returned to the canteen.

"Just in case there's someone who doesn't want to eat the cold ham."

"What will we do if there is someone who doesn't eat fish?"

asked Debbie.  They won't be able to eat the main course."

"Oh no, I never thought," Aisling paled.

"I'll do the salad.

Get Vivienne to check if everyone will eat the fish.  We'll have to
give them a cold plate or maybe I can make them an omelette.  You do
have eggs, don't you?"

They're all eating the ham," said Vivienne with a relieved sigh when
she walked into the canteen ten minutes later, 'and everyone wants the
salmon.  I managed to tell Edward what had happened and he says well
done to you.  And sent down this."  She produced a bottle of red wine
and two glasses.

"I need this," she added, filling one glass for Aisling and another
for

"I don't believe in drinking at lunchtime but today is definitely an
exception."

When the last of the main courses had gone upstairs, Aisling relaxed.

They love it," Vivienne said, when she came back down from the
boardroom.

"What a relief.  I never want to go through that ever again.  I'm
wrecked."  She slipped off her impossibly high shoes and sank down into
a chair.

"You were amazing, Aisling.  You really saved the day.  And you were so
unflappable."

"Cooking calms me," Aisling replied, putting Debbie's olive oil back in
the box along with the herbs and butter.

"It's one of my favourite occupations and one of the things I'm best
at.

Unfortunately," she added drily, "I spent more time over the last five
years worrying about making a perfect souffle than worrying about the
state of my marriage.  And I spent much too much time eating the
products of my cookery classes.  My answer to everything was to bury
myself at home and learn how to make flaky pastry and cream horns and
then eat them!"  She laughed.

"Well, you're certainly not eating them now commented Vivienne.

"You look great.  You've lost so much weight."  Aisling flushed with
pleasure at the compliment.  Both Jo and Fiona had said the same thing
yet she still didn't know how to take flattery.  In her mind she was
still an overweight, dull housewife waiting for twelve o'clock to chime
and her carriage to turn into a pumpkin.

"Have you been dieting?"  asked Vivienne.

"Not really.  I don't have the time to cook stuff like I used to any
more but I have been making a big effort to eat properly.

Working certainly helps," she added.

"It's easier to keep off the biscuits when you're not staring at the
fridge all day long.

Breaking up with Michael has done wonders for my figure.

Maybe if I'd copped on earlier that he was bored with me and changed
somehow, he wouldn't have left."

Vivienne leaned over and poured Aisling another glass of wine.

"Well, I don't think it's ever that simple," she said gently.

"I've never been married, but my relationship with Christine's father
was a long-term thing, so I know all about letting relationships go
stale.  You can't say it was your fault things didn't work out any more
than you can say it's the man's fault.  It doesn't work like that.
People change so much, that's what happens.  Nobody ever tells you that
in romantic novels, do they?

"Christine's father didn't want the same things I wanted," she
revealed.

"He wanted to remain single and fancy-free, which was OK by me before I
got pregnant.  But afterwards, I wanted to settle down, I wanted
security.  He didn't."

She shrugged.

"We drifted apart and it wasn't really my fault or his fault.  Was that
what happened with you?"

"I suppose so," admitted Aisling.

"We both changed.  I couldn't see that in the beginning.  I blamed
Michael for everything from global warming to cellulite, but I can see
what happened now, thank God.  I went one way and Michael went
another.  I'd stopped thinking of him in the same way, I suppose she

"He wasn't so much my husband as the father of the twins, and
breadwinner.  I cut myself off from his world and he did the same to
me.  I notice it now because his being there isn't much different to
his not being there.  Apart from late-night conversations about what
the boys did and what type of dinner was overheated to a crisp in
the!

oven because he was late home, we didn't talk at all.  Wow," said
Aisling, 'this is a very intense conversation.  Are you sure you didn't
put something in this wine, a bit of truth serum?"  Vivienne laughed.
Trauma makes you want to unburden yourself or at least that's what it
says in Caroline's latest psychology book."

"Caroline likes psychology books?"  said Aisling.

"I can't imagine it."

"She loves them.  She's been doing a night-time accountancy course for
the last two years and she says she'd never have dreamed of doing it
without her books.  She says they've given her the encouragement her
upbringing never gave her."

They finished off the bottle of wine, leaving a flustered Debbie to
serve dessert, a raspberry roulade with cream.

"If there's any left over, bring it back ordered Vivienne, buttering a
piece of French bread.

"It looks yummy and we're ravenous."

Aisling was beginning to feel distinctly tipsy.  She hadn't actually
eaten any lunch and the wine, a particularly potent Rioja, had gone
straight to her head.

"Eat."  advised Vivienne, making an enormous French bread sandwich with
some ham and potato salad, 'or we'll be plastered."

She cut the sandwich in half without too much of the filling squelching
out and handed one piece to Aisling.

"Was it very difficult bringing up Christine on your own?"

ventured Aisling.

"It's just that I've a friend who is pregnant and her boyfriend has
left her.  I wonder how hard it will be for her."

"God help her.  It's very hard said Vivienne through a mouthful of
crumbs, 'if it's anything like my experience.  I mean, I adore
Christine, she's everything in the world to me, but there have been
some difficult times.  It's hard being alone, but you know that. 
You're responsible for everything, nobody else.  And it can be lonely,
too."

"I know.  You miss adult conversations," said Aisling reflectively.

"It's not even that," Vivienne added.

"Your social life just disintegrates when you're a single parent,
that's what I've found, anyway.  Nobody invites a single woman to
parties because the women are all terrified you're going to run off
with their husbands."  She chuckled as though remembering something.

"And the husbands all think you're dying for it and chat you up
madly!"

Aisling said nothing.  Did Leo think she was dying for it?

Probably.

"You lose all the friends who are couples," Vivienne continued, 'and
end up hanging out with your single friends.  Most of whom don't have
kids and can't understand why you can't stay out all night or have to
stay sober to drive the babysitters home.  Am I making this single
parenthood thing sound too attractive for you?"  she inquired with a
large grin.

"Fantastic.  How do you ever get time to work with such a hectic social
life?"  Aisling asked.

"Oh, you know, I fit a few hours in every week between visiting Leeson
Street, picking up bored married men and trawling through singles pubs
looking for Mr.  Might-Possibly-be-Mr-Right."

Vivienne took a big slug of wine.  That probably sounds very bitter,"
she said quietly.

"Has it been that tough?"  Aisling asked gently.

"Yes and no.  I'd love to have someone in my life but it's so hard to
meet someone who wants a single mother.  It's so hard to meet someone
full stop.  I'm thirty-four and the men my age are all married.  Or
have no intention of settling down," she added.

"Sorry, this isn't what you need to hear, Aisling.  I've been having a
miserable week because Christine has the flu.  I've got the most
dreadful PMT and the video conked out on Wednesday evening when we were
watching 101 Dalmatians.

Lord knows how much it will cost to fix, or if it's even worth
fixing."

"Ladies, you've been asked to join the party upstairs seeing as how you
saved the day said a loud voice.

Pat Finucane stood at the door of the canteen.

"I've been telling everyone about your amazing culinary skills,
Aisling, and how you managed to transform a disaster into a wonderful
meal.  They nearly licked their plates, you know.  Those mashed
potatoes were delicious."

Aisling and Vivienne laughed at the same time.

"What did I say?"  asked Pat.

"Aisling maintains that men love mashed potatoes and she's obviously
right explained Vivienne.  She slid her shoes back on and winked at

"You must come over to my house for dinner some night next week and
we'll continue our moan, right?"

"I'd love to said Aisling warmly.  Maybe that would be just the right
occasion to talk to Vivienne about Leo.

"It'll be spaghetti or something equally simple added Vivienne
quickly.

"Or I could always ask Debbie to rustle up some fish ..."

"Well done Edward Richardson stood up and clapped when Aisling arrived
at the boardroom door.  The guests looked totally relaxed, with pink
faces and loosened ties evidence that the wine was going down a
treat.

"Gentlemen, I give you the estimable Aisling Moran."  He smiled, his
pale blue tie still knotted in a perfect Windsor knot.

"When you open your own restaurant, my dear, I want to eat there every
night.  And you could teach my darling daughter to cook while you're at
it!"

"Do you do dinner parties?"  asked one man, as Pat offered Aisling a
glass of wine.

"Well," Aisling said slowly, "I've never cooked for anyone but myself
and my family ..."

"It's just that my wife hates cooking and she'd jump at the chance to
have someone like you come in and rustle up a dinner party the man
insisted.

"It's a great idea, Jim," said Pat seriously.

"You'd be wonderful at it, Aisling."

"Absolutely."  agreed Vivienne, accepting a glass of champagne.

"You never panicked once."

"You could certainly cook for my parties added Tom Reid, Caroline's
boss.

"It really would be a marvelous business venture said Edward
encouragingly.

"Your talent and my tasting skills.  You'd cook and I'd test
everything!"

They all laughed.

"A toast said Edward, raising his glass, 'to Richardson, Reid and
Finucane, to our new partners he smiled at the two new lawyers, 'to our
continued business success and, to Aisling, who made our lunch
wonderful.  Cheers."

"I'm serious about that said Jim.  He grabbed Aisling's arm as she and
Vivienne left.  "I'm Jim Coughlan and I'd love you to cook for us.  My
wife, Rachel", has just set up a small public relations business and
she plans to do a lot of entertaining in the future.  Can I tell her
she can call you?"

Startled and flattered, Aisling thought for a moment.

"Sure."  she said finally.

"But I could only cook after office hours.  I couldn't compromise
working here."

"No problem.  Here's my number."  He handed her a cream and black
embossed business card.

"I'll get Rachel to ring you here and you can call back when it's
convenient."

The men were still chatting around the boardroom table at half four,
all notions of work abandoned.

"I just want to go home and lie down sighed Vivienne, pouring a mug of
coffee for herself and Aisling in her office.  "Mhe too.  But I've got
to send out two letters by courier this evening.  All they need is
Leo's signature, but I doubt if I'll be able to get him out of the
boardroom."

"I've got to ask Edward something Vivienne said, 'so I'll mention the
letters to Leo."

Aisling brought her coffee upstairs, wishing it was half five and she
could go home.  She was tired and the idea of a hot bath was very
appealing.  Yet she felt elated by the way she'd coped today, flattered
by what everyone had said.

She printed out the letters Leo was to sign.  She'd love to cater for
dinner parties.  But it' would be a big thing to take on.  Where would
she start?  And how could she do it all on her own?

"Very tasty, Mrs.  Moran," said Leo's deep voice behind her.

Aisling whirled around in surprise.  He was standing in the doorway
grinning at her.  Leering, actually.

"The food was tasty as well he chuckled, delighted with his little
joke.  Aisling could feel the anger she'd been hiding simmer up inside
her.  Steady, don't do anything, she cautioned herself.  He's just
drunk, he's harmless.  Don't say anything you'd regret, Aisling, just
because you've had a few glasses of wine.  You need this job,
remember.

"I wanted you to sign these," she said as calmly as she could, holding
out the letters.  He didn't move.  She walked towards him and handed
him the two sheets of paper.

Thanks, Aisling."  He took the letters, keeping his eyes on her.  She
leaned over her desk and picked up a pen from the other side.  As she
did so, he slid one arm around her waist and let it move quickly down
to brush her behind.

Enraged, she swung around and screamed at him.

"How dare you touch me, you pig!  How dare you!"

"Don't give me that rubbish he snarled.

"You know you want it.  Don't be all coy."

He stepped towards her again, a half-grin on his face.  He was going to
grab her, to touch her, she just knew it.  And she knew that she'd had
enough.

When her right hand connected with his jaw it made a satisfying
noise.

"Listen, you pervert, you can stick your job Aisling yelled.

"I've had enough of your comments, your salacious remarks and your
appalling behaviour.  You're an asshole, Leo Murphy, and I'm
leaving!"

With that, she grabbed her handbag from behind her desk and ran out the
door.  "I can't believe I did that!"  Aisling said at half eight that
night when Jo called round.

"I was totally furious at the time, a mixture of red wine and release
at having stopped that chauvinistic pig.  But now ..."  She broke off,
rubbing the bridge of her nose to relieve the throbbing headache which
was threatening to explode in her head.

"Aisling!"  said Jo angrily.

"Don't you dare feel sorry for what you did.  I can't believe that
bastard..  I only wish you'd said something to me and I would have told
you exactly what to do a lot sooner.  Who the hell does he think he is?
That's sexual harassment and it's illegal.  He can't get away with
this, he can't!  The Employment Equality Agency will tell us exactly
what to do and believe you me, he'll rue the day he ever abused his
position!"

That's all very well, Jo," sighed Aisling, 'but I still need a job
right now.  Anyway, who the hell is going to believe my side of the
story?"  she demanded.

"Leo is a lawyer, after all.  He spends his life dealing with the law.
By the time he's finished with me, my name will be mud.  I'll have been
"asking for it" or something."

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Jo.

"Sorry.  I didn't mean it that way.  I'm just so angry that you never
told me about it.  I could have told you what he was doing was wrong,
that you don't have to suffer that sort of crap."

"I know," Aisling said miserably, "I know I should have done something
sooner.  It was all so strange and difficult.  Getting a job in the
first place seemed such a huge thing, I just didn't know how to handle
myself, or him," she added despondently.

"I was so pleased with myself when I hit him, but that wore off.  All
I've been thinking about since is why I did do it."

"You should have done it weeks ago," Jo pointed out.

"Look, Ash, ring Pat Finucane and tell him what happened.  Ask him what
he thinks.  I could be wrong, but I doubt if he'll let this end
here."

"I can't drag Pat into this," exclaimed Aisling.

"He's in it.  He is a senior partner in a firm where one of his Wendy
houses.  She looked at the next prospectus, a small, whitewashed
cottage in Dalkey which looked beautiful in the estate agent's photo.
But she hadn't actually seen it yet and the descriptions, written in
eloquent estate agent language, did not always match up with the actual
premises once you got there.

On Monday, she'd seen one 'bijou des res with one rec, three beds, one
bthrm, ofch and Ige grdn.  Nds sin modernisation," and found a poky
little house with zero charm, damp walls, three mouldy bedrooms that
could have been used for a drug den and a wasteland out the back that
looked suitable for botanic experiments into rampant weed growth.

"It needs some work admitted the weary-looking estate agent when he
noticed Jo pulling her skirt close around her legs so it wouldn't brush
against anything particularly virulent in the kitchen.

"If I was married to the person who ran Rentokil, and owned a builders'
providers, I might consider it," she replied.  Then, sorry she'd
sounded so sharp, she added, "I need something that doesn't need too
much work because I'm having a baby."

After a lengthy conversation about first babies Colm, the estate agent,
had two and the second was only nine months and had never slept longer
than four hours in his life Jo drove off to see a ten-year-old mews
house which didn't mention anything about modernisation in the
prospectus.

As beautiful as the last place had been awful, Jo fell utterly in love
with it and was disappointed to find out that someone had put in a
successful bid for it that morning.  Too depressed to even complain to
the estate agent who could have rung up and told her not to bother
coming, Jo flounced out to her car and drove home crossly.  Two Twix
bars sort of comforted her at home that evening while she watched The
Bill.

After Monday's disasters, she decided to give house-hunting a miss on
Tuesday evening.  Instead, she'd gone to a reception for the launch of
a new variety of eyeshadow and had eaten far too many vol-au-vents
while watching four stick-thin models covered in body paint sashay
elegantly around the room, leaving the waiters slack-jawed with
amazement.

"They must be anorexic muttered Rhona, lighting another cigarette so
she wouldn't break her diet and succumb to the lure of the Chinese
sesame prawn toasts displayed invitingly on a nearby table.

"You'd be amazed at how many models eat like horses," remarked Yvonne,
the equally stick-thin fashion editor of a rival magazine.

Rhona raised one eyebrow sceptically

"Yvonne, I've been on two press trips with you and I know that you
think having more than half a grapefruit and one slice of toast for
breakfast is sheer gluttony.  You can hardly talk."

Jo took a sneaky look at Yvonne's pert little behind encased in
body-skimmiing lycra and swiped another two vol-au-vents from a passing
waiter.

"I do love vol-au-vents," added Rhona, inhaling deeply, 'but they're so
fattening."

Jo swallowed quickly and took a deep draught of orange juice.

"Goodies, girls."  Nikki appeared in front of the three of them waving
elegant gold carrier bags.

Driving home, Jo examined the eyeshadow quartet, lipstick and nail
varnish that the make-up company had given everyone who'd attended the
launch.  The lipstick would make her look like Morticia out of The
Addams Family.  She should have gone house-hunting, she reminded
herself, but she'd needed cheering up and an evening with Rhona was the
perfect antidote for misery.

The next day she skipped lunch well, eating a McDonald's in the car was
practically skipping lunch and went to see a Sixties bungalow in Dun
Laoghaire.  Jo had felt suddenly tearful when she was elbowed painfully
in the back by a tall blonde on the way to the tiny avocado-green
bathroom.  She hated bloody avocado green anyway.  It was so Seventies.
She'd been too busy at work on Thursday and Friday to do any
house-hunting but today she planned to spend the afternoon viewing
properties.

She'd got a list of three houses to visit and that would probably take
most of the afternoon.  And she needed to go grocery shopping because
she was nearly out of tuna.  Her current pregnancy fetish was for tuna
and peanut butter sandwiches.

Shuffling through the property supplements, Jo came across one advert
that fascinated her.  It wasn't so much the description of the house in
the Dublin mountains that did it.

In fact, Number two Redwood Lane definitely sounded the worst out of
all the properties she'd considered, especially when you read between
the lines and realised that solid fuel heating probably meant dragging
in turf for the fire.  More worrying was the fact that there was no
mention of a bathroom at all.

The words 'in need of enthusiastic restoration' would have put off all
but the most dimwitted DIY fanatic and, since Jo's entire tool
collection consisted of an oddly shaped 99p screwdriver with three
different ends for different types of screw, it didn't make any sense
for her to even look at the house.

But she didn't feel very sensible just then.  Jo didn't know why, but
the house fascinated her, more for the description of the view than for
anything else.

"Set in a scenic spot in the Dublin mountains, the property is bordered
by sycamore and beech trees and overlooks farmland.  With a superb view
of Dublin Bay, it has to be seen."

Don't be silly, she told herself as she pulled on the red
brushed-cotton tracksuit bottoms she seemed to live in these days. 
What in the hell would you want with a dilapidated old house halfway up
the mountains when you don't have a clue how to do any of the
renovation work yourself, probably couldn't afford it anyway, and are
expecting a baby in four months?

It was no use.  She put on the matching red baggy sweatshirt and
brushed her still damp hair, a picture of a lovely cottage bathed in
golden evening sun in her mind.  A cosy kitchen, its window seat
filled with plump gingham cushions, where you could sit to look out at
Dublin spread below in a vast valley.  A pretty cottage garden with
lavender and rosemary growing fragrantly outside the kitchen door ..

And a brass bed in a bedroom decorated with a pretty Victorian
wallpaper, a pine wardrobe well, maybe two pine wardrobes and a
dressing table with a bowl of coral pink roses on top, roses from her
own garden ... She could see it all.

Jo parked the Golf neatly outside the office, wondering what Mark's
Porsche was doing there on a Saturday morning at half twelve.  She'd
dropped by the Style offices to pick up some papers she'd forgotten to
bring home the previous evening.

On Monday morning at ten, she was interviewing a TV fashion stylist
about how to pick clothes for people to wear in various programmes and
series.  The RTE press office had faxed in a list of programmes the
stylist had worked on and, while Jo knew she'd be able to talk to the
stylist without this background information, she still preferred to
have a person's accomplishments fresh in her mind before interviewing

She'd never forgotten one of her first interviews when she'd been so
badly prepared that she'd innocently asked an actress what it was like
working with a theatre director rumoured to be very bad-tempered.

"It's not so bad working with him since he's my husband?."

snapped the actress before storming off.

Jo unlocked the front door of the Georgian building that the magazine
shared with another business and went up the two flights of stairs to
the Style office.

The cream panelled door was open and Jo went in, expecting to see Mark
in the conference room on the phone.

He was, however, sitting at Brenda's desk, flicking through the dummy
for the October edition of the magazine, one shoulder jamming Brenda's
phone up against his ear.

"Hello, Jo, I didn't think I'd see anyone in here today," he said
warmly.

"I forgot some papers for an interview on Monday she replied, hurrying
over to her desk and cursing herself for being found wearing a
tracksuit and ancient runners.  She hadn't a scrap of make-up on except
a bit of pale lipstick and her face was probably shiny with
moisturiser.

"Who are you interviewing?"  he asked.  Jo was about to tell him when
he spoke into the phone.

"Hello, Tim.  No, that's OK.  I wasn't holding for long."

While he talked, Jo rooted around among the various press releases,
magazines and colour transparencies on her desk and found the shiny,
coiled-up fax paper.

Sliding the pages into her handbag, she walked past Mark, waving
silently as she made for the door.

"Hold on, Tim," he said suddenly.

"Don't go yet, Jo, will you?

I'll only be on the phone for a few minutes."

There was nothing she could do but wait.  Well, she may as well take
the weight off her feet.  She returned to her desk and decided to phone
Aisling again.  Nobody had answered when she rang earlier that morning
and Jo was worried about her after her horrific experience at the hands
of that bastard of a lawyer.  Jo could think of a few things she'd like
to do to Mr.  Murphy and none of them would be legal.  What a pig.  The
phone kept ringing in the Morans'.  Nobody answered.  Of course, the
boys have Saturday morning soccer and Aisling is probably picking them
up, Jo remembered.  She'd try again later.

Mark was still on the phone.

She didn't want to sit there waiting for him to come off the phone, so
she tried to look engrossed in her diary and wondered what he wanted.
It was nearly two months since they'd returned from New York and in the
intervening time he'd been courteous, charming and kind to her.

He'd taken her outburst about being pregnant in his stride, hugging her
in a brotherly fashion when she'd broken down in Bloomingdale's.  He'd
brought her to a nearby coffee shop, ordered steaming hot chocolate for
her and held her hand until she stopped crying.  At no point had he
pushed her for information.  He listened calmly and intently while she
mumbled about the baby and how Richard had left her.

"I'm glad you told me, Jo."  he said later that evening, when she met
him in the hotel lobby feeling mortally embarrassed for her earlier
behaviour.

"If you need any help, you can count on me.  We're like a big family in
Style and I want you to know that I'll do anything I can to help," he
emphasised.

They had dinner in the hotel that night and Jo wondered if she'd
imagined the charged atmosphere between them during the previous days.
Now, he treated her like a favourite sister who'd just been ill, asked
her was she too hot, too cold, did she want more water or would she
like some orange juice.  For all his bachelorhood, Mark obviously knew
a lot about pregnancy because he scanned the menu like an experienced
dad, vetoing anything with soft cheeses, pate or alcohol in it.

"You can't be too careful he said, ordering mineral water for them both
because he said it would do him good to abstain from wine during
dinner.

Jo found this brotherly concern comforting and unflattering at the same
time.  It was lovely to be pampered and she felt sure that, had Mark
been the baby's dad, he'd have ordered her to lie down and put her feet
up as soon as he heard she was pregnant.

But it was a little disconcerting to be transformed from sexy colleague
into sexless mum-to-be.

Just because I'm having a baby doesn't mean I'm not a sexual human
being, she wanted to say.  I'm not a one-dimensional creature who's
desirable until she gets pregnant and then becomes every man's mother
sexless.  Of course, she didn't say any such thing.  Mark might be
disgusted to find that she was even thinking about fancying him when
she was pregnant with Richard's child.

For the past two months, every time he rang the office, he asked to be
put through to Jo and asked her how she was feeling, how the baby was
doing, and to tell her that if she needed time off, to take it.

"You've got to look after yourself he said, almost paternally.

She didn't know if he did this because he thought nobody else in the
office knew she was pregnant and boyfriend-less, and therefore wanted
to be discreet.  Or if he thought he should ask about her health
because she was an employee and he was merely following some sort of
management protocol.  But she was getting used to those conversations
and found him much easier to talk to on the phone than she did in real
life.

He made her chuckle and displayed a surprising knowledge of what really
went on in the office by asking whether Brenda was actually working or
ringing her current amour, when Brenda was sitting opposite Jo at the
time and obviously listening in on the conversation with interest.

In person, however, Jo found herself avoiding Mark.  She felt
embarrassed by the way she'd flirted with him in New York.

At least she hadn't thrown herself at him, that was her one
consolation.

She was still lost in contemplating their changed relationship when he
put down the phone.

"How are you today, Jo?"  he asked.

"Is the baby still trying to kick his way out?"

She laughed, because that was exactly what it had felt like over the
past few weeks.  At first, she'd felt tiny movements inside her,
something that left her thrilled and utterly amazed.

Now, the baby was getting quite energetic and was kicking around like
an embryonic Cantona.

"She is very active," she corrected him with a grin.  Although she
didn't want to know what sex the baby was, Jo felt it in her bones that
she was carrying a little girl.

"A female soccer player, then," he grinned, coming over to stand beside
her with his hands in the pockets of the jeans he wore with a casual
navy cotton shirt.

"Does she kick all the time?"

"No.  But she moves around a lot except when she's sleeping."

Jo stroked her bump lovingly and was disconcerted to look up and find
Mark looking at her intently, his grey eyes tender and affectionate.

"I'd love to feel her kick he said hesitantly.

"Would you mind..."

"No."  replied Jo, astonished.

He placed one large hand gently on her bump, strong fingers spread
sensitively as he tried to feel the baby's movements.  They stayed like
that for a few minutes and Jo wondered what this curious tableau would
look like if any other member of staff happened to arrive
unexpectedly.

She could smell Mark's aftershave, a spicy lemon scent she always
associated with him.  She could recognise most perfumes and aftershaves
if she'd smelled them before, but she wasn't sure what type of
aftershave Mark used.  Maybe it was because the scent mingled with his
own particular smell, a mix of just-washed hair, shaving gel, fabric
conditioner from his shirt and the warm smell of healthy male.

She felt a sudden dart in her belly as the baby moved to the left,
sending gentle ripples around her womb.

"I felt it!  Did you feel it?"  Mark said in awe.

"Stupid of me, of course you felt it.  Wasn't it wonderful?"

As if delighted with this new audience, the baby wriggled again. 
Mark's face was a picture, Jo thought.  His eyes were alight with
amazement at feeling the baby move inside her.

"It's wonderful, a miracle he said finally, slowly moving his hand away
from her.

Jo smiled back at him, embarrassment and uncomfortable scenes
forgotten.

"You really are blooming Mark said, eyes taking in her flushed cheeks,
glossy hair and the sparkle in her dark eyes.

Tell me, Mum-to-Be, do you fancy a spot of lunch or are you doing
something this afternoon?"

"Actually, I'm going house-hunting today she said, 'but I can't call
around anywhere until at least half two.  I was going to go swimming in
Stillorgan and then head out to Killiney to see the first place."

"Why don't you go swimming and then let me bring you for a quick lunch.
I'll drive you around for the afternoon he offered.

"Go on, it'll be fun.  I love looking at houses."

"OK.  You're on."

Tired after her swim, Jo decided it was a great idea to let Mark drive
her around for the afternoon, especially since she'd decided to visit
the house in the Dublin mountains and her knowledge of anything further
out than Sandyford was decidedly sketchy.

After soup and a sandwich in a pub in Stillorgan, they set off in
Mark's Porsche.  Jo relaxed back into the low leather seat.

The first house was crammed with viewers.  Cars were parked for three
hundred yards each side of the house and a stream of people stood
trying to get in the front door.

They can't all be thinking of buying this place, surely?"

demanded Mark, trying to make a space for Jo to squeeze into the
sitting room.

"It's the latest hobby she explained, 'and it's more fun than wandering
up and down Woodie's.  People just turn up to see what other people's
houses are like."

It was hard to get any idea of what the house was like, it was so full.
They left soon after arriving.  Next stop was an elegant two-storey
Victorian residence in Greystones which was slightly beyond Jo's
budget, but she'd decided to view it anyway.  Obviously fewer people
were prepared to trek out to Greystones from the city to indulge in
their Sunday hobby.

There were only five cars parked outside the house.

This looks more like it," said Mark, unfolding long limbs from the
driver's seat.  They gazed at the grey facade, large sash windows and
fantastic harbour view.

Inside, the house was beautifully decorated and perfectly kept, yet it
was so austere and cold that Jo disliked it immediately.  She hated the
formal sitting room with the black fireplace and the ornate cornices
and she liked the long, narrow kitchen even less.

"I don't know what it is," she leaned against Mark to whisper, 'but I
don't like this place.  It's just so ... cold."

"It is, isn't it," he agreed.

"Let's go."

The sun was shining as they drove towards Stepaside, the Porsche's
engine growling like a big cat with a hoarse throat.

"I wish my car sounded like this Jo said, thinking of the strange
wheezing noise the Golf had been making recently whenever it went
beyond thirty miles an hour.

"How old is it?"  Mark asked, as he made a right turn up a steep hill
surrounded by high hedges.

Too old," she replied.

"I need to get a new car, but I need a new house more."

"Actually, I did wonder why you were house-hunting," he remarked.  -"I
thought you'd only bought your apartment a couple of years ago and it
was new, if I recall correctly."

"It was," she admitted.

"It's just that the walls are so thin, I don't know how it's going to
work out when I have the baby.

My next-door neighbour is a little old lady who gets up at half seven
and goes to bed after the news at nine, so I don't know if she's going
to be too happy listening to a crying baby half the night.  She's
terribly sweet," Jo added, 'but she won't be able for all-night crying,
I just know it."  Jo sighed.

"Mind you, I'm not sure I'm ready for that either."

Mark chuckled.

"Some place up the mountains is perfect then," he said with a grin.

"You can throw rock-'n'-roll parties, let the baby cry all night and
nobody can complain!"

"I'd been thinking more of having extra space for the baby and starting
a herb garden sniffed Jo, mildly insulted.

"I'm teasing you Mark said gently.

"Now, where is this place?  Give me the brochure."

Fifteen minutes later, after driving down several winding roads which
they were sure were dead-ends, they arrived at Redwood Lane.  It was a
small tree-lined country lane with very few gateways.  There were no
cars parked outside number two, which wasn't surprising Jo thought,
when they finally saw the place.  A low granite cottage with a jungle
for a front garden, dirty grey paint flaking off the woodwork around
the leaded windows and a roof with more slates off than on, it was not
your average estate agent's dream.  It wasn't anybody's dream, thought
Jo, wondering why she liked it so much.  Was she out of her head to
even consider buying it?

She gingerly picked her way along a path overgrown with nettles and
dandelions with Mark following.

"Did the brochure mention that this place needs a total rehaul?"  he
asked incredulously.

"Er, yes," Jo replied.  She knocked on the front door, ignoring the
peeling grey paint.

"Come in, come in," said a loud voice.

"I thought you'd be late because it's so hard to find."

Jo pushed the door open and went inside.

A tiny hall opened out onto a large kitchen on the left side and a
sitting room on the right.  The kitchen stretched right to the back of
the house.  A large leaded window gave a somewhat grimy view of the
countryside beyond.

"I'm Margaret Middleton announced the large auburnhaired lady, getting
up off a slightly dusty chair to greet them.

"Jo Ryan.  We talked on the phone Jo replied.

"Do you want me to show you the house or would you prefer to look
around on your own?"  inquired Mrs.  Middleton.

"We'll look on our own," Jo said firmly.

"Off you go, then.  But watch those stairs, they're very steep," the
estate agent warned.

The wooden staircase at the far left side of the room did look very
steep and led up to what had to be some sort of loft conversion.  A
huge old cream range took up most of one wall.

A motley selection of cupboards and a battered dresser made up the rest
of the kitchen fittings.

Dark beams crisscrossed the ceiling, giving the place an old-fashioned
air, and Jo could immediately picture hanging dried flowers, strings of
garlic and copper pots from the beams.

Nothing in the room had seen a paintbrush for a very long time and the
scent of old cooking oil permeated the air.  But even drab wallpaper
and dirt couldn't hide its charm.

"Isn't it gorgeous?"  said Jo, delighted with the place.

"It's got character," Mark said slowly.

She turned around to grin at him before leaving the kitchen for a look
at the sitting room.  It had the same dark beams and leaded windows as
the kitchen.

The large granite fireplace surrounded by black slate would have
dominated the room had it not been for the lurid brown and orange
carpet which clashed with the pale blue walls.

"I have the decor," Mark said, feigning delight.

"I think we should get the person who did this place to redo the
office, don't you?"

"Could we afford them?"  Jo countered.

"Getting this hasn'tbeen-touched-since-1972 look can be very
expensive."

She got a tissue out of her handbag and went over to the window at the
back of the room.  As big as the window in the kitchen, it looked out
on the same view.  There was a window seat so you could sit and gaze
out at the same time.

Jo perched on the edge of the dusty seat and rubbed the window with the
tissue until she'd made a clean patch big enough to see out.  There
were several sycamores and a beech tree on the edge of the back garden
and a wild hedge bordering it, but there were gaps in the greenery and
you could look down at the fields below.

A couple of Friesians swished their tails contentedly in the field,
enjoying the last rays of the early September sun.  They obviously
belonged to the farm she could see about half a mile away.

"As long as it's not a pig farm, we're flying," she said.

"Why do I get the impression that you've already made your mind up
about this house, Jo?"  asked Mark.

Jo looked up at him.  She really liked the house and was already
thinking of all the possibilities it had with the right renovations and
redecoration.  But she wanted him to like it too, God knows why, she
thought to herself "Do you hate it?"  she asked.

"Jo."  He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled at her, grey eyes
shining with amusement.

"I think it's got great character, but it's not what I like that's
important.  It's going to be your house, so it's up to you.  But it's
going to take some work," he warned, looking around the room.

"It'll definitely need rewiring, which isn't cheap, and there are bound
to be lots of other jobs to be done as well.  I doubt if it's been
occupied for a long time, so who knows what's broken down or jammed
since then."

Jo looked crestfallen for a moment, then her face brightened.

"If it's such a dump, it's probably been on the market for years and I
should be able to knock a few thousand off the asking price.  That's
it!  That way I'll save enough money on actual cost to renovate it.
Come on, let's see what's upstairs."

She took Mark's hand and led him out of the room.  She was on the
second stair when she realised what she'd done.

She was holding his hand.  It had seemed such a natural thing to do at
the time, as though they were looking at the house together, like a
couple.

His hand felt warm and strong, fingers clasping hers firmly.

She couldn't very well let go, now could she?

The upstairs was an attic conversion.  The low sloping roof was covered
in honey-coloured tongue-and-groove pine which gave both bedrooms an
unusual, cosy look.  A large fitted wardrobe, also made from pine,
covered one wall in the big bedroom.

"Now that's what I need," Jo said.  She slid her hand awkwardly out of
Mark's and opened the wardrobe.

Like everything else in the house, it was grimy inside.  But it was
spacious and well designed with enough shelves and hanging space to
accommodate even Jo's vast wardrobe.

The bathroom is very nice," said Mark, who'd left Jo to investigate the
rest of the upper storey.

"There's no shower, though."

"It's lovely," Jo said in surprise, appearing at the bathroom door.
There was no mention of a bathroom in the advert and I'd begun to think
there was an outside loo.  It's a relief to find this."

Thankfully the artist who decorated downstairs wasn't allowed to have
anything to do with the upstairs," Mark added.

Plain white tiles, a plain white bathroom suite and cork floor tiles
meant that the bathroom was by far the most subtly decorated room in
the house.

"Apart from getting a shower put in, this doesn't need any work Jo

They were standing in the back garden discussing how the hell you'd
clear the wilderness of weeds and thistles without a JCB, when the
estate agent appeared.

"What do you think?"

Jo felt Mark jab her in the ribs.

"It has possibilities Jo said, trying to sound utterly unimpressed.

"But it would cost a bomb to make it habitable and the price is way too
high."

The estate agent's mouth opened.  Obviously, Jo was the first person in
a long time to do anything other than leave very rapidly after catching
sight of the house.  The fact that she was even discussing the house
price made it a red-letter day.

"You're interested, then?"  the estate agent asked hopefully.

"I don't know, darling Mark said, sliding an arm around Jo's
shoulders.

"I know you like it but it's out of the question at that price.  You'd
want six grand knocked off the price before you could even consider
it."

Trying not to smile, Jo played along with him.

"I know, sweetheart."  She just hoped he wouldn't convulse with
laughter at her calling him sweetheart.

"You're right.

He's always right."  she deadpanned to the estate agent who now had a
resigned look on her face.

"I'll tell you what, Mrs.  er ..."  Mark said.

"Mrs.  Middleton."  supplied the other woman.

"I'll phone you during the week to have a chat about the house.  Come
on, darling.  Let's go."

He kept his arm around Jo's shoulders and tightened his grip when he
felt her shake with suppressed laughter.  She finally let it out when
he slammed the driver's door.

That was priceless!  I never knew you were so good at lying, Mark."

That wasn't lying, darling," he joked, switching on the engine.  That
was business.  It's playing your cards close to your chest.  If we
string her along for a while assuming nobody else is interested in the
place because she looked so thrilled that we were thinking about
buying it we could get a much lower price."

"Just as well you were here, then," Jo said, 'because I've never been
able to play anything close to my chest in my life.

I'd have said I loved the house and she'd have added a few quid to the
price by the time we were finished."

"Anyway," she said, shifting in her seat so she was looking at Mark,
'what do you think about it?"

They were on a very narrow road and he was concentrating on the road
ahead, giving Jo a chance to observe him as he drove.  His profile was
harsh, eyes narrowed as he stared at the winding road.  He looked so
serious and intense most of the time that it was such a surprise when
he let his guard down to kid around with her.

He really was a very different man once you got to know him, she
thought.  Behind the cool business exterior lay a funny, affectionate
person.  It was odd to think she'd ever imagined him to be an arrogant
boss who expected people to jump when he clicked his fingers.

He glanced over at her.

"Sorry, Jo.  What did you say?"

"I wondered what you thought of the house.  Do you think it's totally
mad to even think about buying it?"

Totally mad, I'd say.  Oh, you mean the house."

She swatted his arm with the rolled-up prospectus.

"Don't take advantage just because I called you sweetheart.  I could
call you lots of other names and they wouldn't all be as flattering,
all right?"  He shot her a grin.

"Yes Ma'am.  Or is it Your Highness?"

"Your Highness will do fine," she replied.

"Now, what do you think of the house?"

"First of all, you need a surveyor to go over it with a fine-tooth comb
to see if there are any major problems, structural ones, subsidence or
whatever.  Then, we need to get a contractor to have a look and give
us an estimate on what all the work will cost.  Don't even think about
how you'll redecorate the kitchen until you've got some idea about how
much you'll have to pay to make it habitable," he advised.

"Then, if we can knock enough money off the list price to complete the
repairs, it might be worth it.  But it's probably going to take a
couple of months to do.  Are you ready for!

that?" Jo didn't even take a moment to think about it.

"Of course," she said impulsively.

"I love the house, it has so much character, so much ... I don't know,
warmth."  She searched for the right word, for once not able to find
it.

"It feels like a home, despite all the dreadful carpets and
everything," she said finally.

"I've looked at loads of places over the past three weeks and I've only
seen one I liked as much.

Well, only one I liked as much and could afford," she amended.

"You've convinced me," Mark said.

"I've got a friend who's a contractor and I'll get him to look at the
house during the week, if that's OK with you?"

"Wonderful."

"It was very nice of Mark to drive you up to see the house," said
Rhona, putting a Canderel sweetener in her coffee and stirring it
thoughtfully.

"I've always told you he was a nice man and you just couldn't see it.
I'm so glad you're getting to know him now, personally," she added,
emphasis on the last word.

Jo looked at her suspiciously but Rhona's face was innocent.

You never knew when Rhona was teasing or not, she was such a good
actress.  Jo put her cup of tea down on Rhona's desk and picked up a
set of colour transparencies from an underwear company.

It was Monday afternoon and she and Rhona were going over all the
articles they still needed for the October edition.

Friday was printing day which meant everything had to be ready by
Thursday, making this the busiest week for the Style team.

As usual, most of the big features were in, subbed and laid out.  It
was the niggly little details that still had to be sorted out.

Jo still had to chase up the illustrator who was supposed to have
already sent in his water colour illustration of the restaurant
reviewed in the issue.  Nikki had developed bronchitis and was unlikely
to be in all week, which meant that Jo had to find someone else to
rewrite all the beauty product press releases for the Top Ten Beauty
Products We Love page.

And Emma, who had begged to be allowed to interview three top Irish
models for their beauty hints, had rung Annette that morning to say she
couldn't make it and could someone else go because she didn't want to
stand the girls up?

"I'll kill her raged Jo, when she heard this latest piece of news.

"How dare she do that!  I don't care if her bloody leg is hanging off,
she shouldn't drop her mess into our lap and expect us to deal with it.
If she couldn't go, she should ring the models up herself and
cancel."

In the end, Rhona rang a freelance journalist who sometimes wrote
features for the magazine and begged her to do the interviews.  Crisis
solved, the editor and deputy editor still had a lot of work to do,
which was why they were poring over colour trannies of clothes, shoes,
handbags and glamorous celebrities.

"I thought we could use this one on the Fifty Ideas pages," Jo said,
showing Rhona a picture of a silky cream body with a built-in push-up
bra and lovely lace detail on the front.

"It's the most versatile piece of underwear, it's very flattering and
it's pretty good value."

Rhona took the transparencies and held them up to the window.

"I do like the basque and the hold-up stockings.  I bet Mark would just
love that "Bitch," said Jo, as Rhona dissolved into laughter.

"You've a one-track mind, Rho."

"I know, "one track and it's a dirt track"," recited the editor.

"I couldn't resist it.  Anyway, Jo, there's no point pretending there
isn't something going on between you, even if the pair of you behave
like complete strangers when you're in the office."

"But there isn't anything going on protested Jo.  ("Are you trying to
tell me that all that bonding and having dinner in New York was totally
platonic, because I won't believe you Rhona said.

"You know you fancy him, you're just too stubborn to admit it.  You
told me yourself how you thought something was going to happen between
the two of you the first night until he got all businesslike."

"Oh God, I don't know."  Jo took a sip of tea and looked at Rhona
blankly.

"Yes, I like him, but I'm not exactly a bargain in the girlfriend
department, am I?

"I'm pregnant with another man's baby, so what the hell would someone
like Mark Denton want with me?  He's only being kind," said Jo in a
resigned voice.

"Don't be silly, Jo," snapped Rhona.

"You're one of my best friends and one of the nicest people I know, and
Mark is interested in you, I know for a fact.  He's always liked

"What do you mean "always liked me"?"  demanded Jo.

"Well, there never really was a right time to tell you ..."  the other
woman said slowly, picking up her cigarettes and extracting one from
the pack.

"Rhona, stop prevaricating and tell me!"

"Well, the first Christmas after you arrived at Style, Mark and I went
out for lunch and he was very interested in you.

He asked if you were going out with someone, that sort of thing." 
Rhona lit her cigarette and took a deep drag.

"You were going out with Tim at the time, so I told him and that was
it.

Then, when you broke up with Tim, Mark was involved with a woman and
well, the timing was just never right."  Rhona shrugged.

"Why didn't you ever tell me, Rhona?"  asked Jo, completely stunned.

"I would have if Mark hadn't been the boss, but it would undoubtedly
have made you feel very self-conscious to think that he fancied you. 
It would have been awkward."  That might have been better than being so
openly hostile to him all the time," Jo said ruefully, remembering all
the times when she'd sparred with Mark at the weekly editorial
meetings.  How awful to think that he'd actually liked her enough to
ask Rhona about her romantic entanglements while she'd been oblivious
to him.  Jo cringed at the thought of it all.

"You see commented Rhona, observing Jo's horrified face.

"Imagine what it would have been like if I'd told you before now. 
You'd have been mortified.  I'm only telling you now, Jo, because I'm
very fond of Mark, I'd love to see the two of you together and the
timing is perfect.  You'd be perfect for each other and, Lord knows,
you deserve a decent man after

"I don't know," Jo muttered.  This is so weird.  I did think there was
something between us when we were in New York, but then he seemed to
withdraw into being the ice man again.

I don't understand him ..."

A knock on the door interrupted her.

"Rhona," Annette stuck her head around the door.

"I've got Claire on the phone for you.  I know you didn't want to be
disturbed but she says it's urgent."

"I'll take it, Annette," Rhona replied.

"Listen," she said to Jo in a quieter voice, 'do you really think Mark
would be so eager to spend the entire day driving you around crumbling
cottages in the mountains if he was just trying to be kind to a
pregnant employee?  No.  Think about it, Jo.  You deserve him."

The phone rang and she picked it up.

"Hi, Claire, what's the problem?"

Jo silently gathered up the transparencies from Rhona's desk and
manoeuvred herself out of the chair.  She felt quite big, even though
the girls in the office kept telling her she was in great shape for six
months pregnant.  The only problem was clothes.  For someone who loved
clothes as much as Jo, it was sheer hell to have to bypass all her
gorgeous outfits in the morning and pick something from her limited
collection of elastic-wasted outfits.

Today she'd worn a soft navy knitted dress which was stretchy enough to
fit her, bump and all, and a long, skinny-knit cardigan in silky French
blue over it.  It looked great, especially worn with the matte gold
pendant she'd bought from a stall in Turkey years ago.

But by next month she was going to have to buy some dressy maternity
clothes or she'd be stuck with wearing jogging pants and big T-shirts
until she had the baby.

Jo sat down at her desk and looked tiredly at the list of things she
had to do.  All her energy had vanished during the conversation with
Rhona.  Now Jo wondered how she was ever going to transcribe that
morning's interview, and write it up.

For two hours she worked solidly, oblivious to the noise of phones,
conversations about missing pictures and Annette's radio tuned to chart
music.  She had finally finished writing up her interview and was
setting up a new file on the word processor to write up the Top Ten
Beauty Products We Love, when Emma breezed into the office.

Enveloped in a cloud of CK One, wearing what looked like a very
expensive cerise dress and holding a brand new briefcase, Emma
dispensed smiles all round before dumping the briefcase on her desk.

"Hello all," she said airily before turning to Annette.

"Did anyone ring for me?"  she asked.

The cheek of her, thought Jo.  She completely messed up an interview
and she marches in like there's absolutely nothing wrong, with no
apology or excuse for her behaviour.  And there was she thinking that
her attempts to turn Emma into a responsible member of staff over the
past few months had actually worked.

She'd trusted Emma's declarations that she wanted to learn and had been
so sure the younger woman had turned over a new leaf and really wanted
to fit in.  How wrong could you be?

"Emma," Jo said coolly, interrupting the other woman's conversation
with Annette about phone messages.

"What happened this morning?"

"Oh, that was a bit of a mix-up and I couldn't make it this morning.  I
thought Nikki could do it," Emma said blithely.

"Nikki is sick, as a matter of fact," Jo explained, determined not to
lose her temper or raise her voice.

"And Rhona had to go to a lot of trouble to get someone else to do the
interviews.

If you were sick, or if there was some crisis and you just couldn't do
something you'd arranged, I'd understand.

"But I'd expect some sort of explanation.  Instead, you swan in here
without either an explanation or an apology and that's just not good
enough, Emma."

"Well, it's all right now, isn't it?"  Emma said dismissively.

"So don't fly into a fit.  It was hardly the cover story, anyway."  She
turned away from Jo and went back to her desk, leaving the deputy
editor incandescent with fury.

Even Brenda, who'd heard everything, sank back in her chair nervously
as though trying to avoid the inevitable storm.

Annette was staring at Jo anxiously, while Tom had stopped tapping away
at his keyboard and was listening expectantly.

The whole office was waiting for Jo to say something, but she couldn't
speak.  How dare Emma behave like that?

Nobody else would be so unreliable and indifferent, but of course Emma
thought she could do anything she wanted because she was the boss's
niece.  Finally, Jo found her voice.

"How dare you speak to me like that," she said, her voice shaky with
temper.

"I gave you a chance to make up for all the misunderstandings between
us, I gave you a chance to work at being a journalist.  And you have
the nerve to screw up an interview something you begged for and now
won't even apologise for it.  Is that the thanks I get for trying to
help you, Emma?  What the hell are you doing in this office if you
don't want to work?  This isn't a haven for bored twenty somethings you
know!"

"No, it's a haven for stupid pregnant women," sneered Emma, her pretty
face screwed up with spite.

"Don't think I don't know you're after my uncle.  You just want to use
him like you use all men.  Are you trying to get a rich stepfather for
your bastard?"

"Emma!"  Rhona stood outside her office with her mouth open, outrage
written all over her face.

"In my office now," she barked.

For once, Emma looked worried.  She was afraid of Rhona.

"Get back to work everyone snarled the editor.

"Are you OK, Jo?"  she said, putting an arm around her friend.  Jo
didn't speak.  If she did, she was afraid she would cry.  She'd tried
so hard with Emma for Mark's sake and she thought she was finally
getting through to her.  Then, to experience this blast of sheer,
barefaced hatred was devastating.

Why did Emma hate her so much?  Why did she say such a horrible thing
about Jo using men?  She didn't, did she?  Is that what Emma would tell
Mark, that Jo was after him for his money?  It was all too horrible to
think about.

"I think I'll go home," she said blindly, afraid that the tears would
fall.

"Stay here for five minutes," Rhona said firmly.

"I'll deal with that little bitch and then you and I are getting out
for a coffee.

Don't pay any attention to what she said."

Brenda made her coffee, Annette abandoned the switch to mutter
comforting words to her and even Tom produced two miniature bottles of
whiskey from his desk and poured one into her coffee.

"I can't drink that," sniffled Jo.

"Jo," said Annette firmly, "I've three children and I know all there is
to know about pregnancy.  You have to be very careful about alcohol for
the first three months but there's no harm in taking the odd glass of
wine or a drink for medicinal purposes after that.  And this is
medicinal.  So drink it, you're as white as a sheet, you poor thing."

The spiked coffee hit Jo's system like a bullet, leaving her feeling
utterly light-headed and totally exhausted.  She drank it back and
wondered how she'd ever get home.  She felt like she wouldn't have the
energy to put the car in first gear.

Rhona would probably be ages with Emma, listening to whatever
cock-and-bull story the girl would come up with in her defence.  But
true to her word, a mere five minutes had passed when Rhona marched out
of her office followed by Emma, her face now blotched with tears.

Everyone stared with hostility at the younger woman who immediately
snatched up her handbag and fled to the bathroom.

"Little cow hissed Annette.

"Don't mind her, Jo.  She can forget it if she thinks I'm ever taking
messages from her boyfriend, her mother or her seven best friends ever
again!"

"I doubt if she'll ask you for a while," Rhona pointed out drily.

"Come on, Ms Ryan."

They sat in the bar in the Berkeley Court Hotel and ate nuts from the
deep bowl on the table in front of them.

"Very good for protein," said Rhona with her mouth full.

"And very high in calories," replied Jo mournfully, grabbing another
handful.

"Well, you need an energy boost after today."  Rhona waved at a young
waitress and ordered decaffeinated coffee for both of them and a brandy
for herself.

"I can't believe that Tom had booze in his desk," she added.

"When I think of all the times when I've dearly needed a drink in that
bloody office and he never opened his mouth, the wretch!  You do have
an effect on men, my dear."

"But not on women, it seems."

"Emma isn't a woman.  She's a nightmare in human form and don't forget
it.  You'll be glad to know that I savaged her for her appalling
behaviour, both for being utterly unprofessional in not turning up for
that interview, and for being equally unprofessional in her attack on
you."

"What did she say to that?"  asked Jo.

"She whinged that you didn't like her and then I told her I didn't like
her very much either, but that wasn't the point.

That certainly shut her up.  Anyway, pet," Rhona patted Jo's knee, "I
finished up by telling her that I wouldn't sack her I'd let Mark sack
her after I'd talked to him about her behaviour."

The piece de resistance, I thought.  You should have seen her spoiled
little face when I said that.  She went white and then she cried.
Hhhmph."  The coffee arrived and Rhona poured a cup for Jo.

"I told her that crying might work with her uncle, but it cut no ice
with me.  I'm going to ring him tonight.  "Jo thought about Mark
hearing two versions of the afternoon's events.  No doubt Emma would be
phoning him that instant, giving him chapter and verse on what a bitch
Jo Ryan was, how manipulative she was and how she tried to make poor
Emma's life a misery.

By the time he heard Rhona's version, he would have probably decided
that Emma was right that Jo was just a conniving, manipulative person.
Why did that thought depress her so much?

She got home at half nine after having a Malaysian meal with Rhona in
Kites in Ballsbridge.  Satay lamb, chicken with cashew nuts and a large
helping of ice cream made her sleepy but gave the baby a new lease of
life.

I hope you're not going to kick all night, Jo said to her bump as she
switched on the lights in the apartment.  The answering machine's
messages light was on and she pressed the 'play' button before closing
the curtains.

Mark Denton's deep voice filled the room.

"Jo," he said, sounding very tired.

"I'm in London and I've just got this dreadful message on the
mobile-phone playback from Emma.  She sounds very upset and says
something awful happened in the office earlier.  She says she's really
sorry and she apologised to you, but you won't forgive her.  And then
she just cries and hangs up.  Listen, Jo, I won't be home until the
weekend, so can you talk to her and calm her down.  I know she's
difficult but she genuinely looks up to you and it's obviously killing
her that you're angry with her."

He paused.

"It's nine-fifteen and I'm going out to dinner with someone.  I'll call
you tomorrow ..."  It sounded as if he wanted to add something, then
the machine clicked.  He'd run out of tape time.

There was no other message so he hadn't rung back to finish whatever he
wanted to say to her.

Damn.  She thumped the machine.  It wasn't its fault but she wanted to
hurt something because she felt so hurt.  He hadn't even given her the
benefit of the doubt, he'd just believed Emma.  So that was all he
thought about her.  

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

"I'm glad you decided to come in,
Aisling."  Vivienne said, handing her a mug of very strong-looking
coffee.

"You'd have regretted it if you didn't.  Edward really wants to get
this sorted out properly.  Harassment is not something he takes
lightly."

Aisling sat down nervously and looked around Vivienne's office as if
she'd never seen it before in her life.  She remembered her first day
at work when she'd sat in this same chair and quivered with terror.
Would she be able to work the computer or how would she deal with
working in an office after years away from one?  It had never entered
her mind that the actual job itself would be the least of her problems.
That her boss would make her life hell.

How could she explain to someone as confident as Vivienne what it felt
like to tremble when you heard your boss's footsteps on the stairs
every morning?

Would the other woman be able to comprehend that someone would force a
smile onto her face every time she entered her superior's office, as if
that would stave off his psychotic flights of temper?  Probably not.
Aisling picked a bit of dust off her navy shirt and cursed Leo
Murphy.

If he hadn't been such a pig this could have been any ordinary Monday
morning at the office.  Instead, she was waiting to see Edward
Richardson who had heard about Friday's encounter from Vivienne.  He
wanted to talk to Aisling about it.  All she really wanted to do was
forget about the whole damn thing and wish she'd never lost her temper
with Leo or told Vivienne what had really happened, for that matter.

"It's been going on ever since I joined," she admitted shakily to
Vivienne on Friday evening when she rang to find out exactly what had
gone on in Aisling's office after the partners' lunch.

"I didn't know what to do, Vivienne, I've never experienced anything
like that before.  Nobody tells you how to deal with men like Leo and I
just didn't know what to do she repeated miserably.

"I'm sorry."

Vivienne was furious.  That bastard she said.  Aisling started to cry
silently with the relief of finally telling someone from Richardson,
Reid and Finucane what Leo had been like.

But her relief quickly turned to terror when Vivienne pointed out that
she'd have to tell Edward Richardson what had happened.

"You cant said Aisling frantically.

"You can't!"

"I have to tell him Vivienne insisted.

"It's his responsibility to make sure that none of his staff have to
experience harassment.  Anyway," she added, 'this isn't the first time
this has happened."

On the other end of the phone Aisling gasped.  She was stunned.  She
wasn't the first woman Leo had harassed?  The bastard.

"When Elizabeth was on holiday, earlier this year, we had a temp in
because none of us could cover for Elizabeth at the time said
Vivienne.

The temp only lasted two days.  When she left she claimed Leo had been
scaring her by making all sorts of weird comments.  I honestly thought
she wasn't serious, but I can see now what must have happened.
Aisling."  Vivienne continued earnestly, 'you should have said
something to me about him.

They're very serious accusations."

The word 'accusations' hit Aisling like a slap in the face.

Accusations!  She hadn't needed to spend more than a week in a
solicitors' practice to see that accusations were not statements to be
tossed around lightly.

Aisling didn't want to make accusations, she didn't want Leo to tear
her apart in public for daring to say that he'd tried to touch her and
harass her.  He was a lawyer, for God's sake!

He'd make mincemeat out of her.  She could imagine him telling everyone
how she'd thrown herself at him, a lonely ex-wife with nobody to cling
on to at night and a desire for vengeance on mankind in general.  Oh
God, she could see it all now.

When Vivienne rang back two hours later to say she'd spoken to Edward
and he wanted her to come and talk to him on Monday morning, Aisling
panicked.  It didn't matter about the other woman Leo had harassed.
She'd never told her story.

The first person to accuse Leo Murphy of sexual harassment would be
Aisling Moran.  She wasn't even three months back at work and look what
had happened.  What a great way to kick-start her career.

Two Valiums meant she spent Saturday in a haze, staring blankly at the
TV and not answering the phone.  She knew Jo had promised to ring to
see how she was, but Aisling really didn't want to talk to anyone.

After all her plans to say hello to Michael and show off her new-found
figure, Friday had obliterated her self-confidence.

There was no way she wanted to face him now.  She stayed in her room
when Michael picked up the boys and stared out the window at his car as
he reversed onto the road.

She managed to burn the grilled cod and roasted vegetable dish she'd
made from a low-calorie recipe in a magazine.  And she blindly put her
red silk blouse into the machine with the boys' soccer shorts and
socks, turning the entire wash bright pink.

She downed most of a bottle of wine on Saturday night watching Pat
Kenny, but she still hadn't been able to sleep.

Instead she lay in bed, wide awake, turning Friday's awful scene over
and over in her brain and wondering whether it really was her fault
after all.

It was as if there were two voices in her head one telling her she'd
messed everything up, again.  The other telling her that making a wax
dummy out of Leo Murphy and sticking a few pins in him would be the
perfect revenge.  What am I going to do?  She thought at half three as
she sat up in bed with the light on and a barely read magazine propped
up in front of her.  The only good thing was that the Finucanes were
away for the weekend, so Pat and therefore Fiona obviously had no idea
what had happened.

Oh God, she moaned over and over again, what sort of can of worms have
I opened up?  Why did I ever lose my temper with Leo?  Why didn't I
calmly and quietly tell Vivienne what was going on and let her deal
with it?  Why was I such a wimp?  The whole bloody thing was a
nightmare.

"I wouldn't have come in if you hadn't rung me, Vivienne," she said,
clutching her coffee cup tightly.  It was the one with the poppies, her
favourite.

"I never wanted to see this place ever again because of him."

The other woman pulled up a chair beside Aisling's, sat down and
clasped one of Aisling's hands in her own.

"I know it took a lot of guts to come in here today, especially after
all the things you told me.  You've no idea how guilty I feel about
never saying anything to you about Leo before ..."  Vivienne looked at
Aisling apologetically.

"If I'd known he would try the same trick with you, of course I'd have
said something.  But I honestly thought there was something going on
with Leo and the temp, and that was why she'd left so abruptly."
Vivienne sighed deeply.

"She was very pretty, sexy and very sure of herself.  That's why I
didn't really believe her.  I know that sounds awful as if you bring
harassment upon yourself if you're sexy or good-looking.  But I never
thought he'd try it again, on someone like you," she added earnestly.

Aisling said nothing for a moment.  There were so many bobbles on her
skirt she realised absently.  Maybe she could try shaving them off with
a disposable razor.  Vivienne was still looking at her intently.

"Poor girl," Aisling said finally.  At least she had the sense to get
away from him.  I've been thinking about it all weekend, you know.  I
was the perfect victim I had zero confidence and was so scared I'd make
a mistake in the job that I must have seemed like a heaven-sent
opportunity to pick on," she said quietly.

Then like him gravitate towards twenty-one-year-old temps and
terrified women returning to work.  They know we haven't got either the
experience or the nerve to tell them where to stick it."

The grandfather clock in the hall outside struck nine.

Aisling jumped, spilling coffee onto the pale carpet.

"Oh sorry she said.  "I'm very jumpy today."

"Don't be sorry," Vivienne urged, putting an arm around Aisling's
shoulder.

"You've every reason to be nervy."

Nervy was not the word.  Terrified, apprehensive and anxious might just
cover the feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Vivienne's phone rang and she quickly picked it up.

"Yes, Edward.  She's here.  I'll send her in.  I'll hold all calls."

Aisling blanched.  Hold all calls.  How long was Edward planning to
talk to her for?  God, she wished she had another Valium with her.
She'd gone through the stash Fiona had given her.  She knew she'd have
to see her own doctor for more.  She walked along the thick grey carpet
on the way to Edward's office and prayed silently.

She'd never been in his office before, only peered in the door on
Caroline's whistle-stop tour of the premises.

"Go on in said Vivienne encouragingly, holding the door open.

"Hello, Aisling."  said Edward.  He rose from behind his highly
polished antique desk and held out his hand.  Dressed in a dark
pin-striped suit with his gold-rimmed glasses on, he looked very formal
and more than a little forbidding.

During her months with the company, he always smiled and asked her how
she was whenever they bumped into each other, his manner more like that
of an old friend than an employer.

Today, however, the old friend-of-the-family persona was gone, to be
replaced by a steely-eyed look.  Edward meant business.

"Sit down, Aisling."  he said.

Aisling sat with her hands tightly clasped, her jaw locked with
tension.  She wished she were anywhere else in the whole world but
here.  "I'm very sorry to hear that there's a problem between you and
Leo," Edward began.

"Naturally, I'd hate to think that any member of the staff felt they
had been sexually harassed while working here and, if that is the case,
this company will do their utmost to make sure that the full letter of
the law is adhered to."

Aisling listened intently.  Edward seemed to be saying that he'd do
anything to help her if Leo had harassed her.  But there was a big
question mark over the whole matter.  She felt the faint stirrings of
anger inside her.

"You understand that we have to listen to Mr.  Murphy's side of the
story," he said.

"Of course," said Aisling automatically.

Tell me everything."  Edward took an elegant fountain pen off the desk
and opened up a legal pad.

Have you got all day?  thought Aisling grimly.

When she'd finished, Edward rang Vivienne and asked her to bring in
some coffee and biscuits.

"You need it, my dear," he advised Aisling, looking at her pale face.
She felt totally drained.  Talking about Leo's advances was like
experiencing it all over again.  She'd told Edward that she didn't want
any trouble and that she'd considered not coming back to the office.

"But I need the job," she said candidly.

Vivienne was either psychic or listening at the door, because she
arrived with a tray of coffee and a plateful of biscuits within sixty
seconds.  Grateful to have the spotlight off herself at last, Aisling
took a cup and stirred in sugar and milk.  She almost didn't hear
Edward asking Vivienne to summon Leo Murphy to the boss's office.

"He's coming here now?"  she asked in horror.

"Calm down, Aisling," Edward said gently.

"Nothing's going to happen.  I'm here.  This is a very serious matter
and I'll be honest with you, it won't go away until we can clear the
air."

He leaned across the desk and looked at her earnestly.

"I

know that you don't want to create any problems, Aisling, but until
this is resolved, it would be awkward for both you and Leo With my
experience of these matters, a meeting between both parties, where the
problem is discussed, is the best option.  I want you to understand
that you are fully entitled to I take legal action if you so wish. 
This meeting doesn't preclude that."

Even as Edward said he understood that she didn't want any sort of
legal battle with Leo, a little voice in Aisling's head was repeating
the same words over and over again.

"He's done it before, it wasn't your fault."  She couldn't make the
voice go away, it kept nagging her.  Did she want a quiet life or
justice?

Did she want to let him get away with it because she was too scared to
fight him?

There was a sharp knock on the door.  Aisling couldn't help turning to
look at it.

"Come in," Edward said loudly.

Vivienne walked in, followed by Leo, all smiles, in one of his black
suits with the usual dusting of dandruff on his shoulders.  His face
fell when he saw Aisling.  Instead of sitting on the chair beside her,
he chose one to the far right of Edward's desk.  She looked away.  She
didn't want to see his face.

"Leo, delighted you could come," Edward said smoothly.

"We've a problem I want to discuss.  Vivienne, could you stay and take
notes."

"What's this about?"  began Leo, his voice a little loud.

Edward didn't beat around the bush.

"Mrs.  Moran has come to me with a complaint, Leo.  She says that last
Friday, a few hours after the partners' lunch, you sexually harassed
her, both physically and verbally."

Aisling noticed that Edward didn't suffer from Leo's longwindedness.

He was precise and to the point.

"She also says that you have been making suggestive comments to her
since she started working here.  I wanted this meeting to decide
whether this has to go any further, Leo, to hear your side of the
story."

The other man bridled.  This is ridiculous!"  he snapped.

"Utterly ridiculous!  These accusations are totally unfounded."

Aisling moved slightly further away from him on her chair.

She kept her eyes firmly trained on Edward's face, but she could hear
Leo's breath quickening, the way it did when he was about to embark on
a fully-fledged tantrum.  She hoped Edward noticed his junior partner's
mood.  This was not the way to win clients and influence people.

"Leo, I think I should point out to you that Mrs.  Moran did not want
to come in to work after last week's incident," Edward said.

"She has told me that she doesn't want to pursue this matter further.
So far he added pointedly.

"She merely wants the matter cleared up.  In fact, had it not been for
Ms Hogan, who was looking for Mrs.  Moran at the time of the incident,
I doubt that Mrs.  Moran would have ever sought this meeting.  What I'm
saying, Leo, is that I want this sorted out with as little trouble as
possible."

Thank you, Edward, said Aisling silently.  He believes me.

Vivienne must have told him about the temp.  She allowed herself a
quick sideways glance at Leo.  He was now the colour of chalk.  Behind
him, Vivienne glanced quickly at Aisling and gave her the faintest
flicker of a grin.

It was only then that Aisling realised what Edward was doing.  He was
cleverly giving Leo the impression that Vivienne had witnessed
everything.

Leo didn't know whether she had or not, but he dar en risk denying
everything, therefore forcing Aisling to take him to court, in case he
was wrong.  Leo had to own up, didn't he?

She felt a flicker of triumph.

"I don't know what to say," spluttered Leo.

"I mean, this is a ludicrous situation."

"In that way?"  inquired Edward silkily.  Aisling could see how he'd
built up such a successful practice.  Charming and urbane, Edward
Richardson was, nevertheless, every inch a tough lawyer when the
occasion demanded it.  She wondered if she could ask him to handle her
inevitable divorce?

"Well, this whole situation is ludicrous," protested Leo.  He no longer
sounded so cocky.

"Everything's been blown out of all proportion."

Edward, Aisling and Vivienne all leaned a fraction forward in their
chairs.  Had Leo just thrown all professional caution to the winds or
was he completely rattled?

"What exactly has been blown out of all proportion?"  asked Edward.

"If nothing happened, how can anything have been blown out of all
proportion?"

"I have to admit, I got carried away and kissed Mrs.  Moran ..."
stammered Leo, visibly shaken.

"Kissed her?"  asked the other man sternly.

"Kissing implies that Mrs.  Moran was willing, Mr.  Murphy, and she
says she wasn't."

"It was a clumsy attempt, I'd had too much to drink," Leo stuttered.

"I never meant to hurt or offend her."

Aisling could feel the tension leave her body.  She never thought he'd
confess.  She had won.  Now she wanted him hung, drawn and quartered.
No, that was too easy.  She wanted him alone in a room with herself,
Vivienne and Fiona wielding baseball bats.  Maybe too bloodthirsty.

"But I deny ever having made advances towards Mrs.  Moran before," Leo
added sharply.

"This was a one-off occurrence for which I am profoundly sorry.  In
fact, I had planned to apologise to Mrs.  Moran today if I upset her
with my clumsy advance."

The way Leo was telling it, Friday's incident had become a love scene
between a love struck admirer and his shy secretary, instead of an
attempted grope.  Aisling had had enough.

"Your behaviour was disgraceful!"  she snapped at Leo.

"You are an absolute pig who made my life a misery.  You deserve to be
locked up and I shall see to it that you are!"  she shrieked.

"How dare you try something like that on anyone.  You completely abused
your position and ..."

"Mrs.  Moran," interrupted Edward firmly.  "this is not the time for an
argument which would only cause further distress.

If you are willing to accept Mr.  Murphy's apology, we can leave it at
that."

"I will accept Mr.  Murphy's apology when he makes it to me."  said
Aisling angrily.

"Apologising to you isn't the same."

"Quite right," said Edward.

"Mr.  Murphy?"

Leo's face was a picture.  He was still pale under his tan but he had
two red spots on his cheeks.

Leo turned to face Aisling.  He could barely look at her and kept his
eyes trained on some spot behind her head.

"I apologise if my attentions on Friday upset you, Mrs.  Moran.  It
won't happen again."

"Good."  She smiled at him, a satisfied smile.

"Mr.  Richardson she said.  If everyone was going to be formal, she
might as well too.

"I'm afraid that I would find it difficult to work with Mr.  Murphy
again and I would like some other position within the company."

She hoped she wasn't pushing it too far.  Her contract was still only
temporary and, for all she knew, they could have booted her out of the
company on the grounds that they only had one position to be filled and
she was rejecting it.  But she didn't think that was going to happen.

It was perfectly obvious to Aisling that Edward Richardson' saw Leo as
the guilty party.  He would do his best for her, she was sure of it.

"I -understand," he said.

"If you'd excuse me, ladies, I want a word with Mr.  Murphy.  I'll talk
to you when I'm finished, Mrs.  Moran.  Thank you."

"No.  Thank you, replied Aisling, rising to her feet.

Outside the door, she hugged Vivienne with delight.

"We did it she whispered.

"I'm so glad Vivienne whispered back.  That bastard deserved to be
brought to court, so he got off lightly.  Well," she amended, "maybe
not.  Wait till you see him when Edward is finished with him.  Edward
is furious about the whole thing.

I told him about the temp who complained and he went ballistic.  He's
going to give Murphy a verbal warning."

"Really?"  Aisling asked.

"Yes.  Sexual harassment is an extremely serious charge nowadays,
Aisling, and the firm has taken on several harassment cases over the
past few years.  So think how damaging it would be to the firm if news
of this got out?  Come into my office and wait for Edward.  But don't
talk about what's happened.  Caroline is there.  She doesn't know
anything about this.  It would be better to keep it that way."

Aisling arranged her spider plant so that the spindly leaves hung over
the edge of the desk.  She put a small framed photo of the twins beside
it, and placed the little soapstone box, in which she kept paper clips,
in front of the picture.  The window was right behind her, so she
adjusted the position of her VDU screen until it no longer reflected
the bright sunlight streaming in the window.  There.  She was settled.
Vivienne had certainly been busy on Monday.  She'd got a brand new desk
for Aisling, a right-angled one which meant she had lots of space for
both her computer keyboard and her wire baskets.

The senior secretary had despatched four of the filing cabinets in her
office to the file room and had made enough space for Aisling's new
desk.  There were three desks in the office so there wasn't a lot of
room, but Aisling couldn't have cared less.  She was working with two
women she liked and Edward had asked her to be secretary to Anthony
Green, one of the firm's new partners.  She'd met him at the fateful
partners' lunch and immediately liked him.

What was more, Vivienne explained, he was just married and never
stopped talking about 'my wife'.

That's a relief said Aisling at eight forty-five on Tuesday morning as
she finished arranging her belongings on her new desk.

There's a price to be paid when you're irresistible to men," Vivienne
pointed out.  She opened a black compact and peered at the mirror as
she carefully applied some lipstick.

"I

was afraid I'd have to ask you to wear a chad or in to work."

"Harassment is nothing to do with sex appeal," Aisling shuddered.

"It's a power trip for the pig in question.  Anyway, I haven't exactly
been fighting admirers off with a stick since Michael left, you
know."

"I'm sorry," Vivienne said.

"I didn't mean to be flip.  I was trying to be complimentary.  The
only reason you aren't beating men off with a stick is because you
don't get out enough."

"Where am I supposed to go?"  demanded Aisling.

"Most of the people I know are couples that Michael and I both knew and
they don't invite me to be the odd one out at their dinner parties.  My
best single friend is Jo Ryan, and she's over five months pregnant.

"After a day at work, she just goes home and conks out on the settee
unless she's house-hunting.  The only other option is to go to singles'
nights out and I haven't the nerve."

"Why don't you come out with me?"  asked Vivienne.

"I've a couple of girlfriends I go out with once a week and we'd love
to have you with us."

"Would they mind me tagging along?"  asked Aisling.

"I wouldn't have asked you otherwise," said Vivienne sensibly.

"We're going out for a meal on Thursday.  Probably just pizza and a
glass of wine, nothing expensive.  You'd enjoy it."

"OK, I will come.  I'd love to."  Aisling was delighted.  She hadn't
been out in ages lunch in McDonald's with the twins didn't count and
the thought of a night out and adult conversation was bliss.  She'd ask
Fiona's baby-sitter to mind the boys.

It never rained but it poured, she thought that evening once she'd got
off the phone with Fiona.  After fifteen minutes listening to Fiona's
shocked commiserations about the Leo Murphy affair That bastard, Daddy
should have fired him!"

the conversation turned to the party the Finucanes were giving on
Saturday night to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary.

"It's not going to be a big party," Fiona assured Aisling.

"Only about fifty or sixty people."  Fiona and Aisling had wildly
different views about how many people constituted a big party.

"I'm doing Marks and Spencer's dips and cocktails, which even I can
organise so don't feel you have to volunteer to help.  All I want from
you is your presence at nine o'clock in a devastatingly glamorous
outfit."

"No problem Aisling replied cheerily.

"Should I wear the Dior off-the-shoulder number or would the Versace
sequin ned miniskirt be better?"

"Come in your bikini, darling.  I'm inviting all the eligible single
men I know, so I want you in something noticeable."  The in a bikini
would be noticeable, but not necessarily in the right way, Fiona,"
Aisling said, thinking of her stretch marks.

"Don't knock yourself, Aisling, but do wear something sexy.

I've told them all you're a red-hot career woman who wore out her last
man, so don't let me down!"

Aisling hung up laughing.

There was absolutely nothing red-hot in her wardrobe and she couldn't
see herself shopping for anything that would make her stand out from
the crowd.

She wasn't that confident about her new figure.  And she didn't have
either the time or the energy to trawl the shops during lunchtime.  But
she could always get her hair done on Saturday morning when the boys
were at soccer.  Maybe she'd get a few inches cut off or have it styled
differently.

Wednesday was manic.  Caroline was sick so Vivienne and Aisling had to
divide her work between them.  Another new partner started work and he
didn't like his new office, wanted help working his computer and
required business cards immediately.

And then the men putting in the new alarm system managed to turn off
the electricity, losing all the computer files that people were working
on and hadn't saved.  The air in Aisling and Vivienne's office was blue
with swearing.

Yet in the middle of all the power cuts, lost files and surprised yells
coming from the people stuck in the windowless file room, Aisling felt
happy, almost serene.

She didn't really mind if the power went off all day, as long as she
wasn't sitting in Leo Murphy's office.  She sang along to the radio
going into work and tapped her fingers to the music blasting out of the
canteen at lunchtime.  Nothing could dim the relief she felt at the
thought that her ten weeks working for that bastard were over.  He'd
stayed out on Tuesday, 'ringing his lawyer, no doubt', muttered
Vivienne.

On Wednesday he kept his office door shut, an unusual occurrence unless
he had a client in.

Buoyed up by her victory over him, she no longer quivered when she
heard his step on the stairs.  Aisling knew he wouldn't come near her
ever again.

It was after six on Wednesday by the time Aisling left the office and
hurried to the car in the pouring rain, a plastic bag held over her
head to keep her hair dry.  Her head was aching from working at double
speed to make up for lost computer time, but she was still in good
humour.

The twins waltzed out of the child minder house each carrying a
balloon, a small plastic bag and a party blower along with their school
bags

"Hiya, Mum!"  they yelled in unison, obviously in the best of
spirits.

"Where did you get the balloons and the sweets?"  she asked as Paul
thrust his small plastic bag at her and urged her to take one.

"Lome's party replied Phillip thickly as he chewed on a toffee.

"She's ten."

"She's Phillip's girlfriend!"  shouted Paul, dodging his brother's
immediate kick.

"She isn't."  howled Phillip.

"Is!  Is!"  screeched Paul.

"Boys!  Stop!"  pleaded Aisling.

"I've got a headache.  I hope Mrs.  O'Brien hasn't been giving you
fizzy drinks she said once they were in the back seat of the car still
squabbling energetically.

"Ribena."  said Paul, dodging Phillip's well-aimed thumps.

"I

hate Ribena."

"Well I love it Phillip answered.

They kept it up all the way home, scuffling and whispering threats at
each other until finally Aisling told them she'd throw them both out of
the car to walk home if they didn't shut up.

At home, they belted up the stairs together, leaving a trail of school
bags anoraks and sweets in the hall.  Aisling just walked past the
mess.

In the kitchen, she took a dish of lasagne out of the fridge and slid
it into the oven.  That was dinner organised.  She quickly boiled the
kettle, made herself a cup of tea and carried it into the sitting room
where she slid off her shoes and sank into an armchair.  She deserved a
rest.  She smiled to herself.

The lasagne would take around forty minutes and she wasn't budging
until it was cooked.  The terrible twosome could kill each other
upstairs if they liked, but she wasn't going to investigate.

After dinner, the boys sat at the kitchen table and Aisling refereed
while they did their homework.

"Phillip must work at his handwriting," the teacher had written at the
"teacher's comments" section of his homework notebook.  Looking at the
childish scrawl all over his English copybook where sentences rambled
with little regard for the lines on the page, Aisling could see what
Miss Devine meant.

"I'm trying," he said sweetly, leaning up against his mother.

Are you?"  she asked.

"Yes."  Phillip nodded.

"I'm very good at maths.  I got ten out of ten in my test yesterday. 
So did Paul.  But Miss Devine took a mark off him because he broke
Shane's pencil."

"Why did you do that, Paul?"  asked Aisling, astonished that the
quieter of the two had been involved in any sort of argument.  Phillip
was the truculent one, the twin most likely to fight.  Left to his own
devices, Paul wouldn't have hurt a fly.

He was saying nothing.  Eyes focused on his open copybook, he wrote
slowly, his left hand bent awkwardly as he wrote.

"Paul.  Talk to me!"

"Shane said you and Dad would get divorced and never live together
again, so Paul took his pencil.  It wasn't Paul's fault," Phillip said
defensively.

"Is this true?"  asked Aisling quietly.

Paul nodded.

She put one hand on his dark head and ruffled his hair, trying her
hardest to smile even though she wanted to cry.

Poor Paul.  He did his best to pretend everything was all right when,
deep down, he was a miserable little boy caught in the crossfire of a
marriage break-up.  Phillip had coped so much better.  Or at least, it
seemed that way.

He was eager to see his dad every Saturday and loved being driven
around in her sports car.  The time spent with their father was always
jam-packed with excitement, Aisling complained to Fiona, because he
brought them to McDonald's, to the cinema or bowling.  To make up for
not being there all week.  He gets the fun part," she pointed out.

"Meanwhile, I get them up in the morning, dole out the Coco Pops, get
them to school, pick them up at night, feed them, help them do their
homework, wash their clothes and buy the groceries.  I think we should
swap now and again," she added crossly, knowing in her heart that she
would have hated it if the twins lived with Michael and not with her.

Both boys came back home happy and tired after the weekend, but the
previous Sunday night Paul was very subdued.  Would Dad ever be coming
home to live with them again?  He asked, staring at her with confused
dark eyes.

Aisling hadn't known what to say at first.  She'd simply hugged him and
said that Dad loved them and would see them all the time, but that he
wanted to live somewhere else.

Now, Aisling put down Phillip's homework notebook and looked at them
both earnestly.

"Boys, there's no point in getting upset when people talk about your
dad and I splitting up," she said.

"It happens to lots of families and the important thing to remember is
that even though Dad and I aren't getting on well, we both still love
you two, OK?  You know," she added conversationally, 'you're lucky
because you have two homes now.  That's special.  I bet Shane won't get
two lots of Christmas presents, either.  Tell him that next time he
bothers you, Paul."

"I will," said Paul, his jaw set as firmly as his father's.  It was
hard to put Michael out of her mind when the kids looked so like him.
Somewhat cheered up, Paul returned to his homework and Phillip
carefully tugged his notebook out from under Aisling's elbow.

"Work on your handwriting, brat," she said, ruffling his hair
affectionately.

When the boys were finally in bed, Aisling finished the ironing before
mashing the potato for the following evening's shepherd's pie.  It
wasn't their favourite dish but she wanted something quick and easy to
give them before she went out.

She'd hoovered earlier in the evening and now she dusted the sitting
room, cleaned the downstairs loo and put another wash on.  Even though
the baby-sitter was a seventeen-year-old Leaving Cert student who had
more on her mind than untidy houses, Aisling's pride meant she didn't
want the place looking messy the following evening.

As usual, she was halfway through bleaching the work tops before she
remembered her rubber gloves lying untouched in the cupboard underneath
the sink.  That's why Vivienne has elegant nails and I have dry hands
and flaky nails, she muttered.  There was no point bothering with them
now.

She'd rub cream on her hands later.  If she remembered.

It was half ten by the time she'd finished cleaning and polishing. 
Roll on tomorrow, Aisling thought, sinking into the settee with a small
gin and tonic.  If ever a woman deserved a night out, she did.

Thomas Read's was buzzing when Aisling ventured in, clutching the folds
of her raincoat around her legs selfconsciously.

She was wearing a new on-the-knee black skirt which showed off lots of
leg in her seven-deniers.  The short skirt was a mistake, she decided
passing the bus stop and getting a flash of herself tottering in her
black suede stilettos.

She loved short skirts but was never sure whether she had the legs for
them or not.  Definitely not.

As she stood, she scanned the pub anxiously.  She couldn't see Vivienne
anywhere.  The place was jam-packed even though it was only after eight
o'clock.  The tables were full of welldressed people, all looking at
home in the trendy city-centre pub.  Aisling felt totally out of
place, as if she had a sign over her head proclaiming that she was
thirty-five, separated and wasn't used to going anywhere more exciting
on Thursday evenings than Quinnsworth.

She spotted Vivienne standing up and waving at her.  Relief flooded
through her as she wound her way through the crowd.  It was horrible
arriving on her own, trying to fit in and find people at the same time
when she felt so self-conscious and out of place.

"Awful, I know," said the dark-haired woman sitting beside Vivienne
when Aisling arrived at the table and sat down, raincoat still on.
There's nothing worse than arriving somewhere on your own."  Wow,
thought Aisling, I really must have a sign over my head.

"Glad you made it."  Vivienne looked marvelous in a crimson velvet
fitted shirt with her hair in an elegant topknot.

Aisling, this is Maria.  "She gestured at the woman who had spoken when
Aisling arrived, a large brunette wearing a grape-coloured satin jacket
which revealed an impressive cleavage.  Maria was wearing a lot of
make-up which emphasised full lips and high cheekbones and a jet
pendant necklace which drew the eye directly down.  And Annie."

"Nice to meet you said Annie, pulling up a chair for Aisling.  She was
petite, blonde and wearing a rich brown lycra dress Aisling had already
spotted in Dunnes.

"I'm afraid we've already started," Annie said, picking up her glass of
red wine.

"Maria, catch that waiter's eye, will you?"

"Hello, Aisling, welcome to our little gathering," said Maria warmly,
leaning over the table towards Aisling.

"When you walked in, you reminded me of myself four years ago just
after I split up with my husband," she confessed.

"I was terrified of going anywhere on my own after years of being part
of a couple.  Every time I went out, I felt so strange and out of
place, being on my own and not being used to it.  And now look at
me!"

Several people did and Maria smiled at them, shooting smouldering looks
at a handsome -young man at the table beside them who was chattering
in Italian to two girls.

"Maria likes to stand out from the crowd explained Vivienne gravely.

"It makes a change from all those times when I wanted to sit in the
corner and die because I was a size eighteen and I wanted to be a ten
said Maria, turning away from Mr.  Latin with a wink.  She waved at a
bar girl.

"Now, what's your poison, Aisling?"

"A gin and tonic, please said Aisling, feeling more at home in her
little black skirt and silky grey wrap over blouse now that it appeared
that the other women were dressed to kill.

"Enough about us.  Tell us all about you.  Vivienne has been filling us
in on the boss with the roaming hands and I want to hear every gory
detail of how you thumped him!  I wouldn't like to tell you what I'd do
if he tried it on me!"

Aisling burst out laughing.  She'd love to see what the voluptuous
Maria would do if she got her hands on Leo.

They talked so much that they were half an hour late for their table in
Sinners, the Lebanese restaurant a few doors away.  In between hearing
about Maria's gorgeous new dentist, Aisling discovered how the three
other women had met.

They'd been doing a computer course five years before, had struck up a
friendship during the first lunch-break and had remained friends ever
since.  They were all totally different the extrovert and risque Maria,
down-to-earth Vivienne and Annie, a quiet woman with a wry sense of
humour yet they got on like a house on fire.

This place is lovely said Maria as she squeezed into the pew-style seat
at their table and dumped a bulging suede handbag onto the seat
beside

"And so's the waiter" she whispered.

"Are we going to order or not?"  Annie demanded ten minutes later,
while Maria flirted with the waiter.

"I'm ravenous."

"Sorry."  Maria said repentantly.

"He's so cute.  It's a pity he's so young.  He's just my type."

On Vivienne's advice, Aisling ordered the house speciality, Mezes, a
selection of different types of Lebanese food.

"It sounds like lots of teeny-weeny dishes and you think you'll still
be hungry afterwards said Maria, 'but wait until you see the amount you
get.  You'll be stuffed."

They ate char-grilled lamb, stuffed vine leaves and beautiful
deep-fried goat's cheese, and talked non-stop about what had happened
to each of them over the past week.

As they chattered about everything under the sun, Aisling found herself
joining in as if she'd known them all her life.

Funny, down-to-earth and warm, the three women were the sort of people
you could tell anything to.

She found herself talking to them about her separation from Michael in
a way she'd never been able to do with her sister, Sorcha.  It was a
relief to talk about how scared she'd been at the thought of going back
to work after so long.

"I was terrified of you at first, Vivienne," Aisling admitted, now
knowing the other woman well enough to actually say it, "You poor
thing," Vivienne said apologetically.  That was a dreadful day for me
because Christine had been awake all night with a stomach bug and I
hated leaving her with my mother that morning.  I was a complete zombie
with exhaustion.

It took me five minutes to hide the dark circles with concealer.  And
when I met you for the first time I thought you were just some bored
well-heeled housewife amusing herself with a job ... Oh, I'm sorry,
Aisling, I really am."  She leaned over and patted Aisling's arm.

"I'd always prided myself on not judging people until I knew them and I
did just that with you."

"Oh, it doesn't matter now," Aisling said sincerely.

"Look how good you've been to me since."

"I should have told you about bloody Leo, that's what Vivienne
replied.

"I was thinking of how legally risky it would be to spread a rumour
like that especially when I didn't really have any proof, so I said
nothing and you had to deal with the consequences."

"That's in the past, Viv.  So let's forget about it."  Aisling patted
the other woman's hand gently.

"You're absolutely right, Aisling," Maria said firmly.

"We're not here to dredge up bad experiences.  We're here to have fun."
She lifted her glass for a toast and the others followed suit.  To us
and to fun!"

"Cheers!"  the others said in unison.

Maria was separated and had two teenage children, a fact which amazed
Aisling as the other woman only looked about thirty-two or three.

Thirty-three and a few months confirmed Maria, with a cheesy smile.

"Ninety-six months, actually.  It's my lifestyle, you see.  Some people
diet, drink lots of water and buy horrifically expensive moisturisers
to stay young she confided to Aisling.

"Personally, I use the dairy chocolate bar method of staying young she
continued.

"Eat lots of chocolate yes, you do put on weight, but you're happy only
use water for making tea, coffee or hot whiskies, go out with plenty of
nice men and make sure you've got two mad young girls around the
house.

That keeps me young."

"Sounds like a great recipe Aisling said.

"How old are the girls?"

"Shelley was fifteen last month I can't believe how fast she's growing
up exclaimed Maria.

"Lynsey is seventeen.

She's doing her Leaving this year and Shelley's doing her Group.  The
house is an exam time bomb waiting to go off.  I'm afraid to have the
telly up loud at night because they're studying so hard."

"You're lucky they both want to study said Aisling.

"Shelley really looks up to Lynsey, she hero worships her explained
Maria.

"Because Lynsey got the best Group Cert results in the school, Shelley
wants to do the same, which is wonderful.  I'm delighted."

Annie was in her late thirties, was married to Greg, a carpenter, and
had one little girl.  She told Aisling that she'd been engaged for five
years to her childhood sweetheart until she was twenty-nine when she
fell in love with a man she worked with.  She left her fiance to move
in with Greg and had never looked back.

"I know because of your experience, you probably think it's a dreadful
thing to do," Annie said slowly, stirring sugar into her coffee.

"I was living with Ray for six years and I thought we'd get married and
have kids eventually, you know, the whole nine yards.  Then I met Greg
and fell in love."  She paused for a moment, obviously thinking about
him.  Vivienne said she'd never seen a couple so incredibly in love.
They hold hands when they walk," Vivienne explained.

"How many couples do you know who do that after nine years together?"

"You don't choose who you fall in love with," continued Annie.

"It was so dreadful at the time of the break-up, but I'm so glad I did
it.  I'm so happy now," she added.

"Annie is proof that true love exists," remarked Vivienne, pouring the
remains.  of the third bottle of wine into their glasses.

"Well, you're not doing too badly in the love department yourself,"
Maria pointed out.

"I don't know Vivienne said gloomily.

"I think Pat's getting cold feet about the whole thing.  We're supposed
to be going away next weekend and yesterday he phoned to say he might
have to work on Saturday after all."  She took a gulp of wine.

"God, I'd love a cigarette.  I always want to start smoking again when
I've had a few glasses of wine."

Vivienne was going out with a detective she'd met at a wedding ten
months previously.  Good-looking, kind, solvent and with a great sense
of humour, he was almost too good to be true, Vivienne said.  She kept
waiting to discover some fatal flaw in him.  Privately, Aisling thought
Vivienne was probably right.  What man didn't have a fatal flaw?

"Pat's job is hardly routine, Viv," Annie said sensibly.

"He never knows what's going to come up or when he has to work, so you
can't blame him for that."

"And Christine loves him," put in Maria.

"She may only be eight but she's very clever, cleverer than her mother
when it comes to men!"  She wagged a finger at Vivienne.

As the staff in Sinners seemed in no hurry to close the place up, the
four women sat and talked until nearly one.

"Oh God, is that the time?"  gasped Aisling, looking at her watch in
alarm.  The baby-sitter will go berserk.  I didn't mean to be home so
late."

"You need to get out, Aisling," Vivienne said quietly.

"Otherwise you'll go mad.  Think of this evening as therapy.  It's more
fun and much cheaper than Prozac!"

Aisling and Maria shared a taxi home.  The other woman lived in
Sandymount, which was on Aisling's way home.

"You will come out with us again, won't you?"  asked Maria when the
taxi pulled up outside a pretty terraced house in a quiet street.

"Of course, I'd love to," answered Aisling warmly.

After her night out with Vivienne, Annie and Maria, all of whom
obviously enjoyed her company, Aisling felt more confident about going
to the Finucanes' party.  On Friday evening while the boys were
watching TV, she tore her wardrobe apart looking for something that
would live up to Fiona's description of 'red-hot'.

She found nothing.  The evening clothes she'd worn for the past few
years were generally size sixteen, black, navy or grey and
all-encompassing to hide the tummy she hated and her fat thighs.  All
she found were long, A-line tunics, several sloppy jumpers and a pink
silk over shirt that had always made her look like she was pregnant.
Now that she fitted into a size twelve with ease, everything looked
frumpy and far too big on her.  There was nothing terribly sexy in the
evening-clothes department apart from a black body with a low-cut
neck.

Worn with her new black skirt, the outfit looked nice but rather
boring.  She poked around in the drawer where she kept her costume
jewellery, looking for something that would enliven the outfit.
Nothing.  She was about to strip it off in despair when the doorbell
rang.

When she got downstairs, Phillip had already answered the door and
Fiona was standing in the hall.

"Looks like I came at the right time," Fiona said gaily, waving a big
Next bag.

"This is what I'm thinking of wearing tomorrow night," Aisling said,
doing a twirl in her stockinged feet.

"I can't find anything else, basically.  Is it OK?"

"It's OK, but you want to look better than OK, my dear.

That's why I came over.  Come on upstairs.  I've brought over a few
gorgeous things for you to try on for the party.  I knew you wouldn't
buy anything new."  Fiona marched upstairs with Aisling following

Even though she had probably been having a mini breakdown at home
organising the house for the party, Fiona would still make time to make
sure her friend was wearing something drop-dead gorgeous.  She was a
great friend, Aisling thought as she followed Fiona's petite jeans-clad
bum up the stairs.

"I know you don't want to spend all day tomorrow buying clothes, which
is a good thing as I can't come with you."  Fiona talked as she opened
the bag and laid various items of clothing on Aisling's bed.

"One day we must go shopping together because I still don't trust you
not to buy boring dark things because you think they make you look
thinner.  But until then, here are a few bits and pieces for tomorrow
night.

What do you think of this?"

She held up a bronze-coloured body with a wrap over front which was
made of spray-on lycra and would undoubtedly reveal plenty of
cleavage.

"It's very Maria," Aisling said, holding the body up to herself and
looking at the mirror.

"But it's also very small.  How the hell can any of your clothes fit
me!"

"It's all down to the Goddess of Lycra," Fiona said.

"This stuff is stretchy, so it'll fit you, no problem.  Is Maria one of
Vivienne's friends?"

"Yes, she's a howl Aisling said, unzipping her skirt.

"She's a real individual, mad as a bicycle.  She had us all in stitches
the whole night.  You'll have to meet the three of them.  You really
like Vivienne and Annie as well.  What do you think?"

She stepped back from Fiona and looked in the mirror.  The body fitted
her as if it had been made for her.  It moulded her curves like a
second skin and the subtle colour suited her much better than the black
body she'd been wearing minutes before.

"Gorgeous.  It's lovely."  Fiona eyed the outfit with her head at an
angle.  Try it with trousers or with your long black skirt.

I think it'll look great with a long skirt and this gold chain belt."

She was right.  Aisling stood in front of the mirror, delighted with
the slim and toned body she saw.  Thank you Callanetics, she said to
herself.

Try on this," ordered Fiona, handing Aisling a black lace top.

This is perfect, Fiona," protested Aisling, gesturing at what she was
wearing.

"I don't need anything else."

"Go on, Aisling.  You need more than one sexy evening outfit now that
you're turning into a party animal.  Anyway, that top suits you much
better than it suits me, so you'd be doing me a favour if you keep
it.."

"I can't keep it," Aisling said.

"Don't be silly.  I never wear the bronze thing because I just don't
have the boobs for it."  Fiona looked down at her rather flat chest
ruefully.  And you should take the black thing too.  It never really
suited me.  Go on, take them.  They're just cluttering up my wardrobe.
Or rather Pat's wardrobe, since I've taken over most of his as well.  I
think I'll soon have to buy one of those clothes rails you see in
shops."

Aisling quickly tried on the lace top.  Beautifully cut with a high
neck and long sleeves, if it had been made of anything other than lace,
it would have looked very plain.  But because it only had a built-in
bra lining the fabric under the lace around her breasts, the effect was
of a very revealing and incredibly sexy outfit.

"Fiona, I cannot go out in this.  You could see my bra at the back,"
Aisling pointed out.

"In fact, you couldn't wear a bra with this at all."

That's the whole point."  Fiona sat back on the bed and gave her friend
a mischievous grin.

"What do you mean?  Am I supposed to break into Patricia the Stripper
and undress when there's a lull in the conversation?"

Fiona looked cagey.

"Well, I've got a couple of nice single men coming and I did promise
them a live strip show in the dining room ..."  She chuckled at the
idea.

"No, Aisling, I just want you to live up to your potential.  You're
gorgeous and it's about time you realised it.  There's no point hiding
behind loads of clothes any more.  I won't let you."

Aisling was unbelievably touched.

"You're very good to me, Fiona.  What would I do without you?"

Fiona considered this!

"Well, you wouldn't have an appointment with my hairdresser at ten
tomorrow morning.  I'm going in for a blow-dry and I thought it would
be great if we went together."

She looked at Aisling expectantly.

"What do you think?"

That's a great idea," Aisling answered.

"I didn't book anywhere because it slipped my mind today.  Actually, I
was thinking of getting highlights put in, just a few, nothing much,"
she added hurriedly.  She shouldn't have said that.

Now Fiona would pester her unmercifully to get the full Marilyn
peroxide look.

"Brilliant!"  Fiona clapped her hands delightedly.

"I know you'll look wonderful with highlights.  Watch out boys," she
said with a wicked laugh.  The newly single and available Aisling Moran
is going to hit the scene!"

They'll think I'm really available if I wear this," Aisling pointed
out.

"All the more reason to wear it.  You don't want to become a nun!"

Aisling couldn't think of a suitable answer to that.

The smell of ammonia filled Aisling's nostrils and she was glad when a
cup of coffee was put before her.  Taking a sip, she turned her
attention to Vogue magazine and relaxed.  It was lucky that Fiona had
made an.  appointment for her as the salon was already buzzing and it
was only a quarter past eleven.

"We're doing a wedding party with six bridesmaids explained the
colourist as he painstakingly divided Aisling's hair into tiny
sections, slipped tiny pieces of easi-meche paper under each section
and painted different types of bleach on.

They all want ringlets he whispered.

"It's like a Helena Bonham-Carter lookalike competition in here."

An earnest young man wearing all black, the colourist chattered away as
he worked on Aisling's hair.  She was fascinated by the whole
procedure.  By using the meche method, he explained, he could apply
different colours to her hair and this would make it look more natural
than just being bleached with one colour.

She had a lot of hair and it took a solid hour to do her whole head.
When he had finished, he gave her a pile of glossy magazines, asked her
did she want coffee and put her , under a rather strange hair dryer
which looked like a three-bar fire more than anything else.

It felt wonderful to be pampered, to sit back, read magazines, drink
coffee and let someone else run around like a headless chicken.  She'd
been up at eight, organising the boys' soccer kit which she hadn't done
the night before, getting their breakfast and bringing them to soccer.
She'd ended up putting her make-up on at traffic lights because she
didn't want to go to the hairdresser's barefaced.  Nothing accentuated
lines more than the unforgiving light in a hairdressing salon.

But today wasn't like any of the other times she'd gone to the
hairdresser over the last few years.  Since she'd put on weight,
sitting for ages in front of a mirror with nothing to do but stare at
herself was painful.  Not any more.

Today, the woman in the mirror was a slim, independent working woman.
She turned a page.  She never bought Vogue so it was nice to read it
for free at the hairdresser's.  And it certainly gave you a glance into
how the other half lived, she thought, marvelling at how a simple dress
could cost over a thousand pounds, even if it was made by Gucci.  For
that money, it would want to be able to do the dishes, hoover the
sitting room and cook the dinner.

She looked up to see how Fiona was getting on.  Her neighbour was
seated at the other end of the salon having her hair blow-dried into a
sleek bob.

Aisling didn't know who was more pleased when she said she wanted her
whole head highlighted the hairdresser or Fiona.

"Well, how are you doing?"  asked Fiona, appearing at Aisling's side
suddenly.

"I'm doing marvellously," said Aisling with a smile, holding up her
coffee cup with her little finger crooked in a parody of the way her
granny told her was ladylike.

"I think I should spend all Saturday mornings in the hairdresser."

"Good, said Fiona, who did spend all her Saturday mornings in the
hairdresser.

"You'd be great company for me.  What time will you be ready?"

"About another hour, I reckon Aisling replied.

"I'll nip off to do some shopping then.  I saw this divine little dress
in Jackie Lavin's window yesterday and I'm going to try it on.  Yes, I
know I said I wasn't buying any clothes for ages, and I know Pat will
murder me if he sees another shopping bag in the house.  He says I'm a
shopaholic," Fiona added in a surprised tone.

"But this dress is lovely.  It's silver-beaded and has a halter-neck ..
Divine.  I'll be back in an hour, OK?"

You just had to laugh at Fiona, Aisling thought.  If she knew anyone
else who spent half her life shopping and the other half thinking about
shopping, she'd think they were one of society's rich bitches.  But
Fiona was so kind and funny, you didn't mind the fact that she spent
more on clothes in one week than many people earned in two.  It must be
nice to have an inheritance.

By the time Fiona returned with two large bags of shopping, Aisling
was ready.  The colourist was showing her the back of her head with a
hand mirror and she was bursting with delight.  The long lank mousy
hair had gone, to be replaced by soft waves of shoulder-length glossy
blonde hair which framed her face beautifully.  The face was the same,
Aisling thought, taking in the perfectly styled hair, but it looked
totally different now.

Her skin glowed beside the soft gold and ash blonde strands of hair.
Her eyes looked large and luminous now that her hair was swept back
from her face.

"Aisling!  Wow!"  Fiona's voice was high-pitched with surprise.

"Well, what do you think?"  Aisling swivelled around in her chair and
grinned at her friend.

"You look amazing, absolutely amazing.  You should have had this done
years ago," said Fiona.

"I'd probably walk past you on the street if I hadn't seen you here.
You look so different."

"I know.  Isn't it wonderful?"  Aisling couldn't keep the delight out
of her voice.  She felt transformed.  She wanted to run outside and
march into all the expensive shops in the Blackrock Centre.  Now she
looked as if she belonged in them, I looked as if she was a stylish and
attractive woman instead of the drudge she'd been for so long.

She shook her head slightly for the third time, enjoying the feeling of
her hair rippling around her head.  Aisling felt as if she'd never get
tired of doing this, delighted with how light her hair felt and
fascinated at the way it fell perfectly into place each time.

"Come on, we better get out of here," she said.

"I have to pick up the twins and you have to organise the party of the
year."

Fiona grimaced.

"I love the idea of having a party until the actual day I'm having it.
Then, I want to sit curled up on the couch with a dry Martini and a
good book."

"It'll be fun, Fiona, you know you'll start enjoying yourself after
the first half-hour.  You always do."

The twins loved Aisling's new hairstyle.

"You look great, Mum," Paul said.

"Yeah, it's lovely added Phillip.

But they weren't the ones she wanted to impress with her new look. 
Once they got home, she raced upstairs to look at herself in her
bedroom mirror.  Maybe she only looked good in the hair salon, she
thought anxiously.  Maybe she'd revert back to her normal, boring self
as soon as she looked in the mirror at home.  The woman who stood in
the centre of the bedroom was totally different from the woman who'd
left that morning.

A deep, slow smile spread across Aisling's face.  She took her lipstick
out of her handbag and quickly applied some.  But the colour which had
looked fine with her mousey long hair looked pale and uninteresting on
the blonde Aisling.

She rummaged around in the dressing-table drawer until she found what
she was looking for a rich pink lipstick she'd bought ages ago and
never worn.  It went perfectly with the pink short-sleeved cardigan she
wore with her jeans, jeans she needed to belt at the waist.

It was after two when Phillip roared down from his bedroom, "Dad's
here, Dad's here!"

Aisling put down the knife she'd been using to peel the potatoes and
quickly washed her hands.  OK, Michael, get ready to meet the new,
improved Aisling Moran.

She fixed a smile on her lips and opened the door slowly, her heart
thumping madly.  He was standing a few feet away from the front door,
obviously expecting the boys to run out to the car the way they usually
did.  Dressed in dark grey cords and his ancient marl grey Nike
T-shirt, Michael looked tired and drawn.  She'd have sworn that there
were more grey hairs around his temples than there had been the last
time she'd seen him.

"Hello, Michael," she said coolly.  The boys will be down in a minute.
We had a late lunch and they haven't got their stuff ready."  '
Ignoring the look of astonishment in his eyes, she turned and yelled
up the stairs.

"Come on boys, get a move on."

When she turned back to Michael, he was studying her as if they'd only
just met.  His gaze came back to rest on her face and the look in his
eyes was one of admiration.

"You look fantastic, Aisling," he said slowly.

"Your hair is different, it's great."

Thanks," she murmured casually, as though she didn't give a damn what
he thought of her.  She flicked back a tendril of ash blonde hair off
her face, enjoying his discomfiture.  Just because you left me, doesn't
mean I turned into a one-woman disaster area, she thought.

"How are things?  You're coping all right with the money I'm paying
into your account?"  he asked awkwardly.

Despite their earlier fight about money, he'd been generous with his
maintenance payments.  She was doing fine financially, what with his
money and her wages, but Aisling was still nervous of splashing out on
anything.  The thought of the first few days when she'd found damn-all
money in their joint account was still too fresh in her mind.  " ?

"Fine, we're doing great."

"Good.  How's the job?"

"Fine."

They stood in silence for a moment.  Michael seemed to be searching for
something to say.  Under normal circumstances.  Aisling, who couldn't
bear awkward silences, would have said something inane just to keep the
conversation going.  Today she was master of the situation.  She said
nothing.

"What are you up to tonight?"  he asked finally.  Any plans?"

Wow, she thought triumphantly, I must look good.  A few months ago,
Aisling wouldn't have had any plans for a Saturday night and he knew
it.  Now, she obviously looked good enough to merit an inquiry about
her social life.

"Going to a party," she said.

"Really.  Who's having the party?  Anyone I know?"

"No."  She was cool and calm on the outside, but on the inside she was
laughing to her heart's content.  He wanted to know where she was
going, who she was going with and how the hell she was looking this
good.  But he wouldn't say a word.  He didn't want to let on that he
was consumed with curiosity about the newly blonde Aisling Moran.

After a full two minutes' silence, she mentally chalked up a point to
herself.  I bet you're burning up with curiosity, Michael.  Hah!

"You look tired," she commented.

"Lots of late nights?"

Score two to Aisling.

"You know what it's like in the News," he said wearily.  To make up for
the Saturdays I take off to see the boys, I'm working on Mondays now
and end up working very late on "Friday."

"Dad!"  roared Phillip, appearing beside his mother with a bulging
hold-all.  God only knew what he'd packed.  Both twins were magpies who
loved collecting junk and loved having it with them at all times,
something they'd inherited from Aisling.  Her handbags routinely had to
be repaired when the handles broke or the stitching came undone from
all the bits and pieces she carried around with her.

She gave Paul a hug before doing the same to his brother.

"Be good and take care, darlings."  She stood back in the doorway,
making it crystal-clear that the conversation with Michael was over.
Her smile was frosty.

"Bye.  See you tomorrow she said.

"Yeah, bye."  Michael looked at her blankly for a moment, as if he
wanted to say something but decided not to.  Then he turned and walked
to the car.  She watched for a moment, waved goodbye to the boys and
shut the front door.  Her euphoria vanished instantly.  It had been
wonderful to give Michael a shock, wonderful to see him re-evaluating
her.  It had been a short-lived feeling.  Without the boys the house
felt empty.  And so did she.

There was no point staying home and moping, she told herself firmly as
she grabbed her handbag, her shopping list and her car keys.  Get out
of the house or you'll go mad.  Show off your new look.

She dawdled around the Stillorgan shopping centre for ove ran hour,
browsing in the bookshop and running her hands along rails of clothes
in A-Wear.

She picked up a couple of things and tried them on, but even the thrill
of fitting comfortably into a size twelve didn't cheer her up.  She'd
felt great earlier.  Why had meeting Michael for the first time in
weeks plunged her into such despair?  Was it because seeing him brought
all the pain back, pain that she'd pushed to the back of her mind when
she was working or with the twins?  Or was it that she missed him?

Damn Michael anyway.

In Quinnsworth, she shopped slowly, meandering between the aisles and
picking up the ingredients for the pesto tagliatelle that Jo loved. 
She was coming to dinner on Sunday and Aisling wanted it to be a
special night.

On the phone a few days earlier, Jo had sounded very miserable but
couldn't talk properly because she was working late in the office and
wasn't alone.  The poor thing.  She was obviously finding it hard
coping with pregnancy on her own.

Aisling threw several packets of pasta into her trolley.  The boys
loved spaghetti and never tired of sucking individual strands of pasta
into their mouths and seeing who could suck fastest.

Michael loved ravioli because his Italian grandmother had made 'the
most delicious ravioli in the world'.  Despite all her culinary skills,
Aisling had never been able to match his granny's recipe.  There'd been
no pleasing him, had there?

Why had she even tried?  Why was she thinking about him, in fact?  He
was gone.  There was no point crying over Michael.

He had his own life and she had to get on with hers.  Tonight was a
good time to start.  She'd get dressed early and go over to help Fiona
with the party preparations.  Then she'd chat up all the eligible men
Fiona had promised to invite.  Ciao, Michael.  Hello new life.

"So, you work with Pat.  Are you a lawyer?"  Gary eased himself into
the armchair beside Aisling and gave her the benefit of a gleaming
white smile.  He was tall, fair and quite overweight, dwarfing the
armchair with his bulk.

For someone who'd only been introduced to her a minute ago, Gary was
staring at her in a very familiar manner.  His eyes were travelling
over her body slowly and carefully as if he were a surveyor looking for
dry rot.

"No!"  she said loudly, to get his attention away from her chest.  She
loved wearing the slinky black lace top but it was very revealing and
Gary was the second man to be transfixed by her boobs.  What was more,
he was wearing a wedding ring, although his wife had been nowhere in
sight when Pat introduced him.  This was her first party as a separated
woman land she was very nervous about the whole thing.  After twelve
years married to one man, her social ising-with-men skills Were, as
she'd said to Fiona, nil.

"I'm a secretary at the firm," Aisling said.

"I work for Anthony Green."

"Really," muttered Gary, his mind elsewhere.

"What branch of law do you speciali se in?"  she asked pointedly.

"Divorce?"

He sat up like a shot.

"Er, no.  Conveyancing."

God, she couldn't believe she had the misfortune to meet another
leering conveyancing lawyer.  She'd thought Leo was the only one, a
freak of the legal system.  She tried out a frosty stare on Gary.  It
had worked on Michael earlier.

Gary got the message.

"Excuse me," he said.

"I must talk to my wife for a moment.  I'll talk to you later."

Not if I have anything to do with it, Aisling decided, abandoning her
chair quickly and heading for the dining room.

It was nearly nine-thirty and most of the guests had arrived, mainly
couples with a bottle of wine in hand.  She'd spotted only two men
arriving without female partners, one a very handsome Scandinavian type
in his late thirties and the other slightly older, dark-haired and
equally good-looking.

Arriving together, they'd brought champagne and a huge, feathery fern
for Fiona who would, as Aisling knew, immediately kill it.  The men
hugged Fiona, shook hands with Pat and went into the dining room to
get a drink.  As Maria would have said, you wouldn't kick either of
them out of bed for eating crisps.  But the more Aisling watched them
surreptitiously, the more she became convinced that they were a couple.
She drained her glass of red wine and found Fiona holding court beside
the bar, with four men around her.

Typical, Finucane!"  she whispered in Fiona's ears.  The only blokes
I'm interested in are gay and the only ones who are interested in me
are lecherous or married!"

The dilemma of the modern single woman," Fiona whispered back.

"I did notice Gary move in on you.  I decided not to rescue you because
I knew he was just your type.  Actually, his wife has known Pat since
college which is why he's here, otherwise I wouldn't have him in the
house.  He's a pig."

"You can say that again," Aisling remarked.

"I don't think he actually looked at my face once during our entire
conversation."

That's what happens when you flaunt yourself, you trollop," Fiona said
deadpan.

"Seriously, you'll love Anders and Peter.  I'll introduce them to you.
Anders is from Sweden, as if you couldn't tell, and they're both
brilliant fun.  But don't worry," she added with a grin.

"I promise you, there are some lovely men coming later who aren't gay,
married or devoted to their mothers.  Now, have another drink."

For the next hour, Aisling had a whale of a time.  Fiona's clique of
men friends were delighted to talk to the attractive blonde in the sexy
outfit, while Aisling enjoyed a little flirtation, knowing that Fiona
was there to bail her out if anything got too serious.

"If I wasn't married, I'd definitely chance my arm there," one man said
to Fiona.

"Giles, if you weren't married, you wouldn't be interested in her,"
Fiona pointed out reasonably.

"You'd be running after some mysterious married woman.  It's all the
thrill of the' forbidden, you know."

Fiona dips, crudites and small bowls of black and gree ri stuffed
olives were going down a treat.  Aisling had eaten far too much and
was sitting on the corner of the settee talking to Fiona's
sister-in-law, Sandra, when Fiona tapped her on the arm.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sandra, but I've got this divine man I want
Aisling to meet."

"Goody," said Aisling getting to her feet.  She felt very confident and
quite tipsy thanks to five glasses of Australian red.  She followed
Fiona into the kitchen where a man in an open-necked denim shirt and
chinos was sprawled on a kitchen chair laughing and joking with Pat. 
He looked up as she walked in and her first impression was that he had
the same olive skin as Michael, but there the resemblance ended.

He had the most incredible bright blue eyes, a wide, mobile mouth which
was curved into a grin and chestnut hair worn down to his shirt
collar.

"Sam Delaney, meet Aisling Moran," said Fiona.

Sam jumped to his feet and held out one hand.

"Delighted to meet you, Aisling.  I've heard all about you and now I
want to hear your side."

Everyone laughed, especially Pat, who was well on his way to being
plastered.

"Nice to meet you too," said Aisling.  She took his hand and looked
down, seeing strong tanned wrists feathered with coppery hairs.  Was
she imagining it or had he held her hand for longer than was strictly
necessary?

She looked into his face and smiled a five-glasses-of-red-wine smile.

"Are you gay, married or devoted to your mother?"  she asked.

Fiona snorted into her gin sling.

"No," breathed Sam, leaning forward so that his face was only a few
inches away from hers.

"I'm available."  
"Mhe too," said Aisling with a large grin.

"Sit down," said Sam, pulling up a chair for her and positioning it
close to his.  Aisling sank onto the chair, put her empty glass on the
table and turned to look at Sam.  He was watching her, the blue eyes
taking in every movement.  Unlike the lecherous Gary, Sam's eyes
didn't linger too long on the curves revealed by her lacy outfit.  But
he looked long enough to tell Aisling he was interested.  Very
interested.

Stone-cold sober, she knew she'd have been nervous at the thought of
chatting up such a handsome man.  But the combination of wine, her new
image and the compliments from Fiona's male friends made her feel ready
for anything.  As Sam filled her glass from a full bottle of red wine,
her normal inhibitions drained away.  She felt attractive, flirtatious
and reckless.

"How come I've never met you before, Sam?"  she said, savouring the
sound of his name on her tongue.  Sam.  What a sexy name.

"I could say the same about you," he answered.

"Sam's been abroad for five years," interrupted Pat from the other side
of the table.

"Working in Texas."

Texas.  Wow.  That must have been interesting," Aisling said.

She put her elbow on the table and propped her head up with one hand,
letting silky strands of blonde hair hang between her fingers.  She'd
seen Jo do it and it had looked very provocative.

"What do you do?"

"I'm in computer software.  I was in Texas for four years working for
one company and in Louisiana for another two years," Sam explained.

That's six years," said Pat, sounding surprised.

"I thought it was five."

"I think we better mingle with our guests said Fiona firmly.

She dragged Pat off with her, leaving Aisling and Sam alone in the
kitchen.  Their eyes met and they both broke out laughing at the same
time.

"I get the idea that Fiona is doing her best to fix us up with each
other," Sam said.

Aisling flushed and took a deep slug of wine.

"I know.  Sorry," she said quickly.

"I'm sure it's a real pain in the ass having women thrown at you every
time you come back to Ireland for a holiday."

"I didn't mean it like that, Aisling," Sam said softly.  She liked the
way he said her name.

"I'm delighted they left us alone.

I'm enjoying myself.  And," he added, picking up his glass and holding
it towards hers, "I'm not on holiday.  I'm home for good."

They clinked glasses companionably.

Tell me about Texas," Aisling said.

"I've never even been to America and Texas sounds so exotic, so
Dallas!"

"It's not really like Dallas," said Sam with a chuckle.

"It used to be, or so they tell me.  Houston, where I worked, is a very
cosmopolitan city, all mirror-windowed skyscrapers and Cadillacs.

But the oil boom was over in the early Eighties and the whole city
suffered.  So there aren't as many millionaires as there used to be.
None like J. R."  anyway."

"Damn," said Aisling.

"You mean there isn't a Cattle Baron's Ball after all?"

There probably is.  There are certainly enough people wearing Stetsons
and cowboy boots, but you don't see many suede fringed jackets.  It's
top hot."

"Really?"  she asked.

"Oh, it's unbelievable.  In the summer, you can't drive with your
windows open.  You just keep the air-conditioning on the whole time,"
Sam said.

"Putting your arm out the window of the car when you're on the freeway
is like being hit with a blast from a hot-air dryer."

"Have some dips," announced Fiona as she swept into the kitchen with a
tray of empty glasses.  She took a bowl of taramasalata and a large
plate of cut vegetables out of the fridge and left them in front of
Sam.

"Are you having fun?"  she whispered into Aisling's ear.

Sam's mouth curved into a knowing grin as he looked Aisling in the
eye.

"Loads of fun she replied, never taking her eyes off his face.

"Maybe we should just have sex on the table and then they'd all be
happy suggested Sam with a glint in his eye when Fiona left with a tray
of dips for the rest of the guests.

"I don't know replied Aisling, as though she were thinking seriously
about the idea.

"Maybe we should know a little about each other before that, what do
you think?  Sex on the first date is one thing, but I always find that
sex within the first ten minutes is pushing it!"  He laughed
uproariously.

Aisling couldn't believe she'd just said that.

What the hell, she didn't have to play Michael Moran's quiet little
wifey any more.

They scraped the bowl clean as they sat at Fiona's spotless kitchen
table and talked.  Aisling found out that Sam was originally from Cork
where his parents still had a small dairy farm near Clonakilty.  He'd
lived in Dublin for seven years before moving to Texas.

The money was incredible," he explained, 'even if the change of climate
nearly killed me.  I thought I'd feel at home somewhere like Texas
because I had this idea that it was a rural sort of place, like home.
Unfortunately, in Houston, the nearest you got to cows was in a steak
house.  For the first six months, I didn't see much apart from the
office."

"But you must have seen lots after that," Aisling said.

"Yeah, I did.  I loved Galveston, that was my favourite place.

It's this old Victorian town on the Gulf Coast, all pretty wooden
houses and ornate Victorian mansions.  And miles and miles of sand
covered with this sea grass you can't pick because it's the only thing
holding the sand together and keeping the ocean out!"

"It must be wonderful to have travelled so much."  Aisling picked up
the last bit of carrot off the plate.

"It was."  Sam sat back in his chair, his mind suddenly elsewhere.  On
whoever he left behind, Aisling thought to herself.  Why else would a
successful man leave the States to come home?  He must have been
married.  He had to be forty or near it and he was charming, funny and
good-looking.  No way a man like Sam would have remained single for
long.

God, how did I ever think I was the only person in the world to have
their marriage break up?  she wondered.  That was just my
self-obsession and self-pity.

It's happening all the time.  Is there anyone out there who doesn
carry the remains of their past around with them, memories of happier
times, different times?

"You look like you're lost in time," she said softly.

He smiled apologetically.

"Sorry.  You're right.  I was a bit."

"You know, if I'd met you six years ago, we wouldn't be having this
conversation in the kitchen she said.

"I'd have been in there with my husband and I'd never have flirted
with

"I know.  Fiona told me you were separated.  He must be mad."

"So must she."

He grimaced and drained his wine glass.  That obvious, huh?"

Aisling pretended to consider it.

"Maybe not to most people,-but let's just say, I'm sensitive to that
sort of thing now.  I find myself looking at people in the supermarket,
staring at their ring fingers and working out if they're married,
separated, whatever.  It's my little game."

"You still wear your wedding ring," Sam said, almost accusingly.

She looked down at her left hand, at the sapphire surrounded by tiny
diamonds and the slim wedding band she still wore.  She was so used to
wearing them that she couldn't imagine taking them off.  But why, she
thought?  Michael was gone.  He was living with somebody else and he
wasn't coming back.  So why was she still wearing his rings?

For a moment, she was back in McDowell's on the day he'd bought her
engagement ring.  Thirteen years ago.

The sapphire ring suits you best," Michael said, leaning on the
glass-fronted case with her fingers held tenderly in his hand.

"I like the diamond solitaire," she answered.

"I've always dreamed of having a diamond ring."

The sapphire one has little diamonds around it," Michael pointed out,
sensible as ever.  In the end, he'd won.  He bought her the sapphire
ring and promised her a ring with a solitaire sometime.  He'd never
bought it.

Aisling looked at Sam and shrugged.

"You're right," she said, looking into his eyes, wondering how anyone
could have eyes so blue.

"I don't know why I still wear them."

She straightened out her fingers and slid the rings off.  With all the
weight she'd lost, they came off easily.  She left them on the table
beside her wine glass.  Twelve years of marriage down the Swannee.

"We'll have to celebrate," Sam said gently, moving his chair right
beside hers.  He put one hand around her neck and pulled her face
closer to his, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin.
Then his lips met hers, softly touching hers.

For a moment, Aisling panicked.  This was happening so fast.

Then she felt Sam's arms reach around her waist, gently holding her to
him.  She relaxed and let herself go, feeling her mouth open under his.
He tasted sweet and faintly bitter, the wine on his breath mingling
with something else.  Her skin felt warm where he was holding her.

Nobody had held her like this for so long.  She'd spent so many nights
alone in the big bed, only Flossie or her books for company.  Now, she
was in a man's arms, a man who wanted

Suddenly, she wanted to go to bed with him.  Now.  This instant.
Shocked, she wondered if she'd lost her mind, but no.

She hadn't.  She simply wanted him, hungered for him, as she used to
hunger for jam doughnuts or ice cream.  She didn't care if she never
saw another doughnut ever again, all she wanted was Sam.

"Aisling," he murmured into her hair, his lips brushing against her
neck and her ear.

"I shouldn't have done that, but I couldn't help myself."

She arched her neck back, leaving her skin exposed for him.

He was a quick learner.

"I'm glad you did," she said softly, as he moved along her neck to the
soft hollow at the base of her throat.

"Oh!"

Aisling would have recognised Fiona's voice anywhere.  Shemade a sort
of strangulated squeak and turned on her heel.

Aisling and Sam started laughing at exactly the same moment.  She
clutched Sam's head against her neck and roared.

"We've been caught she said between laughs.

"I feel like I'm fifteen again and my mother has just caught me groping
my girlfriend in the dairy."  Sam could barely talk he was laughing so
much.  '.I don't think I enjoyed that so much."

He moved up until they were face to face.  He held her face cradled in
his hands and kissed her again, gently on the lips.

"I never thought I'd be found snogging in the kitchen at a party at my
age, but that was wonderful," he said.

"I hope you don't regret this tomorrow, Aisling.  I'd like to see you
again."

"I'd love that."  It was true.  But Fiona's interruption had brought
her to her senses.

A flirtation and a kiss in the kitchen was one thing.  Going off with a
man she'd just "met for wild passionate sex was another.

It would be wild and passionate sex, she knew that for sure.

The way he kissed sent ripples of excitement down her spine.

Aisling gently stroked Sam's cheek and smiled at him.

"I better go.  It's late."

It was nearly twelve and the baby-sitter said she didn't want to stay
the night.  Aisling got up from her chair.  Sam jumped up instantly.

"Will you let me walk you home?"

"Of course.  But I don't want the neighbours to think I'm a scarlet
woman, so we better be discreet," Aisling said quickly.

She had a sudden vision of all the guests from the party craning their
heads out of Fiona's upstairs windows for a better view of Sam kissing
her passionately at her hall door.

Or worse, the boys seeing her kissing Sam passionately.

"Damn, you've ruined my whole plan."  Sam put his arms around her waist
and grinned.  He wasn't as tall as Michael, she thought suddenly.  Stop
it, Aisling, she said silently.  She didn't want to think of Michael.
She kissed Sam again.  He tasted just as good this time round.

"I'll just get my handbag," she said.  She hurried up to Fiona's spare
room where she'd left her things.

Fiona caught her rushing down the stairs.

"Are you going?"  Fiona was doing her best to conceal a smirk but she
couldn't quite manage it.

"Both of you?"  she asked meaningfully.

"Sam is walking me home Aisling said.

"Walking.  That's all.

So don't focus the telescope on my house!"

"I'm so pleased you like him, he's a dear man."  Fiona gave her a big
hug.

"Phone me tomorrow and tell me everything, right?"

"I promise.  "

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

Jo sat on a stool in the small dressing
room and watched Frederick paint one last coat of ruby-red lipstick on
the model's perfect mouth.  The girl sat perfectly still in the chair.
Dark arched brows framed pale blue eyes edged by expertly applied
eyeliner, giving her an exotic, faintly Egyptian look.

"We want vampish make-up, dark, smoky eyes and dark lips," Jo had
explained to Frederick on the phone the previous week.

"I'm calling it the Christmas Glamour Look and I've got three long dark
evening dresses, one black velvet tuxedo and a sequin ned mini dress
for the shoot.  The make-up has to be dramatic."

Frederick was doing his best to be very dramatic, although the heavy
make-up required for the camera looked out of place in a draughty
photographic studio on a cool Monday morning in September.

Exhausted after a restless night, Jo didn't feel up to organising the
shoot for the December issue.  It was two months to the Christmas
production day, but that edition traditionally carried lots of fashion
pages and Jo knew that Ralph, the photographer Style used, had a
catalogue shoot lined up for half of October and was going on holiday
to Jamaica in November.  That left September for everything the skiing
clothes shoot, the knitwear shoot, the working woman's suit shoot and
the lingerie-to-get-your-man-to-buy you-for-Christmas shoot.

She had to organise all those over the next two weeks, which would mean
lots of dashing around the shops searching for the right accessories
and perfect shoes.  At least she'd got absolutely everything she needed
today.

Several elegant dresses hung from the rail in the small dressing room,
ready for the two models to transform themselves into glamour queens.
Boxes containing high-heeled suede and satin sandals were lined up on
the floor, while packets of tights lay on the cupboard top alongside
the simple silver earrings Jo had picked for the shoot.

Frederick's huge bag of tricks were spread out on the counter top,
palettes of every colour under the sun, eye pencils, brushes, jars of
foundation and cotton buds jostling for space beside the hairdresser's
heated rollers, cans of hairspray, pins and brushes.

Outside the door, Ralph yelled instructions around the large,
high-ceilinged studio.  It was nearly eleven on Monday morning and they
had to be finished by half two because Ralph was photographing a group
for a business magazine at three.  It didn't leave them much time for
the Style shoot and as the other model was late, they were definitely
in trouble.

The photographer's favourite Eric Clapton CD was belting out of the
sound system and Jo could feel the stirrings of a thumping headache.
This was shaping up to be a disastrous day.  It had been a pretty bad
weekend, as she'd waited for Mark to ring so she could explain exactly
what had happened at the office.

She'd gone over it in her head many times, telling him how she'd really
tried to get on well with Emma.  How she'd, worked with the younger
woman to make her part of the Style team.  How Emma had thrown it all
back in her face in a fit of spite.  But Mark hadn't phoned.

By Sunday night, Jo had convinced herself that he'd heard Emma's side
of the story and had made up his mind not to ring her at all.  She felt
utterly miserable.  The only bright spark on the horizon was the
thought of her cottage, which Mark's contractor friend had told her was
structurally sound even though it needed some work.

"Finished," announced Frederick.  He stood back and admired his
handiwork.  The model, Carol, unfurled her long, impossibly slender
body, stood up and reached into her denim shirt pocket for her
cigarettes.  "Don worry, I'll smoke outside she said, patting Jo on
the shoulder.  The model pulled on a tatty leather bomber jacket over
her jeans, careful not to dislodge the heated rollers in her dark hair
and left the room, lighting up as she went.

"We're nearly ready shouted Ralph from the studio.

"Where the hell is Stephanie?"

"Here."  came another voice, as a tall blonde girl dressed in grey
sweatpants and parka hurried into the dressing room, hair flying.

"Sorry I'm late she said to Jo.

"I got stuck in traffic."

"Steph, your hair!"  shrieked Alan, the hairdresser, pushing into the
dressing room with a tray and four mugs of tea.

Stephanie's high-cheekboned face was stunning even devoid of make-up,
but her hair was definitely greasy at the roots.

"I won't have time to wash it now.  It'll have to be sleeked-back hair
Alan muttered to Jo.

"Fine.- Jo was tired, cross and ready to belt Steph's beautiful head.
She didn't care what Alan did to the model's bloody hair.  Damn Mark.
Damn, damn, damn.

Thirty-five minutes later, Steph and Carol reclined gracefully on a
leopards king chaise-longue, looking as if they had been born in
floor-length satin.  With their hair beautifully styled, flawless
make-up on their faces and perfect size-ten bodies encased in sleek
designer clothes, they appeared a million miles away from the two
casually dressed young women who'd rushed into the studio earlier.

Jo had been involved in the fashion business for years, yet she never
ceased to be amazed at how a team of experts, with the right tools and
lighting, could turn a pretty woman into a spectacular one.

Nobody looking at the finished photos would ever be able to tell that
Carol had a spot on her chin and dark circles under her eyes or that
Stephanie's hair had been slicked back into a knot because the
hairdresser hadn't the time to wash it.

Turn your head a little to the left, Carol."  ordered Ralph, squinting
at the models through his viewfinder.

"A little more, that's good.  Alan, fix her hair, there's a bit
sticking out.  "Jo tried to relax while Ralph was shooting.  She sat
down in the leather armchair he often used as a prop, put her feet up
on the arms and poked around in a pot of strawberry yogurt with a
little plastic spoon.  Frederick was up and down from his seat like a
jack-in-the-box, powdering away the shiny faces brought on by strong
lights.

"We'll never be out in time," Frederick grumbled, sinking back into his
chair after the tenth powdering break.

"I'll kill Stephanie if we aren't.  I'm due somewhere at half three."

"And I'm due in four months if I don't have a nervous breakdown first
Jo answered glumly.

"It's not that bad, pet, is it?"  asked Frederick in concern.

"You look wonderful and I thought everything was going so well.  It's
not Richard, is it?  That pig, I don't know why you stuck with him for
so long, he wasn't worth it."

Ralph bellowed and Frederick leaped up with his powder puff at the
ready.

Richard?  thought Jo.  She couldn't give a damn about Richard.  He'd
dumped another pregnant girlfriend before her and she'd lost every
ounce of respect or love for him.  He'd only phoned once in the past
few months a faltering message left on her answering machine.

"It's me, er ... Richard.  You're not here and I'll," he paused, "ring
you some other time.  Hope you're all right he added awkwardly.

Hope you're all right?  Snarled Jo when she got home.  What sort of a
greeting was that to the mother of your child?  she wanted to know. 
His lack of interest only hardened her heart even more against him.

When she went to the hospital on her own for her check-ups and sat,
tears flowing down her face as she looked at the ultrasound picture of
the baby, Jo felt immeasurably sad that she had no one to share the
experience with.  But she never regretted the fact that Richard wasn't
with her.  She couldn't imagine anyone worse as a father or would-be
father.

She and the baby were better without him.  Now, when she thought about
him at all, it was with a mixture of irritation and disgust.
Irritation at his childishness and immaturity, and disgust that she'd
been so stupid not to see through his lies and recognise him for the
coward he truly was.

"Do you want another cup of tea?"  Frederick asked kindly, perching on
the edge of the armchair.  Seeing Jo's look of misery, he took her
hand.

"He's not worth it, pet," he said, misinterpreting her sad face.

"Forget Richard, for your own sake.  I didn't mean to tell you this,"
he hesitated, 'but you better know."

Jo sat up straighten What news of Richard did Frederick have?

"I've seen him out with that Freeman girl, the tarty one with the
little red Mazda and the vacuum in her skull," Frederick continued.

Jo knew exactly who he was talking about.  Rachel Freeman, a twenty
something model who'd materialised beside Richard at several parties,
smiling at him coyly and completely ignoring the fact that Jo was
holding his hand.

"She's just a kid," he'd said to Jo, adding that he preferred mature,
beautiful women to silly youngsters.  His words had rung true at the
time and she had believed him, foolishly, as it now turned out.

Had Richard been having a fling with the gormless Rachel all along? 
Had the last laugh been at her expense?  Probably.

She felt inexplicably tired all of a sudden.

"She was practically glued to him at the hip, all kissykissy and
holding hands," Frederick divulged, outrage popping out of him.

"You'd think they were Siamese twins.  So just forget him, Jo.  He
doesn't deserve you."

"Anyway," he continued, with a smirk, "I happen to know that one
captain of industry is very smitten with you, so you won't be on your
own for very long."

Jo tried to smile but she couldn't manage it.  If only you knew,
Frederick, she thought.  With my record for choosing men, I should
start writing to a death row prisoner in America so I can fall in love
with him.

"Phone," yelled Ralph's assistant from the studio's darkroom.

"Call for Jo Ryan."

The Louisiana Penitentiary, no doubt, with a list of fanciable
prisoners," she muttered, hoisting herself out of the seat.

"Jo," said Rhona, sounding relieved.

"I thought nobody would ever answer the bloody phone."

That's because Ralph is attempting to blow all our eardrums as well as
his own with ten billion classic rock tracks.

It's a miracle anybody answered at all.  What's up?"  she added,
leaning against a counter top covered with contact sheets of tiny
photos.

"Mark was looking for you," replied Rhona in a softer voice.

"I can't really talk too loudly because my office door isn't shut, but
he arrived this morning looking like a thundercloud."

"So?"

"So, he'd got back late on Sunday and must have got an earful from dear
sister Denise about her poor little Emmy Wemmy having a spot of bother
at work."

"Surprise, surprise said Jo sarcastically.

"Has he advertised my job yet?"

"No," hissed Rhona, listen.  He demanded a meeting with me and wanted
to know everything that had gone on last week.  I told him everything
up straight and I said that it was virtually impossible to see how Emma
had a future with the magazine since she's so incredibly hostile and
unprofessional to my staff, especially my deputy editor."

Thank you, Rhona," said Jo, suddenly tearful.  The way she felt right
now, she'd blub at the slightest hint of sympathy.

"Well, it's true stated Rhona.

"You're a fantastic deputy, a great fashion editor and a real pro.  Not
to mention a great friend.  But our friendship isn't the point.  The
point is my editorial control or the lack of it when it comes to staff
she added.

"I wanted Mark to know that we wouldn't take that kind of crap from any
other junior and Emma has been trading on that fact.  And I said that
her personal attack on you was vitriolic in the extreme."

"What did he say to that?"  asked Jo quietly.

"He didn't say anything, actually, but the look on his face was
enough.  I'd bet next month's salary on darling Emma getting an
earful."

"Well, what was the outcome?  What did he say at the end?"

Jo desperately wanted to know what Mark thought of her, whether he
believed Emma's side of the story or Rhona's.

"He said he wanted a meeting with me at four and that he wanted to talk
to you first."

"Huh.  To tell me poor Emma is his flesh and blood and that I can take
a hike."  Jo knew she sounded bitter.

"I better go.

We've still got three more outfits to go.  We'll be lucky to be
finished by half two."

"Are you coming back to the office?"  Rhona asked.

"I don't know Jo said sharply.

"I've got to get groceries and I have to buy some trousers because
nothing fits me very well right now so I probably won't come in today."
Or tomorrow.

She didn't want to come in all week if it meant she could avoid Mark.

"Mark wanted to phone you after we talked, but I knew you were upset
and I said I'd try and track you down," Rhona explained.

"I didn't want you to fly off the handle with him.

You should come in to the office after the shoot.  He'll be here."

"I might.  Thanks for standing up for me, Rho," Jo said.

"Bye."

"Jo, don't go yet.  You sound upset."

Damnit, where had she hidden those bloody tissues?  Jo looked wildly
around the office, searching for a tissue in the midst of bits of
paper, contact sheets, negatives and newspapers.

"I'm sorry, Rhona," she muttered, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her
sweater.

"I have to go.  Really."

It was three by the time Jo finally left the studio, with Frederick
walking beside her, arms full of plastic-wrapped dresses.  He was
bringing them back to the safety of the office because Jo had decided
to go shopping and didn't want to leave hundreds of pounds' worth of
borrowed clothes in the car at the supermarket.

"Brenda knows what has to go where she said, as she put two shoe boxes
into Frederick's car.  He stowed the dresses carefully on the back
seat.

"I'm sorry to leave you with all this, I know you're in a rush."

"Don't worry.  I don't mind being a little bit late and you look as if
you need a bit of time to yourself.  Take care."  He reached out and
threw his arms around Jo, giving her a warm hug.

"Listen to Uncle Frederick, go home and go to bed.  Or read a trashy
novel and eats lots of ice cream."

Jo sniffed.

"I will.  Thanks for being so good, Frederick."

Mothercare was jammed.  It took several trying-on sessions to find a
pair of trousers she liked.  She'd been hoping she wouldn't have to buy
too many maternity clothes but it seemed that trousers were one thing
you couldn't econo mise on.

She bought one black and one grey pair of trousers and three pairs of
maternity tights.  Worn with over shirts or jumpers, they ought to see
her through the next few months.

Her answering machine's message light was winking at her when she got
home.  Had Mark phoned her?  Rhona had left two messages asking her to
ring the office.

"Mark wants to talk to you Rhona said the first time.  Then, "Please
ring.  He's driving me mad."

"Let him phone, then said Jo crossly.  Had his dialling finger seized
up suddenly?  Or wasn't he able to make a simple phone call unless his
secretary did it for him?  She unpacked the shopping and sank down onto
the settee with the TV remote control.

When the phone finally rang at half seven, she was in the bath,
relaxing in a cocoon of aroma therapy bubbles with a face mask on. Even
if she'd wanted to answer it, she wouldn't have got out of the bath in
time.

She sank back into the bubbles feeling cross.

She sat in the bath for another two minutes, then, consumed with
curiosity to see who'd phoned, she got out and headed for the answering
machine, wrapped up in a towel, rivulets of water dripping onto the
carpet.

, Mark's voice was formal.

"I'm going to a charity dinner in the Shelbourne at eight so call me
back on the mobile before then."

The barefaced cheek of him!  Hell would freeze over before she'd bother
phoning him.  She pressed the delete button with venom and stormed back
into the bathroom to remove the face mask.

After another restless night, Jo rang the office first thing.

"Annette, tell Rhona I'm not feeling well and I won't be in today she
told the receptionist.

"Oh you poor dear, what's wrong?"  asked Annette anxiously.

Hating herself for lying, Jo muttered that she was feeling very
tired.

"I think I'll spend the day in bed," she added.  Tell Rhona not to
bother ringing me unless it's urgent and then I'll have the answering
machine on.  I need some sleep."

"Don't worry, Jo.  I won't let anyone disturb you on pain of death."

Does that apply to the boss?  Jo wondered.  Could she add 'pain and
torture' to the prescription?

She spent a boring morning sorting out her wardrobe, Gareth
O'Callaghan's mellifluous tones in the background.

She tried on lots of things to see if they could accommodate her
swelling belly, and was dismayed to see how few things actually did.
I'll probably never get into any of this stuff again, she realised
miserably, as she looked at all the beautiful slim-fitting outfits she
couldn't even button up.

She loved that grey wool pinstripe.  It would be awful not to be able
to wear that ever again.  And the black leather miniskirt.  She'd
bought it with one of her first freelance cheques and worn it almost to
death for a year.  It was in pretty good condition considering.  She'd
hate not to fit into it again.

Nibbling a Ryvita to keep the Hobnob pangs at bay, she stashed
everything she couldn't wear in the left side of her wardrobe and
arranged the rest on the right.  The few items hanging in the wearable
side of the wardrobe made her even more depressed.

The phone rang twice but the caller hung up abruptly when the
answering machine answered.  It must be her mother, Jo thought, she
hated answering machines.  When the doorbell rang loudly half an hour
after the last hang-up, Jo peered out of her peephole.  It was Mark.

Blast.  She leaned up against the door, wondering whether he'd heard
her stomping into the hall.  He rang the bell again.

Obviously he had.

She stood silently, hoping he'd go away.  No such luck.

"Jo, it's Mark."

Double blast.

"I was worried when you rang in sick today.  Can I come in?"

She toyed with a whole range of answers.

"No."

"No, you pig."

"Not until Hell freezes over."

"Jo.  Please let me in.  I know you're there."

She wrenched the door open.

"Yes?"  she said icily.

"Can I come in?"  he asked, grey eyes serious as they stared down at
her brown ones.

"Why do you want to come in?  Can't you sack me in the office like
normal despots?  Or do you like the personal touch?"

"For God's sake, Jo," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"Let me in, won't you?"

"Five minutes," she announced.  She stood back to let him enter.  He
walked in, looking strangely out of place in his navy pinstripe suit,
blue shirt and yellow tie.  His hair was rumpled and so was his face.

"You've got five minutes," repeated Jo.

"I'm updating my CV, you understand, and I don't have any time to
waste."

Refusing to rise to the bait, Mark walked into the small sitting room
and stared around for a moment before sitting down on the settee.  He
stretched long legs ahead of him and looked up at her.

"Sit down, Jo."

This is my house, smart ass," she hissed.

"Don't tell me when to sit down."

"Sorry, sorry."

She sat.  The sheer nerve of him.  Marching into her house and taking
over.

"So?"  Jo arranged her cotton jumper over her blue jogging pants to
hide the ink stain on the front.  She was angry and she hated being
caught out wearing a dreadful outfit.  And this ancient white
hand-knitted jumper with threads hanging out and threadbare jogging
pants with no socks was pretty dreadful.  The carpet could have done
with a good vacuum into the bargain and the weeping fig had wept a new
batch of dead leaves onto the fireplace ... "I've come to apologise."

Jo blinked.

"I should have rung you but I was in the car, I'd left your number in
the office and," Mark paused and tried to look her in the eye, but she
avoided his gaze, "I didn't think it was that important.  At the
time."

"It wasn't important at all," she replied coldly.

"Just your average day in the office when nepotism runs amok.  There's
nothing to apologise for."  Jo knew she was pushing it but she didn't
care.  For once she felt gloriously like flinging caution to the
wind.

"I just can't work under those circumstances, that's all.  I've worked
in journalism for thirteen years and I've never been treated with the
sort of disrespect Emma showed me.  What's more," she was beginning to
enjoy this, "I've certainly never treated anyone else that badly,
either.  It just isn't in my nature and it certainly isn't the way to
win friends and influence people, or get the best out of them.  But
your niece is a law unto herself and quite frankly, I won't work with
her any more."  She snorted.

"Anyway, you've made it quite plain what way your allegiance lies."

"What way is that?"  he asked calmly.

"What way is that?"  she mimicked.

"Do you honestly want me to answer that?"  Mark looked tired.

"No."  Jo was really angry now.

"I don't.  You've already answered it by your silence.  When I thought
you'd want to talk to me to find out what had happened, you simply
didn't bother ringing.  When I thought you and I had a friendship, a
.."A what?"  he prompted.
She'd been on the verge of saying 'a relationship', and he knew it.
Damn him, but he wasn't getting her to play his bloody games.  She
didn't want to be his amusement for the evening.

"A nothing," she said angrily.

"We have nothing, I can see that now.  And I can see I can't work for
you any more."

"Don't be rash snapped Mark.

"Don't tell me what not to be!"  she shrieked.

"You're just like all bloody men, telling me what not to be.  Just get
out!

Get out of here and stick your bloody job where the sun doesn't fucking
shine!"

He stood up slowly and sighed.

"Jo, I'm sorry.  I came here to apologise, I wanted to explain what had
happened."

"I don't want your apologies," she said, feeling her eyes smart.  God,
she didn't want to cry in front of him.  What sort of whinging idiot
had she turned into, always crying at the drop of a hat?

"Please, Jo.  Listen to me."

"Just go."

He said nothing, but he didn't move either.

Jo poked around in her sleeve looking for a tissue.  Why wasn't he
going?  Was she going to have to throw him out?

"Jo, just let me say one thing, all right?"  His eyes were alight with
something she couldn't identify, It was probably amusement, she
thought, since it felt as if the rest of the world's male population
were laughing at her for her naivety and sheer stupidity.  Jo Ryan
falls for another man's lies, again.  Ha bloody ha.

"I'm sorry I didn't ring you over the weekend, but believe me, I didn't
take Emma's explanation at face value," Mark said in a low voice.  And
I'm sorry if I sounded angry with you when I rang you from London about
it, but it had been a very bad day.  Emma's latest crisis was all I
needed and I thought you'd be able to handle her until I got back," He
leaned against the back of an armchair tiredly and folded his arms.

"I trust your judgement, Jo, that's why I wanted 'you to sort things
out.  Please believe me."

Jo stared at him fiercely, determined not to be swayed by any
trumped-up explanation.

"The problem was that I had no idea what Emma had actually said and
done until Rhona told me and since I've heard, I've been trying to get
hold of you to apologise for her behaviour.  Please understand he said,
looking at her intently.

"I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

He stood up and fished his car keys out of his trouser pocket.  Tm
going to go now because I've upset you.  And let's just forget about
where I can stick the deputy editorship."

Jo flushed.

"Take as much time off as you need, Jo.  Bye."

He went, leaving behind him a scent of cologne, the same one she'd
smelled when they sat together on the plane, when they'd gone out to
dinner, when he'd brought her looking at the house in Redwood Lane.

She stared at the door for a moment, feeling the anger subside as
rapidly as it had erupted.  In the kitchen, she got a glass of water
and drank it quickly, her hand shaking.

Hell, what had she said, what had she done?  Jo felt her face flame
when she thought about it.  She told the boss that he could 'stick his
job'.  Oh God.  At least he hadn't accepted her resignation.

How would she ever face him again?  How could she sit in at the
editorial meetings and have him look at her with those grave, sad eyes
as if she'd hurt him deeply?  And she must have.  He'd been trying to
say the right thing and she'd flown off the handle and ruined it all.
As usual.  It wasn't Mark's fault that she was utterly at sea
emotionally.  That was Richard's fault.  Richard and the pregnancy
which was responsible for mood swings like tidal waves.

And Mark wasn't just the boss, anyway.  He was more than that, much
more, if she admitted it to herself.

She had a sudden impulse to phone him on his mobile.  She had the
number, although she'd never used it before.  If she rang and
apologised now, maybe he'd come back and she could say she was sorry
properly.

Tell him that she simply felt alone and miserable at the thought of
having the baby on her own and that he'd arrived when she was at her
lowest.  Then she thought again. Face facts, she told herself.  Mark
is your boss, not your lover.

Phoning him would look stupid, desperate even.  You've messed!

everything up.  Think about what you're going to do now.

When she'd made a cup of sweet tea and taken the last couple of
chocolate digestives from the packet, she phoned Rhona.  Rhona would
know what to do.  Or, at the very worst, she'd know what sort of hat Jo
could wear into the office for the rest of her life so she wouldn't
have to either look at Mark Denton or let him see her face puce with
embarrassment.

"Rho, you won't believe what I've done."

"I can't imagine, Jo."  Rhona replied.  Jo could hear her take a deep
drag of a cigarette.

"But you don't sound the best.  Are you feeling OK?"

"Apart from a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, I'm fine," Jo
explained.

"Mark's just been to see me," she added, more slowly.

"Why do I get the feeling that all did not go well on this visit?"
Rhona inquired.

"Because you're psychic?"

"Nope.  It's probably because I can always tell when you're gearing for
a complete blow-out," Rhona said.

"You do get to know people when you've worked with them for three
years.

So what happened?  Is he still breathing?"

"Oh Rho."  Jo sat on the edge of the settee with the phone balanced on
her knees.

"I've known myself for thirty-four years and even I wouldn't have
predicted this one.  I've been such a fool.  Within the space of about
five minutes I managed to insult Mark, tell him where to stick his job,
and," she grimaced at the thought of it, "I nearly said that I thought
we had a "relationship" before he messed it all up.  I didn't say it
but he knew I was going to.  You've no idea how I feel," wailed Jo.

"What is it about me that I can't be normal where men are concerned?
""It impossible to be normal when men are involved because they're
impossible," Rhona replied.  They give the phrase "mission impossible"
a whole new dimension.  Now look, Jo, this is hardly the end of the
world.  You're just overwrought.  I'm sure Mark knows that."

"Oh, so he thinks I'm hysterical and that's supposed to be good?"

"It's better than him thinking you meant it about sticking his job.  He
didn't accept, did he?"  Rhona said knowingly.

"Course he didn't.  You know he likes you.  What am I saying likes you,
he fancies you like mad.  He's just unfortunate to have been caught in
the crossfire of pregnancy hormones."

"Do you think he'll understand?"  Jo finished the second biscuit and
licked the crumbs off her fingers.

"Honestly, Jo, for a woman who looks as if she should have the entire
male population slavering at her feet, you really haven't a clue about
men, have you?"

Not waiting for ah answer, Rhona ploughed on.

"It's obvious to me that Mark is crazy about you.  But because he's
trying to tread carefully, and because you're hopeless at reading the
situation, you're making a complete mess of the whole thing."

"Do you think so?"  Jo said doubtfully.  It all sounded so much more
reasonable when Rhona said it.

"Yes.  Now listen to your auntie Rhona or Madame Rhona the psychic as I
want to be known in future and go off and have a nice swim, or
something energetic like that.  Then go home, relax and come in here
tomorrow morning as if nothing ever happened.  OK?"

"OK.  What about Emma?  I simply couldn't face her tomorrow."

"You won't have to.  I've suspended her.  Actually, I've never
suspended anyone before," the other woman said thoughtfully, 'so I had
to make it up as I went along.  It went pretty well, though."

"What did you say?"  demanded Jo, dying to know every gory detail.

"Well, remember that time we were at the Pret A Porter premiere party
in the Chocolate Bar and that drunk pulled me onto his lap and tried to
stick his hand down my Ben De Lisi shirt?"  Even in times of crisis,
Rhona was exact about clothes.

"Oh my God yes, I'll never forget it!  I didn't think you knew how to
be so vicious."

"I was worse than that with Emma."  Rhona said.

"That girl will think twice actually, she'll think three or four times
before ever speaking to anyone in Style like that ever again.  I
pointed out that word quickly gets around about someone who's trouble
to work with.  It's one thing to be pig-ignorant and rude if you've
made it, if you're a damn good journalist or whatever."

She took another drag of her cigarette.

"But if you're trouble and you're only a junior with no evidence of any
talent whatsoever, forget about a career in journalism, I said.  There
are thousands of freelances out there just waiting to step into your
shoes, Emma, so wake up and smell the coffee."

"I'm impressed."

"So was I," Rhona said smugly.

"I gave Ted a brief version of it at home afterwards and he was
shocked, I can tell you.  He says he's going to disown me when the kids
get into trouble at school and I have to go down to give the
headmistress a piece of my mind.  He couldn't face the carnage, he
said."

Jo suddenly realised she was laughing and that the knot of tension in
her belly was loosening.

"Thanks, Rhona, you're great at getting people to forget their
problems.  Can I stay in your house until I have the baby so you can
stop me going berserk every second day?"

"With three under-tens running around constantly, you'd really go mad,
I can tell you," Rhona replied.

"You're right."  Jo managed a weak laugh.

"If I take lots of deep breaths tomorrow morning, I think I'll be able
to face the office.  Mark's not due in, is he?"

"Nope.  Anyway, he's not going to bite you."

"No, but I may pass out with embarrassment when I see him," Jo pointed
out.  "No you won't."  Rhona's voice was firm.

"Go and do something energetic so you don't have a second to think
about it.  I'll be in the office at half nine tomorrow morning with the
kettle boiled."

Nerves got Jo out of bed early, so she was the first person in the
office and had already made a cup of tea when Rhona arrived.

"How come I always have so much junk with me?"

demanded Rhona, staggering into the office weighed down as usual by a
capacious handbag, a bulging briefcase and the fat black velvet make-up
bag she could never fit in her handbag.

"Get pregnant, split up with Ted and you'll be able to spend many happy
hours at home feeling exhausted and bored, and -you'll end- up tidying
your handbag/wardrobekitchen cupboards whatever said Jo, pouring water
on a tea bag for Rhona.

"Did you do all that?"

"Yes.  I feel very virtuous, I can tell you.  I even threw out all the
saggy knickers I never wear, found and bin ned the tights with holes in
them and rounded up all the black socks and found them partners, or the
closest thing to a partner."

"I'm impressed.  Will you do mine?"

"Do what?"  inquired Nikki, the beauty editor, who'd just arrived in a
cloud of Opium.

"Jo has turned into a living, breathing "de-junk your life" feature,"
Rhona explained, taking her tea into her office so she could smoke.

"Oh please de-junk my life."  Nikki shrugged off her black suede
coat.

"I spent half of yesterday afternoon writing an article about the
beauty essentials and how you only needed blusher, lip gloss, concealer
and mascara in your emergency make-up bag.  While I, naturally, carry
half of Boots around with me every day and it necessitated a ten-minute
search this morning to locate my new eyebrow make-up.  By the way," she
said to Jo as she switched on her computer, 'you haven't forgotten the
make-over session this morning?"

"Shit," said Jo, who had.

"It just slipped my mind.  What time are they coming in at?"

Ten-thirty.  We're going to the hairdresser's at eleven and Michelle
she's the new make-up artist I was telling you about, Rhona she's doing
their make-up in the salon.  Then we've lunch in Spinelli's at one and
the photographer will!

take the pics there."

"Oh no, I forgot to remind Annette to get the clothes picked!

up yesterday shouted Jo in horror.  "Don't panic, I did it," said
Nikki.

"I knew you were sick," she added.

"How are you today?"

"Fine."  Jo replied.

"I just needed a few days in bed."  "Ah yes, but with whom?"  called
Rhona from her office, winking lewdly at Jo.

"Watch it McNamara she replied.

"Just because you can take on headmistresses, don't try anything with
me."

"What's this about headmistresses?"  inquired Nikki.

Jo, Nikki and Michelle, the make-up artist, all tilted their heads
sideways and looked at the second make-over candidate through narrowed
eyes.  It was hard to see where to begin.

They were in Peter Mark's Hair and Beauty salon in the Stephen's Green
shopping centre and the day was deteriorating rapidly.

The first woman to be made over was an already stunning redhead in her
early forties who needed a make-over like Ivana Trump needed dresses.
With a fabulous figure, perfect make-up, glossy hair and an outfit that
must have cost a week's wages, there was absolutely nothing any of them
could do to improve Helen.

"How the hell did we pick her?"  whispered Nikki into Jo's ear when
Helen was brought off to the washbasins.

"Her letter said she was a mother of four with kids ranging in age from
twenty to four, that she worked part-time as a nurse and helped her
husband run a garden centre outside Cork."  replied Jo.  The picture
was blurry and she said she'd love a change of image and I thought she
deserved it.  She could probably give us lessons on changing our
image," groaned Nikki.

"I don't know what we can do to improve her."

The second make-over candidate, however, was going to be a huge
headache for the hairdresser.  As a result of a perm gone wrong,
twenty-nine-year-old Sharon who had long mousey hair in the
passport-sized photo she'd sent in now sported layered hair that sat at
an unflattering length between her ears and her jaw.  The hairdresser
was nearly tearing her own hair out at the thought of doing anything
with Sharon's hair in its present state.

"You'll have to think of something," Jo hissed at the hairdresser and
make-up artist.  The poor girl travelled miles to be here and she's
going to have a wonderful day and look "beautiful if we have to buy her
a bloody wig!"

To make matters worse, Sharon wasn't the size fourteen that she'd
claimed in her letter.  Instead, she was an eighteen at least which
meant that the elegant wool jacket and skirt Jo had carefully picked
for her definitely wouldn't fit.

"I've seen some fabulous suits in the shops that would have looked
really gorgeous on her," groaned Jo, 'if only she'd said she was a size
eighteen in the letter, I could have brought her off and we'd have
picked something amazing.  There just isn't the time now!"

"Well, what will we do?"  demanded Nikki.

"I'm going to race down to Marks and Spark's to get her a different
outfit because they have great clothes in right now and we simply don't
have the time for a proper shopping trip.

Damn," she added, "I'd have loved to have gone shopping with Sharon."

Marks was blissfully empty and Jo spent an enjoyable fifteen minutes
browsing, wishing she could buy something instead of saving her money
for the new house.  Now that she'd rung an estate agent about selling
her apartment, the idea of moving had finally become reality and she
knew she had to econo mise She'd stuck her credit card at the back of
her dressing-table drawer and vowed to keep it there no matter what
sort of mid-season sales started.

She'd have to be very careful with money until she was settled in her
new home.  Luckily, the woman from the estate agent's said apartments
in her block were always in demand and she'd have no trouble selling,
despite the time of year.

"It's such a pretty complex and the apartments are quite spacious
compared to the ones being built now, so I doubt if you'll have to wait
long," the estate agent said.

Jo was so busy working out how much money she'd need to borrow to buy
the cottage and wondering whether she could afford a sloppy chenille
jumper to hide her bump, that she totally lost track of time.

Oh no, she thought looking at her watch in horror.  It was half eleven
and she hadn't even started looking for clothes for Sharon.

But Jo wasn't a clothesaholic with an encyclopaedic knowledge of where
to get what in her favourite shops for nothing.

It was just twelve as she rushed up Grafton Street with a large M & S
bag in each hand.  Jo really wished she hadn't worn the long caramel
wool cardigan over the cream silk shirt and black trousers.  As she
hurried past the crowds ambling along the pedestrian street, she was
soon roasting hot and felt ready for a make-over herself.  Or at least
a chance to redo her foundation which had undoubtedly disappeared with
sweat.

She struggled up the escalator and into Peter Mark's to find Nikki
relaxing on a couch, reading a magazine and leisurely sipping a cup of
coffee, oblivious to the controlled chaos of the salon.  Nikki's blonde
hair was immaculate, her face wasn't shiny and red, and her off-white
trouser suit looked as fresh as if it had just been returned from the
dry-cleaner's.  Hot, sticky and convinced that she smelled like a
jockey's armpit, Jo felt like bag lady by comparison.  " "You got the
clothes all right, then?"  Nikki got up and took the two large bags
from Jo.

"You look wrecked.  Sit down and I'll get you a cup of tea."

Thanks," panted Jo, sinking gratefully onto the seat Nikki had just
vacated.

"I feel wrecked.  But I got this beautiful crimson Mandarin jacket and
matching palazzos that will look great on Sharon.  How's it going?"
she asked anxiously.

"Brilliantly," said Nikki enthusiastically.

"You wouldn't believe how Sharon's hair has turned out.  That
hairdresser has worked miracles.  And Helen looks amazing.  Mind you,
she looked amazing in the beginning."

"Well," said Jo, relieved to find that the make-over had been a success
after all, 'we'll just make her "before" picture very, very small.  Or
else say she didn't really get a make-over but just wanted to feel
pampered for a day."

Nikki had been right.  Sharon's new look really suited her.

The hairdresser has shaped her hair, added a rich chestnut rinse to
make it glossy and given her a short, feather cut.  The only thing I
could think of she told Jo, 'and it worked!"

Sharon looked a million dollars thanks to the elegant crimson suit that
Jo had picked for her, teamed with the right make-up and a new haircut
which emphasised her beautiful dark brown eyes.

"It's fantastic."  She beamed at Jo.  Thank you so much.  I never
thought I could-look like this."  She threw her arms around the fashion
editor.

"I'm so pleased for you said Jo with a big smile.  This is my favourite
part of make-overs she added as the photographer took a couple of quick
pictures, 'when people are pleased with what we've done.  Normally we
just take the pictures and go.  But today we've got a wonderful lunch
lined up where you two ladies can show off your amazing
ladies-who-lunch look!"

"Have you got any deodorant?"  Jo whispered to Nikki in the restaurant loos. She'd managed to tone down her red face, but she still felt
sticky after her run up Grafton Street.

Nikki handed Jo some deodorant and a bottle of Opium.

Thanks."  said Jo gratefully, spraying herself liberally.

"I've left my perfume in the office by mistake and I'm sure all my
Tresor has worn off."

She glanced at Nikki as the other woman expertly applied a fresh coat
of subtle beige lipstick and wished, for once, that she didn't work
with such a paragon of style and beauty.  Nikki was always perfectly
turned out, never wore chipped nail varnish and never got lipstick on
her teeth.  And today was no exception.

Jo ran a brush through her tortoiseshell curls and wished she had
something to tie it back with because it was greasy at the roots.  Then
she followed Nikki into the restaurant.  Helen, Sharon and Nell, the
photographer, were at the table getting stuck into pre-lunch gin and
tonics, the other two laughing at some filthy joke Nell had just told

Jo was just maneuvering herself around the table into her seat at the
wall when she spotted them.  The woman wore a figure-hugging black
shift dress and an eye-catching red jacket which a very suave and
elegant Mark Denton was helping her out of.  He must have said
something funny because she laughed suddenly, the sleek dark hair
rippling as she leaned her head back.  Even her laugh was warm, husky
and sexy.

Bitch.  Jo felt jealousy spear her as she watched Mark, very attractive
in a steel grey suit to match his eyes, pull out the woman's chair
before sinking into his.  He took the menu and wine list from the
waiter almost without looking at him, eyes on the woman all the time.
Not surprising, Jo thought maliciously, when the bitch was wearing a
dress with a deep vee in the front showing a Grand Canyon cleavage that
had to be thanks to a Wonderbra.  Who the hell was she?  thought Jo
venomously, taking in the glint of serious gold bangles.

"Madam?"  inquired a voice.  Jo came to her senses to find a waiter
smiling down at her, pen and order pad in hand.

"Oh er ... I'll have, what will I have ..."  she muttered, casting a
quick glance at the menu she'd been dying to get her hands on ten
minutes earlier.

Today's specials are Dublin Bay prawns in Pernod and monkfish tails in
a Provencale sauce," said the waiter hopefully.

"Fine."  Jo shut the menu with a snap and handed it to him.

She didn't care if she ordered rats' tails in Pernod at that precise
moment.

Nikki was filling Helen, Sharon and Nell in on the finer details of
the party she'd been to at the weekend where one woman turned up with
her husband and left with somebody else's.

"She's Dublin's Zsa Zsa Gabor' Nikki giggled.

"Ask her how many husbands she's had and she'll say "Mine or other
people's?"

Jo craned her head to see what Mark and the mystery woman were up to in
the far corner of the restaurant.

Laughing a lot, she thought grimly, watching the dark head shake with
mirth yet again.  He doesn't waste any time, does he?

"You know her, don't you, Jo?"  asked Nikki, breaking off mid-story to
include Jo in the conversation.

"Know who?"

The Zsa Zsa woman at my party, Lizzie Somethingorother.

Lord, you're a million miles away, aren't you, Jo?"  Then, noticing
Jo's face, which had gone quite pale, Nikki said, "Are you feeling all
right?  Are you ill?"

Jo grabbed the glass of water in front of her and took a huge gulp.
"Fine," she lied, 'fine.  I'm just hungry.  Hand me a bread roll, will
you?"

She sneaked a glance at Mark's table just in time to see the waiter
arrive with a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket.

What the hell were they celebrating?  Jo half-listened to the
conversation going on around her as she nibbled at her bread roll
listlessly.  Who was that woman?  She thought murderously.

She was very quiet during the meal, barely touched her prawns and poked
the monkfish around the plate in a desultory fashion.

The others drank three bottles of wine and were so merry that Nell had
to use up three rolls of film before she got any pictures where the two
newly made-over women weren't laughing hysterically.

The waiter was serving coffee when Nikki finally noticed Mark and his
companion.

"Look who's having lunch with his ex," she murmured to Jo with a
smirk.

"I thought that liaison was finished."

Jo dropped her teaspoon with a clatter.

"What?"  she asked.

"It's Eva Marot," said Nikki.

"I thought they'd broken up a long time ago." Trying not to look as
though it mattered to her, Jo asked who Eva was.

"You must know."  Nikki raised one perfectly shaped blonde eyebrow in
amazement.

"He was involved with her for years, even after she got married.  She
married some filthy-rich French guy and lives in London most of the
time.  But she comes back to Ireland a lot she's an artist and she
often paints here.  The light is wonderful, apparently."

Nikki took a sip of brandy.  They were quite an item for a long time.
Up to a year or so ago, I think," she added thoughtfully.

"I can't believe you never heard of her.  She was Eva Ward before her
marriage."

"No, I didn't hear anything," said Jo faintly.

"She's half-French on her mother's side and very chic.

Always wears the most gorgeous clothes."  The other woman took another
long look at Mark and his companion.

"That has to be Armani she's wearing, don't you think?"

"Mmm, you're probably right."  Jo toyed with the brown sugar crystals
in the bowl in front of her.  Stop looking at them, Nikki, she pleaded
silently.  Or else Mark'll come over and I couldn't bear to meet him
like this, with me looking like hell and him with Ms Epitome of Chic
with the sexy laugh.  I bet she whispers sweet nothings in French in
bed, she thought jealously.

The waiter arrived with more brandy for everyone except Jo.  Nikki
turned her attention to Helen's story about Brandy Alexanders and how
the first one she'd ever had-made her instantly drunk and madly sexy.

"Have one," squealed Nell.

"You're getting the train home and both you and your husband will have
something to remember today by."

Jo smiled but her mind was miles away.  She was the woman Suzanne had
told her about at the party in New York.  The mystery woman who'd
broken Mark's heart, the one Suzanne assumed Jo knew all about.  Eva
Marot.  Jo said the name to herself several times, wondering why she'd
never even heard the tiniest piece of gossip about her and Mark.

To cap it all, Rhona must have known all along.  Jo would just kill her
when she got her.  Imagine not saying anything about Mark's past love?
She was staring blankly into her half-drunk cup of coffee when she
heard that deep, rich voice she'd recognise anywhere.

"Hello, ladies," Mark said warmly.

"Did you have a nice lunch?"

Jo looked up sharply.  He was standing at the other side of the table,
smiling at the five of them.  She stood just behind him, an elegant
vision straight out of the pages of Vogue.  Jo could have sworn that
the string of pearls around her neck was real, they had that expensive
real-pearl lustre.

"This is a lunch for our make-over ladies, Mark," Nikki was saying.

"Helen and Sharon, meet Mark Denton, Style's publisher.

And you know Nell, don't you?"

"Yes, hello, Helen, Sharon and Nell.  And how are you, Jo?"

he asked, looking directly at Jo's startled face.

"Fine."  she said brightly.

"Marvellous!  How was your lunch?"

she inquired in the same high-pitched tone.

"Very nice," Mark answered, looking at her curiously.

The food is just wonderful here, isn't it?"  Eva said in her faintly
accented voice, as she slid one arm through Mark's.

"It's hard not to eat too much."  She patted a stomach flat as a
pancake.

Cow, thought Jo.  Just because she's skinny, she doesn't have to look
down on the rest of us.

"Eva, this is Jo Ryan," introduced Mark, "Style's deputy and fashion
editor, Nikki Ahearn, our beauty editor, Nell Deane, who's a
photographer and Sharon and Helen who've just had a make-over and look
gorgeous, if I may say so."  Sharon went pink with pleasure.

"How nice to meet you all."  Eva's smile looked remarkably genuine, Jo
thought sourly.  But then it would, wouldn't it?  A husband and a
lover she was having her cake and eating it too.   "I'm glad to see that you're back at work, Jo," Mark said
gently, looking her straight in the eye.  Jo glared at him.  Was that
some sort of dig?

"I have felt better," she snapped.

"I can see that," he replied.

"You look worn out."

The bastard.  Just because she wasn't done up like a dog's dinner, he
didn't have to be so smart. "When is your baby due?"  inquired Eva
politely, gazing at Jo's stomach."

"Four months well, four and a half, actually."

"Is it your first?"  Eva asked next.

What was this, Jo fumed, bloody Mastermind?

"Yes."

"Oh."  The other woman appeared to notice her coolness.

"We should go now, Mark," she murmured, her dark glossy head close to
his.  Eva was tall, Jo realised, around five ten if she could talk to
Mark without craning her neck the way Jo had to.

"Of course, Eva.  We don't want to be late," he said.

"Bye, ladies, it's been nice meeting you."  Mark looked at Jo
briefly.

"I'll see you next week at the editorial meeting."

"Yeah, bye."

"So nice to meet you all," Eva said warmly.

Jo took a sip of her coffee even though it was practically lukewarm.
She was determined not to watch them leave.  But she couldn't resist.
As she glanced up they were at the door, Mark's strong arm opening the
door for Eva to walk through.

Chivalrous as ever.

The waiter brought the bill along with a small plate of After Eights.
Nobody touched them.  No point wasting them.  Jo reached in and took
three.  What was the point of watching her figure anyway?  Nobody
noticed.

"I can't believe you never told me about her!"  Jo's voice was angry.

She stood in Rhona's office and stared crossly down at her friend.
Rhona, who'd been working on her monthly editorial when Jo stormed in
after lunch in Spinelli's, leaned back in her chair and looked at Jo.

"Listen, Jo, Mark told me about Eva in confidence."  Rhona's voice was
very firm and very serious.

"He told me one night a long time before you joined Style and he told
me as a friend, asked me not to tell anyone about it.  I'm not saying
it was easy to keep it to myself, especially that day when I told you
Mark had been interested in you for a long time.  But honestly, Jo,"
Rhona said earnestly, 'by then I thought you could do without hearing
about his beloved ex-girlfriend, a woman he'd adored for years.  That
would hardly have made you feel very special, would it?"

"I suppose ..."  said Jo slowly.  A woman he'd adored for years?  What
hope had she against that sort of competition?

A pregnant woman who flew off the handle at the drop of a hat could
hardly compete with an exotic artist who'd loved him for years.

"Anyway, it's over.  They split up a long time ago," Rhona said.

They looked very much together at lunch today," Jo pointed out.

"They were all over each other."

"Believe me."  Rhona's voice was serious.  They're not together any
more.  Look Jo, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about her, but that would
have been breaking a confidence and I couldn't do that to Mark.  I've
known him a long time and he trusts me.  He's also very perceptive.  If
I'd spilled the beans to you, he'd have worked out who told you in two
minutes flat.

And he'd have gone mad."

Rhona lit up a cigarette, then stubbed it out hurriedly.

"Sorry, I keep forgetting not to smoke in front of you," she said.

"Jo, I wanted to tell you loads of times, but when you really became
interested in him, you wouldn't have appreciated it.  And I knew Mark
would want to tell you himself if he was serious about you.  Can't you
understand the dilemma I was in?"

Jo sighed and sat down in the chair opposite Rhona.

"Sorry, Rho."  she apologised.

"I've no right to barge in here and screech at you.  I'm angry at
myself really, for even thinking he could be interested in me.  And if
he was," she added quickly, seeing that Rhona was going to interrupt,
"I've screwed it up myself.  I should have business cards made up "Jo
Ryan Incorporated.  Will Destroy Any Relationship in Ten Minutes Flat."
' "Don't be daft," said Rhona impatiently.

"You've just had a bad couple of weeks.  He's not still involved with
Eva, I'm sure of it."

"Even if he isn't, he's definitely not interested in me any more," Jo
said sadly.

"So, now that I'm no longer an interested party, is there anything else
I should know about Mr.  Denton?

Has he ten kids hidden away somewhere, or a mad wife locked in the
attic, perhaps?"

She tried to sound flip but Rhona knew her too well for that.

"No," Rhona said.

"He has remarkably few skeletons in the cupboard.  A lot less than I
have she added with a wry grin.

"But let him tell you about Eva."

"He's not going to tell me anything."

"You have it your way," Rhona replied.  She changed the subject.

"So tell me, is the November issue too early for the "I know we all
want to go on a diet for Christmas, readers, but let's be grown-ups and
accept the way we are" editorial?"

"No, November is fine," Jo said.

"Let's leave the "diet your way to beauty" until the January issue and
I'll be one of the guinea pigs when I have to lose the two stone I'll
have put on by then."

She had just switched on her computer and was looking at the Christmas
Glamour Look photos that Ralph had delivered, when her phone rang.

"Jo.  I wonder could I have a word with you?"  Mark said.

"I'm busy," she snapped.

"I'm sure you are he replied.

"But this is important."

"Fine.  Talk."
"I want to see you, Jo, not have you talk in
monosyllables on the phone."

Oh no, she thought, she couldn't handle that, she couldn't handle
actually seeing him.  She didn't want to see him ever again because she
knew she'd just break down and cry if she did.  If she could keep away
from him for a while, then she'd be fine, she knew it.  She'd get over
Mark Denton.  She'd have to.

"I can't see you right now, Mark," she said firmly.

"Can't you talk on the phone?  Anyway, I thought you were tied up for
the afternoon?"  she added smartly.

"I'm not busy," he said slowly.

"I think we've got some unfinished business and I want it sorted out
right now."

"Oh, you mean me calling you names and telling you where you could
stick your job.  I'm sorry," Jo said in a low voice.

"I

apologise, I had no right to say those things."

That's not really it," Mark said, 'that's just part of the problem.  I
want to know what's behind it, what's going on.

There seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding between us"

Jo froze.  She knew exactly what he meant.  He was talking about her
feelings for him, her 'infatuation'.  She'd all but chatted him up in
New York, flirted shamelessly with him and behaved like a spurned
girlfriend when he hadn't rung her over Emma's little explosion.  Now
he was going to warn her off.  Of course he was.  He was back with the
love of his life and he wanted all the loose ends tied up.  He didn't
want to subject poor Eva to any more of Jo's ferocious stares, did
he?

What a mess.  She couldn't let him think that she really fancied him,
that would be too cringe-making.  She had to say something.

"I'm sorry," she gabbled at high speed.

"I know I've been acting strangely, but it's the baby.  The baby," she
paused, before inspiration struck, 'and Richard.  He's back and we're
talking, and I'm going through a difficult time, sorting everything
out.  You know."

"Oh."  Mark's voice sounded different, remote.

"I see," he said coolly.

"Of course, I understand.  Sorry to bother you, Jo, I'll let you get
back to work."

He hung up.  Jo sat with the phone against her ear and wished Brenda
wasn't sitting at the desk opposite, gabbling away to her boyfriend, so
that she could cry.  

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

"Tell me all about Sam.  Is he
drop-dead gorgeous?  Or," Jo curled her stockinged feet up under her on
the armchair in Aisling's sitting room and adjusted her huge grey
woollen cardigan until she was comfortable, 'does he have any
brothers?"

"Not that I know of replied Aisling, 'but then, there are lots of
things I don't know about him."

It was true.  Since the party seven days ago, Aisling had spoken to him
on the phone twice and both conversations had been funny, jokey and
absent of any information.  It had been so blissfully unlike all those
stilted boy girl conversations she'd had years ago when she started
going out with boys.  You talked about what school you'd gone to, or
what courses you were doing in college and where your parents came
from.  So you could 'place' the person and figure out if it was safe to
bring him home.

She'd been married so long that she could barely remember life before
Michael, life when she had gone on dates with a variety of men who were
always unsuitable in her father's opinion.  Dating as a grown-up was
much more fun.  No one had to approve of her choice, except herself.

"No," she said thoughtfully, "I'm pretty sure Sam has a couple of
sisters but no brothers."

That's perfect."  Jo reached for another chocolate-chip cookie.

"If he has sisters, he'll understand women.  Not like those MCPs who've
grown up with an adoring mammie and no female company to educate them
about the ways of the world.  These biscuits are delicious she added,
taking a big bite.

"Did you make them yourself?"

Aisling laughed.  These days I'm lucky if I get to make the bed in the
morning, never mind bake biscuits."

"Well, they look homemade."

They are home-made but not from my home.  I got them at the boys'
school fete along with a ton of apple tarts and fairy cakes I've frozen
so I can drag them out and impress people with my home cooking all year
long.  Pity I never copped on to that when I was a housewife," Aisling
remarked drily.

"You're not having any," said Jo.  While she'd been enjoying a mug of
frothy hot chocolate and biscuits, Aisling had been sipping black
coffee.

"I never eat biscuits any more, unless I can see the pack and know
exactly how many calories there are in each one," Aisling explained.

"It took me long enough to get the weight off, so I'm not putting it
back on again."

"You look great," Jo said with sincerity.  The slightly plump,
out-of-shape Aisling was a thing of the past.  She was svelte in a pair
of slim black trousers and a soft angora jumper in a caramel colour
which matched her newly dyed hair.  It wasn't even how Aisling looked
that made the difference, Jo realised.  , She had changed from the
inside out.

The nervous, miserable woman of four months ago, constantly on the
verge of tears, had gone to be replaced by an attractive woman who had
learned to live life on her own terms."

Jo remembered when she'd felt that she was living life on her terms.
That had been before she'd become pregnant, before Richard had showed
his true colours, before she'd fallen, disastrously, for Mark.  Now,
she hurtled along a path she hadn't chosen, scared and exhilarated at
the same time.

She felt Aisling's hand on her shoulder and looked up to see her friend
sit on the arm of the chair with a concerned expression on her face.

Are you all right?"  Aisling asked gently.  " "Yes."  She snuffled.

"I was thinking about this time over three months ago when I thought
everything was fine.  When I first got pregnant and I thought he'd want
the baby as much as I did."  She stroked her belly lovingly.

"I want the baby so much, I can't understand how he didn't.  I thought
it was all going to be so perfect.  ""But it wasn't, he wasn't.
Richard was lying and sooner or later he'd have shown his true
colours," Aisling said earnestly.

"You couldn't have lived with the sort of man who'd want you to have an
abortion so you could both go abroad to work with no strings
attached."

"I know," Jo said simply.

Aisling wasn't finished.

"The life you had was a house of cards, Jo.  Mine was the same and it
was bound to tumble down sooner or later.  I know it was agony when it
all fell apart, but let's be honest, there's no easy way to break up a
relationship.  And we've passed that horrible, depressing stage, both
of us," she insisted.

"We're on to the next stage.  I know you're in bits about having the
baby on your own and of course it would be better to have a father for
him ..."

"Her," said Jo with a grin.

"I know it's a girl, I just feel it.

Aren't you, my darling?"  she cooed at her bump.

"I understand what you're saying, Ash, I really do.  No father is
better than a father like Richard," she recited, as if she was
repeating a mantra she'd said to herself many, many times before.

"At least if you're on your own, you've got the chance of meeting
someone else and finding a good dad for her Aisling said.

"I thought I'd found him," Jo explained.

"Mark Denton?"  asked Aisling.

"Yes.  Dear, dear Mark.  And I screwed it up.  Oh God, I hate to even
think about it."  Jo leaned back in the chair and massaged the bridge
of her nose with her right hand.  She felt tired, exhausted even.  It
had been a horrible week.  She hadn't even had to avoid Mark because he
studiously avoided the office.  He phoned Rhona when he needed to talk
to her instead of dropping in as he usually did.  To make matters
worse, she couldn't go home until late every evening as the estate
agent was showing the apartment to prospective buyers.

So she'd ended up sitting in the office with a take away until eight on
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

If she hadn't promised to visit Aisling this Saturday morning, she
wouldn't have got out of bed at all.  Even then she'd only managed to
drag on her ancient woolly cardigan, a faded pink T-shirt and her grey
jogging pants.  She hadn't had the energy to wash her hair and knew it
fell in lank waves around her shoulders.

Aisling contemplated her for a moment and then got up.

"Come on into the kitchen and I'll make you something decent for lunch
she said firmly.

"You can tell me all about Mark while I'm cooking."

The scent of the herb and mushroom omelette she'd made Jo still
lingered in the air as Aisling hurried round the house that evening,
collecting tights, socks, knickers and jumpers off the radiators.  Sam
was picking her up at half seven and she only had an hour to dry her
hair, dress and put on her make-up.  It was her own fault for spending
too long planning the menu for her first catering dinner.

When Rachel Coughlan had rung on Monday morning, tentatively booking
Aisling for a dinner party for twelve, she'd been so stunned she'd been
speechless for the first minute.

"I thought I'd book early in case you're really busy Rachel said on the
phone, not sounding anything like a high-powered businesswoman who'd
just set up her own PR agency.

"Jim said everyone was thrilled and very impressed with your cooking
and he's sure you're already madly busy.  I do hope you can fit me in.
It's for my brother's forty-fifth birthday.

He's coming home from the States and his wife is so fussy, I'd love to
outshine her."

Thrilled to be asked, and even more thrilled that Jim Coughlan thought
so highly of her that he assumed she'd be snowed under with work,
Aisling said she'd dream up a very posh menu if that's what Rachel
wanted.

"Yes."  the other woman said enthusiastically, delighted to have found
an ally.

"You can't imagine what it's like to feel like a second-class citizen
to this New York career woman who can whistle up a four-course meal at
the drop of a hat and still look like something from a fashion magazine
at dinner."

"Oh yes I can said Aisling grimly.

"Don't worry, Rachel.  She be dumbstruck when she sees what we'll
do."

"Unfortunately, my sister-in-law has never been dumbstruck in her
entire life, more's the pity," muttered Rachel.

Aisling had been so engrossed in deciding whether rack of lamb would be
suitably classy for the meal, or if she should try something more
difficult like pheasant in Calvados, that she hadn't noticed the time.
When she finally looked at her watch, she abandoned the menu and raced
upstairs to the bathroom.

An hour later, wearing the crossover bronze body Fiona had given her,
she sat in the kitchen picking cat fur off her long black skirt.
Flossie, disgusted at the prospect of being left alone, wove herself in
and out between Aisling's ankles, leaving enough fur on her owner's
sheer black tights to knit another cat.

"I'm sorry, Flossie."  She stroked the cat's silken chin and wondered
how Flossie always knew when she was going out.

"I

won't be out late.  Wait till you see the treat I've got you."

She checked her make-up one last time, gave herself a blast of Magic
Noire and got up to feed Flossie.

"Isn't that nice?"  she asked as the cat tucked into a bowl of tinned
salmon.

When the doorbell rang at a minute after half seven, her stomach was
rumbling with nerves.  She had no idea how she was going to be able to
eat anything at all, but she didn't care.

Sam stood on the doorstep, holding a small bouquet of flowers in his
hands.  For a moment Aisling was stunned.  She'd forgotten how
heart-stoppingly attractive he was.  He wore a pale blue cotton shirt
that brought out the bright blue of his eyes and set off his tan.  A
well-cut dark jacket and jeans showed off a physique that spoke of many
hours in the gym.

He looked like a Calvin Klein aftershave advert come to life, from the
tips of his brown suede boots to his all-American grin.

"You look lovely, Aisling."  His eyes glinted in admiration.

"Can I come in?"  he added.

"Oh God, yes, I'm sorry."  Blushing bright pink, Aisling stood back
and let him in.  She'd been so busy staring at him that she'd quite
forgotten to ask him in.

These are for you he said, handing her the bouquet, 'for making me feel
at home in Ireland again."

To hide her red face, she buried her nose in the flowers, breathing in
the heady scent of pale yellow roses and the fragrance of the forest
green ferns.  She couldn't remember the last time anyone had given her
flowers, apart from Michael's guilt-ridden garage forecourt
arrangements.

"They're beautiful," she said fervently.

"So are you."  Sam looked deep into her eyes and gave her another slow,
lazy grin.

Aisling felt the fluttering in her stomach move lower.  God only knew
what it would feel like if he actually touched her.

The table is booked for eight," he said.

"Do you want to go out or aren't you hungry?"  he asked, one eyebrow
raised in amusement.

"Oh, of course.  I'll just put these in water she muttered.

She wondered if he could tell what she was thinking.  She hoped not.

He held the door for her to climb into the taxi.  She'd been sure he'd
have a car.

"Can't drink and drive he said.

"I thought we'd have champagne and you simply couldn't drive after
drinking that."

"No, of course not replied Aisling in a knowing tone, as if she had
champagne all the time.  She wasn't sure she believed that stuff about
him not drinking and driving.  Sam had the air of a man who never did
anything by the rules.  There was something about him, a sense of
recklessness, that made him very, very attractive.  And just a little
bit dangerous.

He'd chosen a small French restaurant, with dim lighting and small
tables set far enough apart from each other to allow couples to talk
privately.  Their table was in one corner, the golden glow of a candle
cast flattering light on the snow-white damask tablecloth and gleaming
silverware.  Good, thought Aisling.  Candlelight was much more
flattering to crow's feet than harsh lighting.  The waitress handed
them the menus and then disappeared, leaving them alone.  The place was
jammed with couples, obviously enticed in by the fact that the
restaurant was dark and dim, making it perfect for illicit
encounters.

Probably the sort of place Michael had taken that cow to.

The staff kept firmly in the background while Ella Fitzgerald's rich
voice crooned love songs in the background.

"Do you like this place?"  asked Sam softly.

"I love it," she answered.

"Good.  We should come here every Saturday night," he replied.

Aisling's pulse raced.  It was only their first date and he was already
talking about a future together!  She couldn't wait to tell Fiona and
Jo.

She shot him what she hoped was a sexy smile, and looked at her menu.
Who needed food on an occasion like this?

They drank Moe't from elegant crystal champagne flutes and Sam told her
all about working in Texas and Louisiana.

"I'd love to bring you to New Orleans."  he said, sliding his hand past
his empty soup bowl to grasp Aisling's hand.

"You'd love it.

It's so atmospheric and European, it's the most European city I've ever
been to in America.  You can walk along the streets in the French
Quarter and it's like being in Paris or Budapest."

"You've travelled so much," said Aisling enviously.

"I've been to Greece, Portugal, France and Britain, and that's it.
You've been everywhere."

He shrugged.

"I travelled for a couple of years after leaving college, that's how
I've seen so much.  You simply didn't have that chance, you were
bringing up two kids."

"I can't wait for you to meet them," Aisling said eagerly.

"They'll love you."

Oh no, she thought in horror.  She couldn't believe she'd just said
that.  Single men were not fascinated by the notion of other men's
children.

"I can't wait either Sam said.

"I love kids.  My sisters' children are fantastic and the two older
ones Jerri's boys came out to stay with me last year for a month.  They
went wild for New Orleans and had me down at the aquarium for two days
solid."

"It sounds fascinating."  said Aisling, mentally giving him ten out of
ten for loving children.  Handsome, kind, funny, romantic and dying to
meet the boys.  What more could a woman ask for?

"It is fascinating," Sam was saying.

"It's got every sort of sea creature you can imagine, apart from
whales, that is.  You walk along these corridors with glass overhead
and around you and you can see sharks, stingrays, giant squid swimming
around these massive tanks."

He stopped as the waitress placed their main courses in front of them
and refilled their glasses with Moet.

"Anyway, that's enough about sharks.  My favourite sort of wildlife
doesn't reside behind glass."  Sam flashed her a killer smile.

"What do you mean?"  Aisling asked demurely.

Sam slid one hand across the table and grasped hers, his fingers
putting gentle pressure on the palm of her hand.

That I enjoy life, in every sense of the word.  I've always believed
that you've got to live life to the full, take all the pleasures and
passion from life while you can.  That can mean being a little wild
sometimes," he said, gazing at Aisling intently, leaving her in no
doubt as to what he meant.

She felt herself grow pink under his scrutiny.

"I don't get much of a chance to be wild," she said, picking up her
glass with the hand he wasn't holding.

"Work, kids, exhaustion none of it leaves time for acting wild.  Coming
out to dinner instead of staying at home doing the ironing is my idea
of wild these days!"

Aisling knew that this wasn't what he'd meant but she wanted to change
the subject rapidly.  The whole conversation had taken a distinct dive
into territory she wasn't either comfortable or familiar with, and she
wanted it back on track.

Until she'd had another couple of drinks, anyway.

"Of course, there was another reason for the boys' fascination with the
aquarium," Sam said with a smile, returning to their original
conversation.  They came during their summer holidays in July and in
the summer walking around New Orleans is like being baked in a hot oven
with ninety per cent humidity thrown in to make it worse.  After an
hour meandering around the markets by the river, the aquarium is
beautifully cool!"

As they ate he told her about his two years of travelling with a
college friend.  Aisling listened wide-eyed as he recounted tales about
backpacking in India 'an unbelievable experience' driving across
America in a rent-a-wreck "New Mexico has got to be one of the most
beautiful places on earth' and working on a kibbutz in Israel.

He made her laugh telling her stories about ending up in
cockroach-infested motel rooms, and how he ended up in hospital in
Ecuador thanks to a virulent stomach bug.

Aisling couldn't help but notice that he never talked about his
feelings.  There was no mention of the woman he'd been involved with in
Texas, or of their split-up.  Still, Aisling thought, there was plenty
of time for those sort of confessional conversations later.

Accustomed to being a listener after years of marriage to Michael, she
sat in rapt silence as Sam talked her through all the places he'd seen
in his thirty-nine years.  Everywhere he went, he tried some new sport
or pastime to fulfill his love of danger.

His favourite had been rock-climbing in Colorado.

That sounds terrifying," she said with a shudder, as he explained how
difficult it was to scale a two-hundred-metre cliff-face with a deadly
overhang at the top which had claimed the lives of two climbers.

The adrenaline buzz is something else," Sam said, his eyes distant as
if remembering.

"I can't explain it, it's primeval, the feeling that it's just you, one
man, against nature.  When you're up there, you can imagine what it
must have felt like for primitive men battling the earth just to
survive."

For a moment he stared into space.  Then, just as quickly, he came back
to her.

"There's a climb in Arizona every year, in one of the canyons off the
Grand Canyon," Sam said.

"I've never done it but I'd like to.  You see, I always dreamed of
being a stunt man when I was a kid," he explained.

"It was all those years of watching Steve McQueen movies or Clint
Eastwood ones.  But my mother told me not to be stupid and to go to
college.  Still, I think I would have made a pretty good stunt man what
do you think?"

Aisling didn't even need to consider it.  The more Sam talked, the more
apparent it became that he'd love risking life and limb every day with
lots of people watching.  For a moment, she wondered why Sam had come
back to Ireland since he loved the States so much.  But she didn't want
to ask him difficult questions, any more than she wanted him to ask her
awkward ones.  Tonight, she merely wanted to feel good, sexy and
wanted.

"It was the biggest goddamn shark I'd ever seen in my life," Sam said,
telling her about the weeks he'd spent shark-fishing the previous
summer, when he'd caught a monster shark.

A little voice in Aisling's head reminded her that Sam in 'action-hero
mode' was not a million miles away from Michael telling her about the
brilliant political profile he'd just written.  But then Michael
wouldn't have been feeding her strawberries from his plate while he did
it.

She loved the way Sam carefully coated each strawberry in cream before
gently holding it to her lips, letting her take a huge bite before he
finished the half-eaten fruit.  There was something very sensuous about
the whole thing.  Aisling found herself responding to it.  Her
inhibitions drained away as she tasted strawberries and champagne, and
enjoyed the heady atmosphere between them.

When Sam went to the bathroom, she sat back in her chair and took a
quick glance around the restaurant.  She was enjoying herself hugely.
It had been a long time since she'd enjoyed a meal out like this, an
intimate dinner where she didn't feel frumpy, boring and, eventually,
plastered.  When Michael brought her out to dinner, she felt so
depressed at her size and miserable because she hated whatever
dreadful outfit she was wearing that she ate everything put in front of
her and drank like a fish.

It was a glorious change to feel confident and slim, to dine with an
attractive man who looked deep into her eyes.

They worked their way through a second bottle of champagne and four
Irish coffees, by which time Sam was gently playing with Aisling's
fingers across the table and giving her veiled looks from heavy-lidded
eyes.

"Do you miss your husband?"  he asked suddenly.

Three months ago, Aisling would have burst into tears at that question.
Now she watched Sam's fingers gently stroke the fleshy part at the base
of her palm and answered, "Yes and no.  I miss him because we were
together so long, I miss the person in the bed beside me at night, the
man who put out the bins.  Sometimes," she added, 'sometimes, I don't
even think about him, when I'm very busy and I don't have time."

That's not quite what I meant," Sam whispered, increasing the pressure
with his fingers.

She looked up at him.  It was strange and exciting to watch his want
for her.  Curiously liberating.  It made her feel free from the past,
free to say what she wanted instead of saying the right thing.

"I haven't even thought about sex since he left," she replied
candidly.

"Until I met you."  She gasped.

"I can't believe I said that," she said, laughing.

"That's the effect you have on me, Sam Delaney."

"I'm glad to hear it.  Didn't you ever feel the need to break out when
you were married?  The desire to do something different?"  Sam asked
idly.

"Or do someone different?  Isn't that what you mean?"

Aisling said.  That's not me.  Well," she corrected herself, 'that
wasn't me."  It is now, she thought silently.

She caught the waitress's eye.

"Could I have a brandy?  Do you want one, Sam?"  If she was going to do
this, she needed some more liquid confidence.  Her head was definitely
going to ache in the morning.

"Is the new Aisling ready for something different?"  Sam asked in a
low voice when the waitress had placed two brandy balloons in front
of

It was now or never, she told herself.  Go for it.  She finished her
brandy in a couple of burning gulps before answering.

"Yes."

Sam grinned and drained his glass.

"Shall we go and continue this conversation at home?"

"Sure."

Amazed at her own audacity, she sat in the back of the taxi and held
Sam's hand.  Hand-holding wasn't what he had in mind.  He didn't seem
to care what the taxi-driver saw, he simply slid his arms around her
and kissed her passionately.

Once, Aisling would have died of shame thinking about the driver
watching them in his rear-view mirror, two adults behaving like sex-mad
adolescents.  But, insulated by alcohol, she didn't care, even when
Sam's hand slid up her skirt to stroke between her thighs.

When she fumbled with her keys before finding the right one to open her
front door, Aisling briefly wondered if the neighbours were watching
her arrive home with a strange man.

At least they wouldn't know how late he stayed, she reflected, since he
hadn't brought his car.  Nobody could squint out of their windows and
tut-tut if a strange car was parked outside the Morans' in the
morning.

Fiona was probably peering out, Aisling realised and stifled a laugh.
She should have come up with a secret signal with her neighbour two
flashes of the torch from the bedroom if Sam made mad passionate love
to her, and one flash if he fell asleep on the settee after too much
booze.

Sam ambled into the sitting room and lounged on the settee.

"Nice place.  Sit down, darling," he said patting the space:

beside him.

Suddenly, she felt stone-cold sober.  Here she was bringing a strange
man into her home, the home she'd shared with Michael and the boys,
and this man was sure that they'd make love.  So sure, that he was
making himself completely at home, taking over her settee
possessively.

What am I doing?  She thought.

"I have to let the cat out," she muttered nervously, backing out of the
room and into the kitchen.

"Flossie, Flossie, where are you?"  she called.

Typically, Flossie had vamoosed when she was required.  She wasn't in
her wicker basket beside the double radiator.  She couldn't be used as
an excuse or plonked on Aisling's lap so Sam couldn't drag her onto
his.

"D'you have any brandy?"  he asked, appearing behind her in the
kitchen.

"Of course," she answered.

"Funny, I always thought I was the only one who wanted another drink
after a meal out."  
"Me too.  Brandy makes me want more brandy," he added, looking around the kitchen.

"No cat, huh?"

"She must have gone upstairs to the hot press Aisling rummaged around
in the cupboard for decent glasses.

"She loves snuggling up on the socks at the bottom.  Here we are," she
said triumphantly.  She took two whiskey tumblers made of heavy glass
with a green tint.

"Damn, I've just remembered I've no brandy.  There's whiskey in the
cupboard beside the notice board

She rinsed the glasses and turned to find him examining the photos and
notes stuck to the cork notice-board.  There was a picture of the boys
in Portugal, sliding down a huge water slide, their hands in the air
and their mouths open as they shrieked in delight.  It was three years
old, but Aisling loved it.  There was a picture of the boys and their
soccer team after winning a cup match, faces dirty and proud.  And
there was a photo taken at a barbecue in Fiona's garden the summer
before, a shot of Fiona dancing with Nicole with Pat in the background
wearing an apron and waving a large fork with a sausage on each prong.
There weren't any pictures of Michael.  There had been a really nice
one of him and the boys in Portugal, lying on the beach pretending to
pose like body-builders with white zinc striped down their noses to
protect them from the sun.

She had taken it down and stuck it at the back of the drawer in the
dining-room sideboard.  She had briefly thought of cutting Michael out
of the picture altogether, but decided that was a bit childish.

Sam stared at the photos and notes, looked at the postcard from Sorcha
in Istanbul and the Mickey Mouse one from the Finucanes in Disneyland,
and Aisling's shopping list reminders to get loo roll and fabric
softener.

There are none of you here," he remarked, turning to her.

Aisling took a half-full bottle of Jameson out of the cupboard and
sloshed some into each glass.

"I'm not photogenic."

"Don't say that," he said firmly.

"I'm telling you, Aisling, you mightn't think so but you're one
gorgeous lady."

She was about to contradict him when she remembered an article she'd
read in a magazine about compliments and how to take them graciously.
You'll never have confidence in yourself if you can't take a
compliment.  Your lack of confidence will eventually convince people
that they're wrong and you're right about yourself.

"Thanks," she said.  That wasn't so hard, now was it?  she thought.

"I guess nobody's told you you're beautiful often enough," Sam said.

He leaned back against the work top and took a long draught of whiskey.
Aisling did the same.  The fiery liquid hit her system with a jolt.

"Come here," Sam said.

Still holding her glass, she stood in front of him.  He stroked her
cheek and let his hand lazily slide down her face to caress her neck.
She could feel her skin burn where he'd touched her and she
unconsciously leaned forward so he could touch her some more.

"You are beautiful," he murmured, taking her glass away from her.  He
slid both arms around her waist and pulled her forward Their lips met
and it was as if Aisling had never been kissed before.  His mouth was
hungry on hers and she pressed her body close to his, throwing
reservations to the wind.  They clung together, bodies melting into
each other.  His body was solid, from, all that rock-climbing, no
doubt.

She held his head close to hers, her fingers running through his
chestnut hair while she kissed him open-mouthed.  He tasted good.
Fantastic, in fact.  She kissed him again, lots of small kisses melting
into one long one.

It was the previous week all over again.  Her nervousness had gone and
she felt greedy for him, eager to feel his body pressed up against
hers, inside hers.

"You're something else, Aisling," he breathed, pulling his mouth away
from hers for a moment.

"Should we continue this upstairs?"

"Yes."  Aisling couldn't believe what was going to happen.

Here she was, a separated woman of thirty-five clinging to a man she
barely knew ready to have sex with him.  On the first date, too.  Did
that make her the ultimate trollop, a complete slut?  Probably.  But
who cared?  She could do what she wanted.  But it had to be safe.  If
she was going to do something this crazy, she'd better think about
pregnancy or AIDs.

"Do you have condoms?"  she asked bluntly, amazed at her own daring.

"Yes.  Are you sure you want to do this?"  he whispered, as he covered
her in tiny, hot kisses.

"Yes.  Come on."

She'd made the decision, there was no going back.  So what if she was
about to have sex in her marital home with someone who wasn't her
husband.  Her bloody husband had shagged off with someone else.  God,
she needed a drink.

She moved out of Sam's embrace and picked up her glass, draining it. 
He smiled and drank his down too, proffering his glass for a refill. 
She poured two more huge whiskies, then took him by the hand and led
him upstairs.

The bedroom was in darkness.  Before she'd had a chance to turn on the
bedside lights, more flattering than the overhead one, he put his glass
down and took hers away from her, then put his arms around her again.

They fell on the bed and rolled over until she was on top of him.  He
kissed her ardently while one hand burrowed under her skirt, sliding it
up her thighs.  Stockings and suspenders, Aisling thought, I should be
wearing stockings and suspenders.

Not tights.

Sam tried to reach the waistband of her black sheer tights but couldn't
manage to hoist her skirt up high enough.

They'd be there all night if she didn't help.

"Hold on," she whispered.  Why am I whispering anyway?

She wondered.  There was nobody to hear them.

Aisling kissed him again and then wriggled off him, getting to her feet shakily.  God, she'd had too much to drink.  She was pretty
pissed.

He gazed up at her expectantly as she unzipped her skirt slowly.  Damn.
There were few sights more un erotic than a pair of tights worn over
knickers.  Or a body.  She didn't want him to see her like that.

"I'm waiting," Sam sounded amused.  Turn on the lights so I can see
you."

Aisling walked around the bed to turn on her bedside lamp.

As she switched it on, Sam grabbed her, one hand unzipping her skirt.
It slid down to her ankles and she quickly dragged off her tights
before he pulled her into his arms.  They kissed again, his tongue
exploring her mouth while his hands gently explored her body.  Thank
God she'd shaved her legs earlier.

"Can I take this off?"  Sam asked, fingers at the snap fasteners at the
crotch of her bronze body.

"Only if you take everything off as well."  Aisling unbuttoned his
shirt, her fingers clumsy as they fiddled with the small buttons. 
She'd nearly finished and was sliding her hands under the fabric to
touch his chest, when she felt him un pop her bronze body.  She
shuddered with pleasure as she felt his fingers on her bare flesh,
stroking and probing her intimately.

"Oh Sam," she murmured.

"Is it good?"  he asked.

"Wonderful."  she replied, giving herself up to sheer pleasure.

Sam pushed the body up until he'd exposed her breasts encased in a
cream cotton bra.

"You're gorgeous," he said, nuzzling the soft flesh of her breasts.

"Help me get this thing off."

Aisling sat up and pulled the body off over her head.  Sam reached
behind her back and unclasped her bra swiftly.

"Now you she demanded, pulling his shirt tail out of his jeans.  He
stripped off quickly, then pulled down the duvet, and slid into the
bed.  Aisling got in beside him and snuggled up to him, loving the
sensation of his warm silky skin on hers.

"You're beautiful, Aisling."  he repeated, tracing soft kisses down to
her breasts, kissing her until Aisling was wild with pleasure.

That's wonderful she said softly.

"Your turn."

"No."  He propped himself up on one arm and gazed at her.

Tonight I'm in charge and my job is to make you come over and over
again he added.

"So lie back and think of the Empire!"

He kissed her breasts again as one hand gently stroked the sensitive
skin on her inner thighs.

Aisling moaned with pleasure.

"If you insist, Mr.  Delaney."  she said.

"I do."

Wow, thought Aisling for the second time as she lay propped up on the
pillows with Sam sprawled out in the bed beside her.  He was snoring,
not loudly but still enough to keep her awake.

After two orgasms, she should have been out for the count, but she
couldn't sleep.  Even though it was four in the morning, she felt
incredibly awake, utterly relaxed and totally sated.  She hadn't
realised quite how boring and mundane sex with Michael had become until
now.

He'd been unstoppable, determined to send her into paroxysms of
pleasure twice.  Twice.  Wow.

She slid out from under the covers.  Sam wouldn't miss her.

Even if he did, she just had to have a drink of water.  All the alcohol
she'd consumed was taking its toll and she was madly thirsty.  She took
her dressing-gown off the hook on the door and went downstairs for a
drink of water.

After draining the second glass, she refilled it and crept quietly into
the downstairs toilet.

Aisling was amazed to find that she actually looked good.

She glowed.  That was it.  Her hair was tousled, her lipstick had been
completely kissed off, her eyes were red-rimmed with rivulets of
mascara under them and she felt very tired, but the face in the mirror
shone back at her.

She'd done it.  She'd broken the curse of Michael by sleeping with
another man in their bed.  Thank you so much, Sam, she whispered to her
reflection.

When she slid carefully under the duvet, Sam grunted and moved till he
was curled up against her, his body moulded to hers.  He moaned again,
wrapped one arm around her and nuzzled into her neck.

"All right?"  he muttered sleepily.

"Wonderful," she whispered back, cuddling into him happily.

"Wonderful."

He woke her by kissing her gently, starting on her mouth and working
his way down her neck until she opened her eyes groggily.  This is your
wake-up call, Aisling."  Sam moved further down her body to cup her
full breasts in his hands.

"What time is it?"  she asked, closing her eyes.

Twenty to two."

Two!  In the afternoon?"  She shot up in the bed.

"The boys will be coming soon, you've got to go, Sam," she said
urgently.

"Relax."  His voice was amused.  They're not coming home until six, you
told me that last night.  So what's the rush?"

"I know, but..."  Aisling couldn't explain her panic.  Last night, it
had been different.  How could she explain that she .

wanted Sam out of the house because she felt guilty, as if she'd done
something wrong.  She wanted him out so she could sort out her muddled
feelings, so she could wash up the glasses, change the sheets and rinse
him off her body.  The boys mustn't see him yet, it was too soon.

"Please understand, Sam," she began, "I've never done anything like
this before and it feels strange.  I can't let the boys meet you yet.
It would be too confusing for them, you must see that."

"Did you enjoy last night?"  he asked softly.  His fingers played with
her hair.  He had the most amazing eyes.

"Of course ..."

He stopped her words with a kiss, a gentle kiss which turned into a
long, deep passionate one.  Aisling couldn't help responding.  The
stubble on his chin grazed the soft skin on her neck as he moved down
to nuzzle her breasts.

"I love your breasts, Aisling," he said huskily.  She couldn't resist
him.  He was so sexy and he seemed to know exactly how to turn her on.
Before she knew it, they were wrapped up in the duvet, limbs
intertwined as they made love.

"I'll go at three.  That'll give you loads of time," Sam murmured.

An hour later, she lay in the bath and watched him finish shaving.  He
splashed water on his face, dried it and looked at his reflection in
the mirror, turning sideways to make sure he hadn't missed a bit with
her old razor.  Satisfied with what he saw, Sam ran a comb through his
hair before pulling on his shirt.

"I'll see myself out he said and leaned down to caress one breast.

"God, you feel great.  I want to drag you back to bed again.

But not that bed, of course."  He straightened up abruptly.

"It's got to go, don't you agree?"

"Why?"  asked Aisling, completely at a loss to know what he meant.

"We can hardly make love in the bed you shared with your husband he
replied in astonished tones.

"Oh.  I see," Aisling said, although she didn't.  Making love in
Michael's bed hadn't worried him too much the night before.

But then, they'd both been so plastered that they could have been
making love on O'Connell Bridge with a paying crowd watching.

"We could go shopping next weekend," he said.

"We've got to get some decent booze as well.  I've got a real taste for
bourbon after living in the States."

"Fine," Aisling said automatically.

Sam leaned down and kissed her gently on the mouth, a lingering gentle
kiss.

He blew her another kiss from the bathroom door.

"See you soon," he said.

She heard him slam the front door and sank happily back into the
bubbles.  Who cared if he wanted a new bed or bourbon instead of
whiskey?  He was wonderful, he was crazy about her.  Hell, he could
redecorate the bedroom if he felt like it.  Aisling closed her eyes and
thought about Sam making love to her.  She'd get up and tidy the house
later.

"Well, how was dinner?"  demanded Fiona, the moment Aisling picked up
the phone.

"Where did you go?  Tell me everything."

"Everything?"  asked Aisling innocently, trying not to burst with
excitement.

"Sam arrived at just after half seven and he was wearing a blue
shirt..."

"Bugger the blue shirt!"  said Fiona in exasperation.

"How did you get on?  Did he kiss you, did you kiss him, did you have
mad, passionate sex to Ravel's Bolero?"

Aisling snorted down the phone.

"The answers to those questions, in order, are, Marvellously, Yes.  Yes
and Yes although we didn't have any music.  You know I don't have a
stereo in the bedroom."

"Aisling Moran," shrieked Fiona.

"I don't believe you.  You slept with him?  You didn't, did you?"  she
asked, "Yes, I did.  I know I'm a trollop but who cares, it felt
absolutely wonderful and I'm glad I did sleep with him.  Not that we
got that much sleep ..."

"Has he gone?"  asked Fiona.

"Yes."

"Right.  Put the kettle on, I'm coming over.  If you can walk into the
kitchen without crutches, that is."

"He's very attractive, of course," Fiona said five minutes later, as
she.  sat in Aisling's kitchen and lit a cigarette.

"And let's face it, straight, good-looking, single men are practically
extinct in this country these days.  Since you have me to thank for
introducing you to him, I want all the juicy details.  I mean all:

"Thank you, darling Fiona, for introducing me to him Aisling said with
a giggle.

"I certainly owe you.  Sam is a fantastic lover.  Not that I have
anything to compare him with," she added.

"But it was wonderful.  Three times, Fiona, three times.  I'm
exhausted."

"You don't look exhausted, Fiona remarked wryly.

"You look like they've turned a light on inside you."

"I know.  It's amazing, isn't it?"  Aisling sat back in her chair with
a practically untouched cup of coffee in one hand.

"We were awake till at least four and I should have a thumping great
hangover after all we drank, but do you know what?"  She grinned at
Fiona.

"I feel fantastic.  And different.  I can't explain it, but being with
Sam, it was as if all this pressure that's been building up inside me
since Michael left was suddenly released, I could relax and let go.  It
was amazing."

"You're in love," Fiona said with a laugh.

"No," corrected Aisling.

"I'm not.  I fancy Sam and he fancies me, but that's not love.  I don't
want to be in love again, not for a long time."  She was suddenly
serious.

"Love is just trouble.  If you love someone, they have the power to
hurt you and I don't want to go through that ever again."

That's perfectly understandable," the other woman said.

"But don't think you can control love, Aisling.  You can't."

"I know that."  Aisling got up and filled up the kettle.  The washing
machine shuddered to a stop beside her, ending its final spin.  She
really should hang out the clothes but she couldn't be bothered.
Tomorrow would do.

"Getting a job, losing weight and learning how to live on my own they
were all important things, but no matter what I did, I was still tied
to Michael," Aisling explained.

"Now I'm not.  I was tied to him even though he wasn't tied to me. 
He'd escaped but I couldn't.  Sam helped me to escape."

"When are you seeing him again?"  Fiona asked.

"Next weekend, for dinner.  He wanted to see me tomorrow but he's got
to go to Cork for the week.  He's ringing later."

Fiona raised one eyebrow expressively.

"He's keen."

The last globule of cream squelched out of the piping bag onto the
strawberry cheesecake.  Aisling dumped the bag in the sink and
carefully carried the plate over to the fridge.

Dizzy, the Coughlans' fat black spaniel, watched Aisling's every move,
big brown eyes fixed on the woman who'd been cooking all sorts of
delicious things in the kitchen all afternoon.

"No, you can't have anything, Dizzy," Aisling admonished the drooling
dog.

"You're on a diet."

"I'm the one who should be on a diet wailed Rachel.  She hurried into
the kitchen wearing a pink candlewick dressing gown with a wet towel
wrapped, turban-style, around her head.

Rachel was short, plump, very pretty and looked at least ten years
younger than her husband, who had to be around forty-five.  She was
also very disorganised, as Aisling had found out when she arrived in
the Coughlans' kitchen a few hours earlier and started a lengthy search
in hopelessly untidy cupboards for a large plate for the cheesecake.

The zip on my black crepe dress won't close.  I know I should have
bought those tummy-flattener pants," Rachel said miserably.

"Have I time to race off to Spar and get a pair of control tights, do
you think?"

"You have the time," Aisling said slowly, thinking of the calorie-laden
meal she'd been preparing.

"But you'll be awfully uncomfortable by the time you've eaten dinner if
the dress is too tight in the first place."

' "You're right."  Rachel stomped over to the fridge and took out a
bottle of white wine from the half-dozen on the bottom shelf.

"Oh, the cheesecake looks delicious."  she squealed as soon as she saw
it.

"I can't wait to try it.  Let's have a glass of wine, Aisling," she
wheedled.

"You've been busy all day and you need a break."

Aisling had been working hard in Rachel's huge old-fashioned kitchen
for over two hours, slicing vegetables, finishing off the cheesecake
she'd made at home and preparing the pheasant with apples and Calvados.
She'd nearly gone mad making the fiddly timbales of smoked salmon with
dill salad Rachel had wanted to impress her snooty American
sister-in-law, Antonia.

"When she's gone, I'll tell everyone else that you cooked the meal.
Antonia will want to leave early, she always does.

Doesn't like spending too much time with her in-laws," Rachel
revealed.

"But I want to pretend that I did everything just to shut that cow up.
Do you mind awfully?"

As long as you sneak my cards into everyone else's pockets when they're
going Aisling replied, fishing several cream printed cards out of her
handbag.

"Reservations" Why slave over the cooker when you can relax at your own
dinner party?  My team and I can cook you an exquisite, mouth-watering
menu from fresh ingredients and you won't have to lift a finger.  Phone
Aisling Moran for details.

This wasn't strictly true.  Aisling's team was herself and herself and
herself.  Still, she could get help if she really needed it.  Her
mother had offered to give her a hand with desserts.

"This looks very impressive."  Rachel admired the rich creamy paper and
the elegant copperplate lettering Aisling had picked in the printing
shop.

She'd had a hundred made up and was now crossing her fingers that
they'd pay for themselves.  She took a cautious sip of wine from the
glass Rachel handed her.  Catastrophic if she ruined her first dinner
by getting tiddly with the hostess before the meal.

"Is there anything I can do?"  Rachel sat down at the kitchen table and
took a bottle of flamingo-pink nail varnish from her dressing-gown
pocket.

"No thanks, you relax," said Aisling quickly.  She'd seen Rachel's
hopelessly untidy cupboards and the large collection of ready-made
microwave able meals in the freezer.  The other woman was obviously not
a dab hand in the kitchen.

By half seven everything was ready.  The guests were due, the pheasant
was cooking gently in the oven, the damned timbales were perfect and
even Rachel was ready, resplendent in an expensive-looking gold silk
blouse, black trousers and plenty of gold jewellery.

Her daughter, Amy sixteen and pretty despite the sulky, expression on
her face had been pressed into service to help serve the meal.  Either
Rachel had been around fifteen when she had Amy, or she used lots of
miraculous wrinkle preventing eye cream, Aisling decided.

In a tattered pair of 501s, a skinny black polo neck that was turning
grey, and black suede boots with stack heels, Amy looked like a
younger, slimmer version of her mother.

"You could have dressed up, Amy."  Rachel marched into the kitchen to
find her offspring enjoying a sneaky vodka tonic.

"You certainly shouldn't be drinking.  I said one glass of wine, if you
remember.  And those jeans are dreadful."

Amy shot Rachel a venomous look.

"Don't look at me like that, Madam," started Rachel crossly.

Aisling knew that a row was brewing.  Maybe I should 'cook the stuff at
home and just drive it over, she thought silently Maybe I should forget
the idea of running a catering company at all.

The doorbell rang loudly.  Row instantly forgotten, Rachel roared for
her husband to answer the door and hurried out to welcome her guests.

It was eight by the time everyone was seated.  Jim was on wine service
and winked at Aisling when he rushed past her with two bottles of white
and the corkscrew under his arm.

Rachel bustled back into the kitchen to help Amy carry in the twelve
plates.

"I don't want Antonia to see you she whispered to Aisling.

Aisling was grateful that she didn't have to go in and serve the
guests.  Cooking a meal and looking fresh as a daisy when serving it,
simply wasn't possible.  Her grey T-shirt was damp with sweat and her
hair had flopped in the heat of the kitchen, strands stuck to her
forehead.  She longed for a long warm bath, a nice book and a glass of
sweet white wine.

But it would be at least half ten when she got home and she knew that
she'd barely have the energy to slump onto the settee and watch some
mindless rubbish before going to bed.

When the guests were all eating, she pushed the door between the
kitchen and the dining room open just a fraction, and listened.

She heard murmurs of "Delicious, Rachel' and This salmon is fantastic,
how did you do it?"  They liked it.  She only hoped the pheasant went
down as well.

"Would you like some pheasant?"  she asked Amy when the girl returned
to the kitchen after delivering the last plate.

"I'm a vegetarian Amy said, then added, 'but everyone in there is
gobbling the pheasant up like mad.  Even Aunt Antonia."

"Not a woman easily pleased, I believe."  Aisling filled the sink with
hot water.

Amy grimaced.

"She's a cow.  I hope she chokes on it.  Not because of your cooking
she added quickly.

"No offence."

"None taken.  If you're hungry, I could make you some nice cheese sauce
for the broccoli and cauliflower, or an omelette?"

Aisling had noticed that the girl looked tired and pale under her heavy
pancake foundation.

"No, but thanks anyway."  Amy was really very pretty when she smiled.

"D'you want a hand with the washing-up?"

Aisling scrubbed and Amy dried.

"Do you cook all the time, for a living, I mean?"

"Actually, this is my first dinner party Aisling explained, I work as
a secretary in a legal firm and I ended up catering for!

a special lunch when the original caterers made a mess off things.
That's where I met your father and he said your mother would love some
help with parties and dinners for her new business."
"That's true. She can't even make tea.  So you never did anything like this
before?"

- "I love cooking and I've done cooking courses but I never actually
thought of doing it professionally.  Until this year, anyway."

"Why is that?"

"I was a housewife and I went back to work when my husband and I split
up earlier this year Aisling said matteroffactly.

She didn't feel her heart ache when she said it, didn't feel the lump
in her throat at the thought of Michael.  Thank God.  She rinsed a
copper-bottomed saucepan and placed it on the drainer.

"When people congratulated me on my cooking after the lunch, I decided
to do something about it and then your mum rang.  With a bit of luck,
and if people get my cards when they're leaving, I'll get more jobs
like this."

"Wow, that's amazing.  You're a career woman."  Amy dried a wooden
spoon carefully.

Aisling smiled at the girl.

"I suppose I am.  Strange, I never thought I'd be one."

That's what I want to be Amy said.

"I don't want to sit around like Mum did for years waiting for
something to happen before Dad pushed her into doing something."

That's hardly fair, Amy."  Aisling rebuked gently."  If your mother
hasn't worked for a few years, it's very, very difficult going back.  I
should know.

"My first few months back at work were a nightmare.  Imagine if you'd
been off school for two years and then had to go back to class with
girls two years younger and start again ..."

"I suppose you're right Amy said reluctantly.

"I know I'm right Aisling said firmly.

"You'd feel totally threatened and stupid, because they'd know more
than you.

You'd be paranoid about not fitting in.  It's a horrible feeling,
believe me.  Take it from me, your mum's been really brave setting up
this PR company and I'm sure she could do with your support."

"Suppose."  Amy dried a saucepan.

"Everything's going wonderfully, Aisling."

Rachel rushed into the kitchen clutching four empty bottles of wine.

"It is if you've gone through all that booze already reproved Amy, as
if she hadn't been drinking herself.

"That's nine bottles at least."

"It's a party.  And there are twelve of us," Rachel retorted.

They love the pheasant, especially Antonia.  She says she's "amazed
it's so good".  Bitch.  Can you put cyanide on her cheesecake,

Aisling grinned.

"I'm not sure how good that would be for my reputation as a
dinner-party cook.  I'll do salmon timbales but I draw the line at
cyanide."

"They were gorgeous," Rachel sighed.

"Everyone wanted to know how I did them.  And the pheasant too.  I
think they're all convinced I cleaned out Marks and Spencer's food
hall.  As soon as Antonia is gone, do come in and I'll introduce you,
won't you?"

Aisling didn't really want to but then she thought about her
business.

"Of course.  I'll need to freshen up first."

"Use my room," volunteered Amy.

It was half twelve when Aisling turned the key in her front door lock.
The pots and pans would just have to stay in the hall overnight, she
decided, dumping everything onto the hall carpet.

Antonia and her husband had stayed at the Coughlans' until eleven, so
Aisling and Amy had sat in the kitchen watching Tom Cruise in Top Gun
on the small TV beside the microwave until they'd left.

When Aisling finally walked into the dining room, everyone clapped.

"The best meal I've had in years said one woman, holding up a large
glass of port as a toast.

"I do hope you can cook for me sometime."

"Of course Aisling said.

"I'll give you a card."

The meal had been a huge success and, as she went into the kitchen to
look for Flossie, she felt elated but dog-tired.  She switched off the
lights downstairs and went to bed, not even bothering to take off her
eye make-up.  Just before turning out her bedside light, she switched
the alarm clock off.  She was going to have a lie-in in the morning.
She deserved it.

"Aisling, that really isn't you.  It doesn't suit you."  Sam stood a
few feet away from the changing cubicle, eyes narrowed as he , looked
at the fitted navy dress Aisling had just tried on.  She sighed in
exasperation.  This was the third item she'd tried on and he'd hated
the other two as well.

The cream woollen dress with a matching long cardigan was 'too tight',
the elegant black shirt was 'too short', and she'd thought he was going
to have a seizure when he saw the clingy red lycra top that went with
it.  They'd been shopping in the Stephen's Green Centre for just an
hour and Aisling was already wondering what sort of illness she could
fake so she could go home.  She'd been so thrilled with Sam's present
of a clothes voucher to celebrate their first month of going out
together.  It was such a thoughtful gift, she'd told Fiona happily.

Aisling cooked a special dinner for the occasion and she was delighted
when Sam gave her the voucher which was hidden in a big box of
chocolates.  It was the sort of gesture Michael would never have
made.

"We can go shopping next Saturday Sam had said, unwrapping a coffee
creme for her.

"I'd love that she said truthfully, wondering how to avoid eating too
many chocolates without upsetting him.  A whole box of Dairy Milk would
mean she couldn't eat a proper meal for at least a month.

"I'd love to go shopping with you."

Famous last words.

"What would look good on me, Sam?"  she demanded now, irritated beyond
belief.

"A yashmak?"

"Honey, don't get upset."  He looked pained, his eyes troubled, as if
she'd really upset him.

"I just want you to buy something suitable, that's all."

"Suitable for what?"

"For going out to dinner with me, for the office.  You needn't be so
defensive.  I'm only trying to help."

"Listen, Sam."  Aisling looked at him with eyes blazing.

"You and I have very different ideas about what's "suitable".  I have
the sort of figure I can show off.  And I want to show it off!"

she hissed.

"Have you got that?"

"Fine.  I just want you to look nice."

The cheek of him, Aisling thought crossly as she retreated into the
changing room and pulled the curtains.  As if she didn't look nice
before.

Men always thought they knew better than you.  She hoped this
particular phase turned out to be just that a phase a brief one.  For
all his faults, Michael had never been particularly interested in her
wardrobe.  Then again, maybe that had been part of the problem. 
Perhaps men were supposed to be fascinated by what their women wore. 
Perhaps it was a caveman thing, a flattering thing.

Aisling stood in her bra and knickers and looked at the three very nice
outfits that Sam had condemned.  They all looked nice.  But after years
of wearing sloppy T-shirts and elastic-wasted trousers, she probably
wasn't the best fashion expert in the world.

Wearing anything clingy was a thrill for her.  But maybe Sam was right
and she shouldn't indulge her taste for spray-on lycra garments in case
she ended up looking like mutton dressed as lamb.

"Aisling."  The curtain shook.

"Look what I've found."

She stuck her head out of the cubicle.

"This," Sam produced a clothes-hanger from behind his back, 'would be
lovely on you."

This' turned out to be a long, highly patterned pale peach dress that
flowed and billowed like a sail, a dress which would undoubtedly make
her look like an over-the-hill bridesmaid.

Six months ago, Aisling would have loved it, mainly because it was big
enough to accommodate a size sixteen.  However, she wasn't a size
sixteen any more and she wanted to wear something which showed off the
fact.  Sam didn't know anything about this.  He had no idea she'd lost
so much weight, she hadn't told him.  Aisling had felt it might change
his opinion of her, as if he'd go off her if he found out she hadn't
always been the slim blonde she was now.

It wasn't fair to expect him to understand her hatred for anything
baggy.  Keep calm, she told herself.  Don't let the sins of Michael
Moran be visited on every man after him.

She reached out and took the dress from Sam..  His face creased into a
smile and she grinned back at him.  She impulsively leaned out and
kissed him on the cheek.  There was something utterly charming about
Sam's smile, that mischievous grin which lit up his face.  He was quite
irresistible standing there in a snow-white cricket jumper and faded
denims which clung to his long legs.  One of the shop assistants had
eyed him up the moment they walked into the shop until Aisling shot her
a proprietorial 'hands off' look.

"Bet you a tenner it looks lovely on you," said Sam confidently, as she
slipped back behind the curtain.

His attitude to clothes was probably because he'd lived in the States
for so long, Aisling decided as she took the dress off the hanger and
stepped into it.  Apart from places like California, people in the US
dressed in a much more conservative manner than their European cousins,
didn't they?

Aisling wasn't sure.  But she ought to give Sam the benefit of the
doubt.  Definitely.

"It's beautiful, Aisling."  He held one of her hands high and made her
turn so he could admire the dress from every angle.

Privately, she thought it made her look like some sort of child-woman
instead of a mature woman of thirty-five.  But Sam loved it.

"It's so sexy he cried with delight.

"You look amazing."

He grabbed her in a bear hug and whispered in her ear.

"Good enough to eat.  Let's take it."

"And then we can stop shopping?"  Aisling asked.

"Absolutely."

"I'll take it.  "

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

Sit down."  The builder dragged up a
paint-speckled stool for Jo to sit on.  He covered it with a newspaper
and Jo sat down gratefully.  For once, it wasn't tiredness, an aching
back or her recently developed varicose veins that made her want to sit
down rapidly.  It was the state of the cottage.

She'd expected a clean, newly refurbished place but she'd walked into a
disaster area, with dust everywhere and the sound of a kango hammer
blasting in her ears.

Rhona had often asked her whether she was insane to sell her cosy,
modern apartment in Malahide to move into an old, ramshackle cottage in
the Dublin mountains.

"You won't be in before Christmas," Rhona declared when Jo explained
that there'd be a two-week gap between moving ', out of her apartment
and moving into the newly painted, renovated and rewired house in
tranquil Redwood Lane.

The contractor's a very reliable man and he says it'll all be finished
by the fifth of November," Jo replied.

"Honestly, Rho, it's not like you to be so pessimistic."

Rhona looked at her friend shrewdly.

"Jo, if it's finished by the tenth of November) we'll go out to
celebrate you can have dinner and I'll eat my hat.  It's a pity you
hadn't joined Style when Ted and I bought our house.  I distinctly
remember being told the house would be ready by the end of August.  We
moved in during a torrential downpour in October.  I never got the
water stains out of my mother's old cream armchair."

It looked as if Rhona was going to be proved right.  It was already the
second week in November, the builders had been working for three weeks
and the cottage looked worse than , ever.

The tiny hall was filthy with muddy footprints.  A week of rain had
stopped work on the roof.  The garden had turned into a bog and roof
still hadn't been fixed.  All the cottage needed was rewiring, central
heating installed, a bit of work on the plumbing and a small job on the
roof, or so Mark's contractor friend had said.

So why, after three weeks, was the entire place like a building site?

"It's not as bad as it looks," the builder roared over the din.

"Really, Tom?  Well, that's a relief because it looks bad, very bad."
Jo's head throbbed in time to the kango hammer.

"Turn it off roared Tom in the direction of the kitchen.

When nothing happened, he left Jo in the tiny hall wondering what the
hell she was going to say to the painters who were due to arrive
tomorrow.

"Tea?"  asked Tom poking his head around the kitchen door.

"We're just brewing up."

"OK.  Now tell me what's happened?"  Jo asked wearily.  She got off the
stool, walked into the kitchen and stared at the big hole where the
sink used to be and at the gash that ran across the recently concreted
floor.

"Plumbing problem.  We've had to rip up the floor.  I did ring you at
the office yesterday evening to tell you," he added, 'but when I
couldn't contact you, I just went ahead and sorted it out.  It'll add
another two days onto the work.  We'll be finished by Tuesday,
latest."

The painters are coming tomorrow Jo said in a faint voice.

"I know, I know.  I'll ring them up and tell them not to come until
Tuesday afternoon."

"Sugar?"  inquired the man who'd been working the kango hammer.

Two, please said Jo, 'and do you have any biscuits?"  Or Prozac?

They drank their tea and talked about how the rain had delayed the
work, how the plumbing had delayed the work and how there was some
problem with the phone line according to the man from Telecom.

"Oh, did I tell you that he came?"  asked Tom.

Jo speed-munched her way through three fig rolls and drank a cup of
very sweet tea before climbing the stairs.  The pale wooden banisters
were thick with concrete dust, lumps of plaster had found their way
onto the steps.  Jo ignored it.

As she walked into the second bedroom, she realised that the painters
would have to spend days cleaning the walls and woodwork.

At least the cork tiles in the bathroom would only need a wash.  But
the pale green carpet in the smaller bedroom was so dusty Jo knew she'd
have to replace it.  She thought about the mounting bills and decided
that judicious hoovering would have to do for the moment.  Maybe she
could rent one of those industrial carpet cleaners and do it herself.
Then again, she thought gloomily, at seven months pregnant she was
hardly in any condition to hoover anything except food up from her
plate.  She felt huge.  Even her gynaecologist said so.  Huge, broke
and with a half-finished cottage hanging around her neck like a
millstone.  She poked at a bit of carpet with her shoe.  A cloud of
dust rose like white smoke from the Vatican.  Blast.

If anyone asked her what she wanted for her birthday in a couple of
weeks, she'd ask for a carpet-cleaning voucher.

The kango hammer started up again, the noise practically drowned out
the thoughts in her head.  God, what a waste it had been coming, up
here today.  But she had to do something on her day off instead of slobbing around Aisling's house.  It was lovely of Aisling to have offered
her spare room for the two weeks when Jo was homeless make that six
weeks and lovely to spend time with her friend, the first time they'd
actually lived together since their flat-sharing days.  But she
preferred her own space to living with someone else, even if that
someone was as easy-going as Aisling.  And now that Sam was there every
minute of the day, Jo was beginning to feel like a gooseberry.  An
enormous gooseberry.

She went into the main bedroom and idled away a few moments imagining
how she was going to decorate it.  She'd picked a rich yellow paint to
go with the cream and buttermilk curtains she fancied.  But the curtain
material would have to wait.  God only knew how much extra the
contractor would charge.

She was staring out at the muddy wasteland at the front of the cottage
wondering how it could possibly be transformed back into something
resembling a garden, when the baby kicked.  Jo's face grew soft as she
stroked her belly lovingly.

The baby was always kicking these days, but Jo didn't mind, except when
it happened all night.  On those days when she felt depressed,
miserable and lonely at the thought of having the baby all by herself,
all it took was a gentle reminder from her little passenger to cheer
her up.

"I'm off she said to Dick, the kango-hammer man, who'd stopped the
machine once he saw her making her way carefully down the stairs.

"Bye, Tom she called into the sitting room.

"He's gone, "Dick said.

Charming, thought Jo.  Rips up the kitchen floor and buggers off.  What
a worker.

It had started to rain.  Again.  She trudged through the mud where she
and Mark had once negotiated nettles and long grass, and got into her
car.

She'd had to push the driver's seat back so she could fit her bump
behind the steering wheel.  Her size also meant she'd outgrown
practically everything she owned, including her maternity trousers.
Aisling was going to bring her shopping tomorrow, 'early, so we'll
avoid the Saturday crowds', she'd said.  Aisling was great.  She'd even
sorted through her old 'fat' clothes to find something to fit Jo.

A flowery over shirt Aisling had produced, her own black maternity
skirt and a pair of pale grey ski boots were today's deeply
unflattering outfit.  Wedged into the driver's seat, Jo couldn't see
her feet, but she just knew that the ski boots were filthy from the
muck outside the cottage.

There was no way she could go into the supermarket in this state.  Damn
and blast.

She turned the key in the ignition.  The engine made a high-pitched
whirring noise, gave a little shudder and then died.  Damn, damn, damn.
She turned the key again.  Same outcome.  I do not believe this is
happening, she shrieked.  She tried again and when the engine made a
third halfhearted attempt to get going, she thumped the steering wheel
angrily.

Bloody car.  This is the perfect time for you to pack it in!

She levered herself out of the car, marched back into the cottage and
gave Dick the fright of his life when she tapped him on the shoulder.

"Jesus."  he yelled.

Jo was not in the mood for conversation.

"My car won't start.  Will you have a look at it?"

By the time Dick had pulled off his dusty overalls, tried the car a few
times and spent ten minutes with his head under the bonnet poking
around, Jo was at boiling-point.

"It's your starting motor," he pronounced finally.

"Which means what, exactly?"  Jo asked irritably.

"It's not going anywhere today," he replied.

Jo felt as if she'd been deflated.

"What will I do?"  she asked.

"Can you give me a lift to a garage or something?"  she pleaded.

"Tom's got the van and he's not coming back for a couple of hours. 
He's running over to check on a job in Bray.  But I've got a mobile. 
You can ring someone."

Rhona's mobile phone squawked that she was either out of coverage or
had her unit turned off.

Rhona was out all day, Nikki was in London and everyone else in the
office was at lunch, Annette said when she answered the phone.

"I can't go anywhere," Annette said, deeply apologetic, 'the man's
coming to fix Tom's word processor and I've got to be here.  I'll get
someone to pick you up as soon as ... oh, hold on, Jo, will you."

Jo sheltered from the rain under the porch of the cottage.

She wouldn't be able to hear a thing Annette was saying from inside the
cottage since Dick had started kango-ing again.

She'd have to get her own mobile phone.  More money.  Why hadn't she
bothered joining the AA?  Why, why, why?

"Jo?"  said a man's deep voice.  She gasped.  It was Mark.

"What's happened?"

She'd managed to avoid him for ages, had been frostily polite in the
office, disappeared as fast as a heavily pregnant woman could whenever
he seemed to be walking towards her desk to talk to her.  Now there was
no escape.

"My car's broken down.  It's the starting motor, apparently.

I've got no one to bring me home she wailed.

"And I don't know who to ring.  It's never actually broken down on me
before."

"Where are you?  And how do you know it's the starting motor?"

"I'm at the cottage.  Redwood Lane.  One of the builders looked at it
for me.  It's his phone I'm using but he doesn't have the van because
Tom's gone to Bray."

If Mark was confused by this explanation, he didn't let on.

"Leave it to me he said firmly.

"I'll arrange for a tow truck to pick the car up and I'll come and get
you myself.  Give me three-quarters of an hour."

He must have really pushed the Porsche to the speed limit.

Only twenty-five minutes later his car roared down the lane and stopped
outside the house.

"Nice car said Dick appreciatively, sipping another cup of tea.  Too
much tea, that was why the cottage was like a disaster area, Jo thought
testily.  Maybe she should swipe the tea bags and see how much Dick got
done without a tea break every half an hour.

"Your fella, is he?"  Dick inquired with interest.

Jo sniffed.

"No."

"Mmm."  Dick muttered, as if he'd noticed the eyeshadow, mascara and
lipstick she'd carefully applied in the bathroom mirror.  She hoped his
nose was too bunged up with cement dust to smell the liberal
application of Tresor.  If only she'd been able to find her brush.  Not
that she could have done much repair work when her hair was so damp and
frizzy.

Mark swept up the path, a dark brown waxed raincoat flapping around
his long legs.  He looked far more at home in the wilds of the Dublin
mountains than she did.  Apart from her ski boots.

He also looked healthily brown after two weeks in the Maldives, the
honey colour of his skin made the grey streaks in his short hair stand
out even more.  He was sickeningly attractive, sexy and most definitely
not 'my fella', thought Jo desolately.

"Hello," she said in a small voice.

"Come and sit in my car while I have a look at the engine."

He put a strong arm around her.  They walked slowly down the path.  He
pushed the passenger seat back, helped her in carefully and said, "I
won't be a moment."

Jo watched him stride back to her car and lift the bonnet capably. 
Mark did everything capably, everything from running several businesses
to fixing the coffee maker in the office when Annette said it couldn't
be fixed.

He'd made her feel safe, comforted and special for a few months.  And
she'd pushed him away and into the arms of his old girlfriend.  Well,
he'd hardly gone to the Maldives alone.

A few minutes later, Mark opened the car door, threw his raincoat into
the back and eased his big frame into the driver's seat.

"It's the starting motor, all right.  Someone from my garage is coming
to get it.  They'll have it for you tomorrow afternoon."

"Will it be expensive?"  she asked tiredly.

Mark shot her a glance.

"No.  I doubt it.  It's just a small job."

"Really?"

"Really.  I don't suppose you've had any lunch, Jo, have you?"

he asked kindly.

Nobody said her name like that but Mark, with that mixture of warmth
and something else, something she could never define.  Tenderness.  Was
that it?  Couldn't be.  Why would he bother being kind to her when
she'd been such a bitch to him?

Jo bit her lip and looked out the window at the small patchwork fields
speeding by, dark with mud.  Cows huddled together in the rain,
monotonously chewing silage from big metal troughs.  They looked as wet
as she was.  They looked depressed too.  Being a cow couldn't be much
fun.

She felt a hand on hers, a warm, strong hand clasping her small, cold
one for a moment, "Let's go to Johnny Fox's.  I could do with a decent
pint of Guinness and some lunch, how about you?"

Jo couldn't say anything.  She just nodded.

, "Good.  And you can tell me why you're still up to your eyes in
builders a month after they started."

"Don't get me going on builders said Jo, brightening up.

"Honestly, I don't know what they're playing at.  They know I'm in a
hurry to move in but they don't seem to be working any faster to make
up for lost time."

"Have you spoken to Brian recently?"  Mark put his hand back on Jo's
after negotiating a sharp bend.

"He's the best contractor I know.  He usually runs a pretty tight
ship."

"He's away all this week."  Jo was almost afraid to move in case she
dislodged his hand from hers.  It felt lovely to be touched, so
comforting to have his fingers gently curled around hers.

"I'll ring his office later," Mark said, 'and put the skids under those
boyos at your house.  Brian must be paying them too much if they've all
got mobiles, and I don't want to make them millionaires at your
expense."

Thanks," Jo said gratefully.

"I know I should be tougher on them myself, but I'm just not up to it
right now.  If they said anything back to me, I know I'd cry."  She was
sick of acting hard-as-nails with Mark.  He didn't have to know that
when she felt like crying, it was because she'd messed up her chances
with him.  Nobody knew that, not even Rhona.

Jo had lost count of the times when she'd lain in bed and wondered what
he was doing, who he was doing it with.

She still had the ticket stub from their trip to America in her purse
and sometimes she took it out and touched it, remembering the few days
they'd had together.  When anything seemed possible, even a love affair
between a pregnant woman and her boss.

Jo had searched the gossip columns relentlessly, keeping an eye out for
mentions of glamorous half-French painters or wealthy businessmen.  But
there'd been nothing.

Once or twice, she'd thought of telling Rhona what had happened, that
she'd lied to Mark about Richard.  Then she'd stopped herself.  Mark
had to be in love with Eva and Rhona knew about it, Jo was sure.
Telling Rhona that she was in love with Mark would put the other woman
in a difficult position.

Jo could almost hear her words, "They're getting married, Jo, as soon
as she can get a divorce."

Mark looked over and grinned at her, the tiny lines around his grey
eyes crinkled up attractively.

"I have tissues in the glove compartment if you feel like a good sob,"
he offered.

"But I hope I can cheer you up."

You sure could, Jo thought silently.

He stopped the car outside the highest pub in Ireland and hurried
around to help Jo out of her seat.

Oh God, she thought, remembering the muddy ski boots.

"I look a mess," she sighed.  These horrible boots and everything."

Mark took her face in both hands and kissed her gently on the lips.

"You look absolutely beautiful, as always, Jo."

Still holding her upturned face, he stared at her carefully, eyes
taking in her huge dark eyes fringed with thick lashes.

She stared back at him, wondering if she'd dreamed the last moment. 
She looked an absolute mess with her frizzy hair and her awful clothes.
Had he really kissed her and told her she was beautiful?  It was like
some glorious dream.

Mark was watching her intensely, fingers warm on her skin and suddenly
she knew what he was waiting for.  A response.

He wasn't sure, he'd taken a chance.  What a fabulous, marvelous,
perfectly timed chance.

Jo smiled at him, feeling the warmth deep inside her spread onto her
face.

She stretched one hand up and touched his cheek gently.

She stood on her toes and arched herself towards his lips, not easy in
her condition.  He slid one arm around her, supporting her back as he
bent down to kiss her.  This time, it was no gentle, platonic kiss: it
was deep and passionate, yet somehow full of love and understanding.

Mark pulled away first.

"I should have done that a long time ago," he said.

"I've wanted to for long enough."

Jo couldn't speak.  She stood looking up at him, her eyes strangely
filled with tears.

"Come on."  He took her by the hand and led her towards the pub's front
door.

"It's starting to rain again.  We can't have you getting soaked twice
in one day."

He found a pew-style seat for her near the fireplace and banked up
cushions behind her to protect her back.  After months of looking after
herself, this act of tenderness was nearly her undoing.

"Don't cry, Jo," Mark said softly, sitting beside her and kissing her
on the cheek.

"I know you're all emotional.  But I'm here to look after you now."

This finished her off completely.

"It's so wonderful," she sobbed, the tears finally racing down her
cheeks.

"You're being so nice, after I was such a bitch to you.  I don't
deserve it."

"Of course you do.  It's me who doesn't deserve you."  He handed her
his handkerchief.

"Blow."

"I'm always stealing your handkerchiefs," she snuffled tearily.

"Sorry."

"My handkerchiefs are all yours, everything of mine is yours."

He meant it too, she realised, looking up at his face through the
tears.

"What about Eva?"  she asked.

There's been nothing going on between Eva and myself, not for a long
time.  Certainly not since I fell in love with you."

"What about the Maldives?"  asked Jo anxiously.

"You couldn't go there on your own, could you?"

Mark's look of amazement told her he hadn't a clue what she was
talking about.

"Your holiday she prompted.

"I went to Spain with some friends to play golf.  Male friends, I
should add.  I couldn't stand a beach holiday.  Unless you were with me
he added, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.  Think of the fun I
could have rubbing sun lotion onto you."

She drank hot tea and he fed her smoked salmon on home-made brown
bread.  He only started on his plate when hers was finished.

"You're so good to me, Mark."  she said simply, leaning comfortably
against his shoulder as he ate.

"I've wanted to be good to you for a long time but you wouldn't let me
he answered, taking a bite of bread.

"You're very good at that "I'm an independent woman" thing, very good
at scaring people off."

Jo grimaced.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be sorry, I can understand exactly why you'd want
to scare people off."

"Can you?"  she asked uncertainly.  She desperately wanted him to
understand everything.

"I was so lonely and on my own when Richard left.  I felt like a
one-woman disaster area.  I couldn't bear to let anyone close."

"I can see that now he said with a low laugh.

"When you split up with him ... I didn't know if that was the right
time to make my move.  I was afraid you were still in love with him."

Jo let her right hand rest on Mark's neck, her fingers stroked the back
of his head.  She loved feeling the breadth of his shoulders, the sheer
physical size of him.  He made her feel petite, even now when she was
as big as a whale.

"When I asked you to go to New York, it was a gamble.  I hoped you'd
go.  I wanted to find out how you really felt about him despite the
breakup."

"You knew we'd split up?"  she asked in astonishment.

He grinned and fed her a sliver of salmon drenched in lemon juice.
"Yes I haf good informants, Frauline," he said in a mock German
accent.

"I needed to know if you could ever think of me.  And I thought you
could and maybe even did until you told me about the baby."  He
shrugged.

"At that point, I felt like such a heel, as if I was trying to take
advantage of you."

"That's why you started treating me like your long-lost little sister
she said, finally understanding.

"I didn't feel very brotherly towards you."  Mark stroked her thigh
with one hand.

"Not at all."

Jo felt a warmth in her belly at the thought of Mark harbouring
unbrotherly desires for her.  She remembered the dream she'd had about
him that night in the Manhattan Fitzpatrick, the dream where they were
naked and entangled in bed.

"I thought you were disgusted with me, that's why we couldn't talk
except on the phone," she explained, dragging her thoughts away from
the picture of them in bed.

"Disgusted?  Never.  You've got to understand something, Jo," Mark
said, turning to face her, 'the way I felt about you, I couldn't bear
to see you alone, alone and pregnant thanks to that bastard, when you
should have been loved and your baby should have been loved."

She loved hearing him talk this way, loved it.

"Christ, I couldn't bear to see you facing everything on your own."  He
tucked back a few damp strands of Jo's hair behind one ear.

"So you mean you fancied me when you brought me out to lunch ages ago,
before we went to New York?"  Jo demanded.

"Yes."

"And you fancied me when we went to New York?"

"Fancied you?  I wanted to drag you into bed and never let you out
again.  When you wore that brown painted thing, I couldn't take my eyes
off you."

"That's my Mary Gregory dress, not some "thing"."  But you liked it?"
she added, with an arch smile.

"I loved it."

"Good.  I was beginning to think I'd lost my touch," she added
triumphantly.

"And I love you too, Jo.  I just needed the chance to tell you.

Today was it."

"Oh Mark."  Jo leaned against him contentedly.

"I love you too.  I thought I'd never be able to say that to your face,
that is."  She sat up straight.

"Do you think we should ask the garage to keep the starting motor for
us as a sort of memento?"

"One we can look at on our silver wedding and feel indebted to?"  he
asked, kissing her again.

"Exactly!"

"We should keep Rhona's telephone as a memento as well," he added.

"Why?"

"Because yesterday she told me that you weren't really with Richard,
that he hadn't come back.  Why the hell did you say he had?"

"I didn't want you to think I was pining for you when you were
obviously in love with Eva," Jo said defensively.

"I

couldn't bear you to pity me or think I was a foolish pregnant
woman."

"I've never met anyone as imaginative as you in my life," Mark said.

"Does this mean that if I don't ring you first thing tomorrow morning,
you'll suddenly decide that I've gone off to the South of France with
someone else?"

Jo didn't answer.  She was thinking of the most important question of
all, the one thing she had to ask.

"The baby.  The baby is the most important thing in my life, Mark.  I
have to think of her first.  Can you love my baby, even though she's
Richard's?"

"She won't be Richard's baby," he said simply.

"She'll be our baby, our child.  If I hadn't wanted both mother and
child, do you think I'd be here?  I'm not like him.  I don't just want
the beautiful journalist and nothing else, no ties, no commitments.

I want the woman, the mother, you."  Mark turned on the seat, held her
hands and looked at her.

"I know you've been hurt, Jo, but you've got to trust me.  I'll never
let anyone hurt you ever again.  And as for that bastard ..."

She placed a finger over his mouth.

"Don't ruin it by even talking about him," she said.

"He's bad news, always has been, although I didn't realise it for a
long time.  Let's just forget about him."

They sat in front of the fire for an hour.  Jo warmed her toes after
Mark had carefully taken off her ski boots.

"I can't remember when I last saw my feet," she said cheerfully, as the
warmth of the fire sank into her bones.

"Was I always really horrible to you?"  she asked, hating to think of
how she'd been fatally drawn into disagreeing with every second word
Mark had said at the editorial conferences.

"Brutal," he replied.

"You were so argumentative, always determined to have your say because
you had such strong opinions about 'everything.  But I liked that.  You
were never afraid to have your say.  And if you were proved wrong, you
always said so, which I like even more."

"Like the posters with the three words wrongly spelled?"

she asked.

"Like the posters," he agreed.

"You were so angry with yourself that day when you realised they'd
nearly gone to the printers incorrectly.  And you were twice as angry
with me for mentioning it at the meeting.  I remember you were wearing
that pink cardigan thing, it was really quite see-through."

Jo grimaced.

"I know, I only realised how transparent it was later."

"I noticed," he said with a small smile.

"You came back into the boardroom after the meeting to get your
notebook, all barely concealed temper."  He paused and grinned.

"I was trying not to stare at your breasts because I could see the
faint outline of your bra through the cardigan ... It was quite a feat
to talk at all."

"I thought you were a pig and I was waiting for you to make a sarcastic
comment!"  Jo exclaimed.

"I was trying not to grab you and tell you I was crazy about you there
and then," Mark said.

"Really?"  she asked in delight.

"I was going to throw that cardigan out."

"Don't you dare he murmured.

"Next time you wear it, I want to take it off."

"I might not fit into it ever again," Jo said ruefully, looking down at
herself.

"It doesn't matter.  We'll just have to find something else for me to
rip off Mark said gently.

It was nearly four when Mark looked at his watch.

"I'm afraid that we have to go, darling he said, smiling down at her as
if he couldn't quite believe that she was his.

She knew how he felt.

"I've got to go to this business dinner in town at eight and I've got a
meeting in Jurys beforehand."  He got to his feet.

"Oh."  Jo couldn't hide her disappointment.  She'd hoped that they
could spend the evening together and now he was telling her about his
plans, plans that had nothing to do with her.

"You're invited, my pet, so don't get upset.  I'll pick you up at half
six he added, tickling her under the chin.

Jo beamed at him.

"You've certainly got me figured out."

"I've been doing research for over three years he said.

"My God, are you all right?  Is it the baby?"  he asked suddenly, as Jo
let out an anguished squeak.

"No.  I've nothing to wear!"  she wailed.

"Nothing glamorous that will fit me, anyway."

"Is that all?"  Mark gave her a hug.

"Rhona's bound to have something glam from her three pregnancies and
we're not far from her house.  We could drop in and pick something
up."

Rhona answered her mobile with her characteristically brusque, "Yes!"

"Hi, Rho, it's Jo here.  Where are you?"

"Stuck behind a bloody truck on the dual carriage way You sound as if
you're on a car phone, Jo."

"I am.  I'm with Mark."

She was rewarded with a triumphant roar on the other end of the
receiver.

"With Mark as in with him in the car, or with Mark?"  Rhona
demanded.

"With him answered Mark, who could hear his editor's roars.

"Yahoo!  Thank you for ringing me to tell me," Rhona said in a quieter
voice.

"Actually, I'm ringing because I need something sexy in the
maternity-dress line for this dinner Mark is bringing me to tonight,"
Jo said apologetically.

"We're only a few miles away from your place ..."

Typical.  I personally co-ordinate the match of the decade and you just
want to rifle through my wardrobe."  Rhona did her best to sound
outraged but failed.

"I'll be home in twenty minutes.  Ted will be there so tell him to put
the kettle on.

Better still, I'll phone him myself."

When Rhona swept, into her sitting room half an hour later, she brought
a bottle of rose wine with her.

"We've got to celebrate," she said, kissing Jo warmly on the cheek.

"It's only sparkling wine but it's better than tea.  I'm so happy for
you, Jo," she whispered.

"You deserve him.  He's a wonderful man."

Mark got up from his seat beside Jo and held Rhona in a bear hug.

"Thanks for everything."  He turned to face Jo.

"If it wasn't for this lady, we'd still be freezing each other out
every time we met."

"My wife is a formidable woman," Ted agreed, handing them all glasses
of frothy pink wine.

A second bottle of rose had been consumed by the time Rhona and Jo
finally made it upstairs to rummage through Rhona's wardrobe with
five-year-old Susie and eight-year-old Lynne eagerly accompanying
them.

"Do you want to see our room?"  inquired Susie, who was holding Jo's
hand.

"Of course.  Will you show it to me?"  asked Jo.

After five minutes admiring Susie's teddies, her dolls and Lynne's
latest potato-print picture, she followed Rhona into the spare
bedroom.

"I shouldn't drink on an empty stomach hiccuped Rhona, heaving open
the old pine wardrobe door.

"You had half a glass, and Mark only had one that means that Ted and I
drank practically two bottles on our own."

"Well, it's not as if you're going anywhere," Jo pointed out
sensibly.

"Oh Rhona, this is lovely she said, taking out a long cream silk dress
with tiny buttons all the way from hem to neck.

"Lovely if you're six foot and six stone said Rhona, sitting down on
the bed.

"This is my spare wardrobe, the one the girls like best she added.

"And it's where I keep all the stuff I should never have bought because
I can't fit into it.  Lynne, show Jo the stuff at the back beside the
sequin ned dress.- ?

There's a nice velvet thing I wore when I was having Susie."

"Can I try it on?"  asked Susie.  She looked up from the basket of
lipsticks she'd taken off the dressing table.

"No darling.  It's for big people only."

"Really big people said Jo when she saw it.  On the hanger, the
long-sleeved empire-line dress in midnight blue looked big enough to
fit Rhona and Jo together.

But when Jo put it on, she found that it was amazingly ( flattering.
The high waist drew the eye to her cleavage so that you didn't notice
her huge bump, while the long, tapered sleeves gave it a faintly
medieval air.

"Perfect!"  Rhona said, looking at her deputy editor through narrowed
eyes.

"Purfect, purfect!"  sang Susie, admiring the broad pink smile and
bright red eyebrows she'd drawn on herself with lipstick.

"If Susie does your make-up, you'll look stunning added Rhona
gravely.

Thank you, Rho."  Jo said suddenly.

"Thank you for this and for what you've done for Mark and me."

"Well, I knew that if I didn't do something, the pair of you would
never sort things out.  Of course, this means I have to sit up at the
top of the church for the wedding and I get to wear an enormously mad
hat."

"Anything you want replied Jo with a large grin.  She sat down on the
bed.

"Come on, Susie, put on my lipstick!  "

CHAPTER NINETEEN 

The answering machine switched on seconds before Aisling reached the phone.  She'd
only had the machine for a month and she still found herself racing out
of the shower or hurrying from the depths of the settee when the phone
rang, having forgotten that people could leave messages.  She decided
to wait to see who was calling before she picked up the phone and
carried the groceries over to the fridge and began to unpack what felt
like a ton of cat food and an equal weight of the from age frais that
the boys were currently eating by the bucket load

"This is Carla De Paor," said the caller, in a high, rather posh
accent.

"I'm phoning to see if you can cater for a party before Christmas.  Do
give me a ring if you can help.  My number is ..."

"Hello, Ms De Paor," said Aisling, snatching up the phone and turning
the machine off.

"This is Aisling Moran.  You want to book Reservations to cater for a
party?  When is the party?"

"Friday, December thirteenth.  For about fifty people.  I know it's
terribly short notice, only asking you two weeks before, but my friend
Yvonne recommended you so highly.  I do hope you can help me the caller
added.

Aisling looked at the Cat's Companion calendar hanging by the phone and
did some quick calculations.  She had a midweek dinner party for ten
that week, her second for Jim and Rachel Coughlan, and a buffet to get
organised for the following Saturday, a day after the De Paor party.
But the buffet would be very simple and she could always rope someone
in to help with the party catering.  She'd need to get off work early,
of course, but she was owed plenty of time off.

"Yes, I can probably fit you in, Ms De Paor."  she said in the cool,
businesslike manner she'd learned to use on the phone.

"A lot depends on how elaborate the party is.  What are you
planning?"

"Nibbles, a finger buffet really," the other woman replied.

The party isn't until nine and it's not dinner, you know.  Just
something to have with the booze.  Oh you're so good to take me on,"
she gushed.

"My other people said they couldn't do it at the last minute.  If
Yvonne hadn't told me about you, I don't know what I'd have done!"

"Reservations won't let you down," Aisling said firmly.

"Once we've taken a client on, we provide a first-class service."

Unless I get sick, she thought privately, in which case the whole thing
falls apart at the seams.

"I'd like to meet you to go over exactly what menu you'd like," Aisling
continued.

"Could you meet me on Monday at one-fifteen in the Harcourt Hotel?"

"Yes, yes, no problem.  How will I recognise you?"

I'll be the one with the bags under my eyes and the rose between my
teeth, Aisling thought mischievously.  She said, "I'm blonde and I'll
be wearing a navy suit."

"Marvellous, thank you so much," said the other woman.

"Ciao."

Ciao?  Did people still say that?  Aisling wondered as she hung up.  A
mental picture of Carla De Paor came to her a cosseted wealthy wife
with bobbed burgundy hair, a year round tan from too many hours in the
sun and enough gold around her neck to settle Bolivia's national
debt.

Once, that type of woman would have overawed Aisling, made her feel
gauche and dowdy.  But not any more.  In the last few months, she'd met
more society types than she'd ever dreamed of as Reservations made a
name for itself as a small but exclusive catering business.

She'd learned that the ones with the posh voices and the expensive
clothes were just as likely to have grimy kitchen utensils and mice
droppings in the saucepan cupboard.  And, when she'd changed her
clothes in a bedroom of one luxurious mansion in Foxrock, she'd passed
the master bedroom and realised that the elegant lady who dressed in
chic clothes and sported French-manicured nails, left the same tangle
of tights, discarded outfits and clutter of toiletries on the bed as
any woman did.  There was no doubt about it, Ireland's most glamorous
people were decidedly unglamorous when you got past the facade. 
Dealing with the De Paors would be no problem.

Aisling had just unpacked the shopping when the phone rang again.  This
time she picked it up.

"Hiya, Aisling.  How are you, honey?"  Sam's voice hadn't lost its
faint transatlantic twang, a subtle variation on his native accent that
made the endearment 'honey' sound deliciously sexy.

"I'm fine, Sam.  Just been shopping and I'm going out to pick up the
boys in half an hour.  We're going to have lunch with my mother."

"Still on for tonight?"  he asked.

"Of course," she replied.

"It's not every night I get brought to a charity ball, so I'm not going
to miss it."

"Are you finally going to tell me what you're wearing, or is it still a
big secret?"  he asked.

Aisling stifled her irritation.  Ever since Mark had asked them to
accompany himself and Jo to the fund-raising ball for Chinese orphans,
Sam had been wheedling away to find out what Aisling was going to
wear.

"It's a surprise," she said.

"I want to dazzle you."

"Dazzle!"  said Sam suspiciously.

"Yes, dazzle."  Aisling could feel herself getting agitated.

What was the matter with him?  Every time he mentioned the ball, he
wanted to know what she was wearing, even though she'd told him it was
a surprise at least four times.  Which word was he having difficulty
with, she wondered?  Dazzle or surprise?

"I just want to know, that's all."  Sam sniffed.  Nobody could sniff
like Sam.  Each one was an Oscar winner, laden with meaning.

"Why?"  Aisling couldn't stop herself.  She was annoyed by the
implication that she couldn't pick something suitable for a posh ball
in the Shelbourne without his help.  She wasn't some hare-brained bimbo
who couldn't tell a black-tie affair from a beery barbeque in
somebody's back garden.  She was a working woman who'd just arranged
another booking for her catering business.  A business she'd set up
thanks to her own cooking skills and entrepreneurial ability.  So why
the hell was Sam treating her as if she was an imbecile with no clothes
sense?

Damn him.  He was so square when it came to clothes.  Not satisfied
with buying her a ludicrously little-girl dress the first time they
went out shopping, he'd subsequently surprised her with another
maidenly outfit a ruinously expensive white Ghost dress that made her
look like a milkmaid.  He probably expected her to wear that to the
ball.  Well, he could forget it.

"I'd love to see you wearing my dress."  He sniffed again.

"You look beautiful in it, so elegant."  There was a pause.

"I'm sorry he added in a low voice.

"It's childish to want you to wear my present."

It was Aisling's turn to sigh.  Don't be so hard on him, she told
herself.  You're just out of sync with normal man woman relationships.
Most men probably want their girlfriends to wear feminine outfits
instead of knock-'em-dead sexy dresses.

Perfectly normal, wasn't it?  She'd ask Jo, just to be on the safe
side.

"I love the white dress you bought me she said.  It was only a
half-lie.  She did like it, but it wasn't the sort of thing you could
wear into the office and it was far too impractical to inspire
confidence in her catering clients.

"But I've bought a lovely dress for the ball and I want to wear it.
You'll like it when you see it, I just know it."

He'll hate it, she thought as she hung up.  It was very sexy the
complete opposite of the white dress he'd bought.  A year ago, she
wouldn't have dreamed of wearing anything like it.

Mind you, a year ago she wouldn't have fitted into a long
oyster-coloured halter-neck dress.  Especially one that moulded her
body like surgical gloves.  Still, Jo said it was going to be a very
over-the-top affair, so Aisling had felt justified blowing two and a
half dinner parties' worth of takings on the dress.

"Hello, Ash."  murmured Jo, walking into the kitchen rubbing her eyes
sleepily.  Eight months pregnant, Jo was very big and in her to welling
dressing-gown worn over a large T-shirt, she looked as if she had a
beach-ball tied around her middle.

"Did you sleep?"  asked Aisling, pulling out a chair for her.

"Not really.  I keep having to pee all night and she's kicking like mad
Jo sighed.

"I'll make you a nice cup of tea and some toast offered Aisling, 'and
you can sit inside and watch telly."

Thank you.  What would I do without you, Ash?"  Jo asked.

"You'd get out more Aisling replied, filling the kettle.

"I'm afraid the boys will soon think you're their mother.  You're here
more often than I am "I don't mind baby-sitting at all.  I love being
with them.

Anyway, when you're building up a business you've got to accept lots of
work, at least that's what Richard always told me she added drily.

"It'll be easier when you've got someone to help full time."

Aisling put brown bread into the toaster and placed a tray with Flora,
marmalade, milk and sugar on it on the table in front of Jo.

"I'll need to hire someone sooner rather than later she said.

"I've just got another job, a party for fifty on Friday week.  For an
awfully jolly-hockey-sticks-sounding woman called Carla De Paor."

"Well done.  That name's familiar, though."  Jo said thoughtfully.

"Aren't they the ones with the huge pile in Greystones and the garage
business?"

"Don't know said Aisling, making the tea.  The only problem is that Sam
will go ballistic when I tell him because Michael was taking the boys
that Friday night and Sam and I were going to drive to Wexford and
spend the night in a hotel somewhere."

"You can do that another time Jo pointed out.

"You've got to make as many contacts as you can now to get yourself
established."

Aisling looked out of the kitchen window at the bird-table where a tiny
robin daintily pecked at the nuts she'd put out earlier.  It was a
freezing November day, the last vestiges of frost still sparkled in the
pale wintry sun.

"I know she said slowly.

"But Sam doesn't seem to understand that.  He knew what I wanted to do
when we met, but now he really seems to hate me working at night.  I
don't know why."

"I'm afraid that's a typical male reaction Jo said.

"Independence is wonderful, an attractive quality in fact.  Like
wearing sexy clothes, miniskirts or low-cut blouses.  Until you become
an item.  Then, it's "don't go out wearing that dress, cover up your
boobs, your legs, whatever, and turn into Little Miss Stay at Home."

"You said it muttered Aisling, thinking of Sam's fascination with her
wardrobe.

"Mark isn't like that, is he?"

"No.  Not at all.  I think it must be because he's so confident and
secure in himself Jo took her toast out of the toaster and plastered it
with Flora.

"He loves the fact that I've made my own way in the world.  But not all
men are like that she added, licking a piece of margarine off her
fingers.

"Why do I get stuck with the ones who want to turn me into the bloody
housewife from hell?"  demanded Aisling.

"Come on, Ash, give him a chance begged Jo.

"He's probably trying to protect you.  He can see that you're
stretching yourself by doing two jobs as well as looking after Paul and
Phillip," "You're right.  It's just that..."  she paused.

"What?"  asked Jo through a mouth full of toast.

"I'm beginning to feel claustrophobic Aisling said finally.

There.  She'd said it, actually said what had been rattling around in
her head for the past two weeks.

In the three months since she'd met Sam, she'd had a marvelous time.
Most of the time.  Nearly all the time, really.

He was a handsome, attentive lover and that had doubled her
confidence, made her feel happy, relaxed and as secure as a recently
separated woman could be.

Sam stayed at her house on the nights when the boys were with Michael
and they made passionate love, before falling asleep wrapped in each
other's arms.  On Sunday mornings, they sat in bed reading the papers
never the News and had breakfast, before making love again, usually
with toast crumbs sticking to their bodies.

Aisling was amazed at how quickly she'd got used to his presence in her
life and her bed.  When Michael left, she'd genuinely thought that
she'd never want another man ever again.  And here she was in a serious
relationship with Sam.

He'd certainly improved her life made her feel better about herself in
every way.  But there was something not quite right about their
relationship lately.  She'd first noticed it one day when he rang her
from his office to tell her that his trip to London the following day
had been cancelled.

"I thought we could have a romantic dinner for two," he suggested.

"Just you, me and a bottle of nice Chablis."

"Sorry, Sam," Aisling said.  The boys have to finish a project by
Thursday morning, so I said I'd help them with it tomorrow night.  It's
on "Space", which is great because they love watching Star Trek.
They're mad about anything to do with astronauts.  Anyway," she added,
"I'm not really able to do late nights in the middle of the week.  I'll
fall asleep at my desk if I don't get a decent seven hours' sleep.  I
do hope you understand."

"It's all right, I understand," he said sharply.  Clearly, he didn't
understand at all.

She could imagine how it looked from his point of view.

He'd offered her a lovely night out and she'd turned him down, rejected
him.

Well, tough, she thought to herself.  The boys are more important than
a night out, they need me.  There's been enough uncertainty in their
lives during the past year.  They need a stable home life.  I'm out
often enough because of the catering business, so they need to know
that I'm there when they want me to help them with something, Sam had
become even more annoyed the following weekend when Aisling couldn't
spend Saturday afternoon with him.  She was cooking twelve huge
vegetarian quiches and had to make a smoked trout pate which a client
was picking up that evening.

"You can't work all the time he growled.

"You've got to stop working so hard.  This bloody business means I
never see you."

Aha, thought Aisling.  That's more like it.  You're not upset at the
idea of me working too hard, you're just cross because it means you
can't get what you want.  Typical man.  She'd been prepared to promise
him a romantic evening at home when she'd cook his favourite peppered
steak with all the trimmings.  But she was damned if she'd do it when
he was going to behave childishly.

He'd been so cold towards her the next time they met that Aisling found
herself apologising for Saturday.  She told him she'd consult him in
future so her cooking didn't infringe on their time together.

"I'm sorry, Sam she'd said.  She sat beside him on the settee and
cuddled up close.

"I didn't think.  I'm trying to make the business a success and when I
get an order, I hate to turn it down.  But I'll check with you in
future in case you've anything nice planned, all right?"

Even as she said it, Aisling knew she was making a big mistake.  Making
a rod for her own back, her mother used to say.  She didn't explain any
of this to Jo, who was eating her toast hungrily.

"All relationships have their ups and downs Jo said comfortingly.

"It's a bad patch you're going through, that's all."

"So says the woman who is blissfully in love and hasn't said a cross
word to Mark for the past six weeks joked Aisling.

Jo beamed at her.

"Are we sickeningly in love?"  she asked.

"You're a living, breathing Danielle Steel story line

That bad!"

"No, I'm kidding.  I'm thrilled for you both.  Now, more tea?"

asked Aisling.  "I'd love some."

Aisling topped up the teapot with hot water and listened to Jo read
something funny from the newspaper.  But her mind was elsewhere.

"Well, what do you think?"  Aisling twirled around in her
oyster-coloured evening dress in front of Jo who was sitting on the bed
in Aisling's bedroom, sipping a glass of milk.

"Absolutely amazing.  Fantastic," praised Jo.

"You'll be the belle of the ball.  I wish I looked like that!"  she
added wistfully, patting her vast belly in Rhona's velvet dress.

"You'll get your figure back in no time," said Aisling comfortingly.

"You're naturally slim for a start and the weight will just fall off
when the baby is born, I know it will."

Jo grimaced.

"I do hope so.  I feel like a supertanker in velvet."

"You look great, Jo.  Your skin is fantastic, your hair is so shiny and
the dress is very flattering."  Aisling hugged her friend.

"It would want to be," pointed out Jo, 'seeing as how it's the only
thing I can wear out at night.  This is the third outing it's had in
the last few weeks and if I meet anyone I know at the ball, they're
going to think I only have one dress she added gloomily.  "Mark
certainly thinks you look great."

Jo's face softened.

"He does, doesn't he?  He's such a wonderful man.  So different from
Richard.  Actually, talking of

The doorbell rang loudly, cutting across Jo's voice.

"They're early."  She glanced down at her watch.

Aisling hurried to the stairs, holding up the skirt of her long satin
dress as she ran.

"I'll let them in.  Take your time coming downstairs, Jo."

Mark and Sam stood at the front door, handsome in their dinner
jackets.

"Aisling, you look ... great," said Sam in an astonished voice.  He
stood back.  His eyes travelled the length of her body, as he admired
the clinging dress which showed off her curves.  She'd spent an hour
coaxing her blonde hair into soft waves and it rippled as she moved,
the silver and golden colours perfectly matched by the shade of her
dress.

In fact, the only spot of colour were her eyes, which Jo had carefully
made up for her, their denim blue accentuated by smudged brown liner
and thick dark brown mascara.  Against the pale fawn colours of her
hair and dress, her eyes looked hypnotic and intensely blue.

"You look beautiful, Aisling."  Mark leaned over to kiss her warmly.

"Sam's going to have to spend the entire night fighting off competition
from love-stricken admirers."

Sam didn't look pleased at the thought.  They can look but they better
not touch."  He slid one arm around Aisling possessively and kissed

"Is Jo upstairs?"  asked Mark.

"Mmm."  Aisling couldn't talk properly with Sam glued to her.

Mark took the stairs two at a time and met Jo as she walked out of the
bathroom stuffing spare tissues into her handbag.

When he hugged her gently, careful not to squash her bump, Jo
experienced that sense of complete happiness she felt whenever she was
with Mark.

"How's my favourite mum-to-be?"  He dropped a kiss on the top of her
head.

"Huge."  Jo snuggled her head into his chest.

"I'm afraid that someone's going to come up to me tonight, break a
bottle of champagne on me and say "God bless her and all who sail in
her"."

She could feel Mark's deep laugh vibrate in his belly.

"Don't be silly.  You look great.  You're only a tiny little thing.

Will I carry you downstairs to prove it?"

Jo slapped him playfully.

"Only if you want to end up in casualty with a slipped disc, Mark."

Downstairs, they found Aisling trying to set the video to record
something while Sam stood boot-faced in the hall, holding her coat and
looking at his watch.

"We'll be late," he said testily.

"I'm coming called Aisling.

"I just want to tape a film later."

She reached the front door just as Mark opened it and both she and Jo
gasped.

"A limo!"  Jo said in astonishment.  A gleaming black stretch Mercedes
was parked in the drive, a black-suited driver holding open one of the
back doors.

Mark grinned as he put on his black wool overcoat.

"I

thought we should do it in style tonight he said, 'because it's a
special evening.  A very special evening he added, glancing at Jo.

He and Jo sat facing the front of the car with Aisling and Sam opposite
them.

"We could have had champagne, but since Jo can't drink any, I didn't
order it Mark said, stretching out his long legs.

"I could have half a glass."  Jo leaned comfortably against him.

"Do you know what this reminds me of?"  she said in a much softer tone
so only he could hear.

"No."  Mark put his arm around her.

"Remember when we arrived in New York and the hotel limo was there to
meet us?  I'd never been in one before but I was determined not to
appear unsophisticated and say so."  She settled herself even closer to
him.

"I kept wanting to open the drinks compartment to see if there was
actually anything in it."

"You never cease to amaze me, Jo."  Mark said.

"I've never met anyone who can act as marvellously sophisticated as you
do when you put your mind to it."

"Acting comes in very handy sometimes she whispered.

"Especially when you're chatting up the boss ..."

When the limo pulled up outside the Shelbourne, Aisling was amazed to
see three other equally long limos parked in front of the hotel.  Their
driver double-parked, ran around to open the door and helped her out as
she stared at a tall woman in floor-length fur who was getting out of
the limo beside her.

"Get a load of that coat Aisling whispered to Jo.

"Definitely ranch mink Jo whispered back.

"I bought her a mink and she wouldn't feed it," Mark pointed out to
Aisling, doing his best to sound serious.

The two women burst out laughing.  Madame Mink stared at them
frostily.

"Silly cow for wearing fur in the first place said Aisling.

She walked into the ballroom with a spring in her step.  She felt
beautiful, sexy and gloriously confident.  She could see people
glancing at her, men openly admiring her beautiful, elegant outfit.  It
had to be the dress.

"It's the dress," she whispered to Jo.

"It's you whispered Jo back.

"You look amazing."

They found their table and the two women were just sitting down beside
each other so they could gossip, when Mark arrived with their cloakroom
tickets.

"Your lady in mink had a tantrum at the cloakroom.  She insisted that
they find somewhere extra safe for her coat," he explained.

"Goodness."  Aisling fanned herself with the small dinner menu.

"I do hope you asked for the same treatment for mine.

It's a family heirloom and I know Dunnes are unlikely to ever have
anything as gorgeous ever again.  I'd be distraught if anything
happened to it.  I mean, where would you get your hands on anything
that nice for sixty pounds?"

"Was it only sixty quid?"  asked Jo, astonished.

"It looks much more expensive."

"Fiona picked it out for me Aisling explained.

"She has the most amazing eye for clothes.  Nearly as good as you."

Sam excused himself to talk to someone he'd spotted at another table.
Aisling amused herself by looking around, gazing at the people at other
tables.  Men looked so handsome in dinner jackets, she thought, as she
watched beautifully dressed couples weaving through the tables.  Even
the ugliest, scruffiest man looked better in a black tuxedo.

The women had obviously pulled out all the stops.  Sleek blondes and
brunettes in elegant black sheaths, vied for attention with women in
flowing ball gowns A couple of very young and very slim women sashayed
across the room in spray-on lycra creations, one bronze and one a
startling white that contrasted with the girl's pale golden skin.

You had to be young and slim to get away with that type of dress.
Aisling wondered what sort of underwear the girl in the white dress was
wearing.  All-in-one, vacuum-packed underwear?

No, she was thin enough to get away with ordinary undies.

A balloon floated into view, an oversized cream balloon with swirly
gold writing on it saying something she couldn't make out.  Someone had
gone to an awful lot of trouble with the decorations.  The entire room
was done in gold and cream, gold and cream balloons hung from the
ceiling.  Glass vases of tiny cream roses, tied up with gold ribbons,
stood on the tables, and wreaths of gold and cream silk flowers were
garlanded around the room and on the raised dais where seats and music
stands were laid out for a band.

There was plenty of gold on the ears, wrists and necks of the female
guests, Aisling noticed enviously.  She fiddled with her plain gold
bracelet and wished she had a gold and diamond necklace like the
statuesque blonde in pink satin who was batting heavily mascaraed eyes
at her companion.

Then Aisling saw him.  He was walking towards their table, talking to
another man, not really watching where he was going.  He looked
handsome, if a little tired, in the expensive tuxedo she'd helped him
buy just over three years ago.

"It would be handy to have my own instead of renting one every time I
need it," Michael had said as they trawled Dublin's most expensive
men's shops to find what he was looking for.

It certainly suited him, Aisling had to admit, although he'd put on
weight and the buttons were ever so slightly strained across his
stomach.  Her gaze shifted to the two women who walked a couple of
steps behind the men chatting animatedly.

Both were dark-haired.  One had short, jet-black hair, offset by a
brilliant ruby ball gown the other's brown bob swung as she walked.
She wore a strapless white silk dress with a tight bodice which flared
out into a full skirt much too wide for someone of her height.  Pearl
earrings and a pearl choker completed the outfit.

The dress must have looked stunning on the shop dummy.

But it was a major fashion mistake on the dumpy, short legged woman who
wore it.

Aisling stared at her husband's girlfriend and wondered why she didn't
want to grab her wine glass and smash it over the other woman's head.

So that was Jennifer Carroll.  The Jennifer Carroll.  It was funny,
Aisling realised, staring at her in an almost removed state of mind,
but Jennifer didn't look anything like the femme fatale she'd imagined.
How had Fiona described her?

All red talons, glittery gold outfits and skirts cut up to her thighs.
Something like that.

The woman who was now only a few yards away from her bore no
resemblance to the predatory manhunter that Fiona had described.

In the flesh ~ the not inconsiderable flesh, Aisling noticed in
amazement Jennifer Carroll was short, verging on plump.  Her pale skin
looked pasty against the gleaming white dress.

Aisling hated the smell of fake tan but, as she glanced down at her
golden arms, she was pleased she'd put it on the night before. 
Jennifer didn't look as if she'd bothered with anything much, apart
from having her hair salon-blow-dried.  ", But maybe Jennifer just
hadn't had the time to bother, Aisling reflected, because she was
ironing Michael's dress shirt finding his cuff links "They must be
there somewhere, Aisling!"  and trying to put her make-up on in front
of the mirror while he poked about in the drawers underneath the mirror
looking for a particular pair of black socks.

A cork popped loudly beside her.  Aisling turned to see a waiter
pouring frothy liquid into Jo's glass.

"Let's have a toast."  Jo turned to face Aisling with a half-full glass
of champagne held aloft.  To all of us and ... omigod!

It's ... it's Michael and ... her!"  Jo's mouth formed a pale pink oval
as she stared at Michael and Jennifer.

"I don't believe it!"  she gasped.

"Oh Ash," Jo laid a warm hand on her friend's shoulder, 'are you all
right?"

"Yes," said Aisling, still not sure exactly how she felt.

"Stunned, yes.  It's strange but, I'm OK, honestly."

"He looking at us," hissed Jo.

"Look the other way!"

Aisling obediently twisted around in her chair and smiled warmly at a
surprised Miss Pink Satin who obviously felt obliged to smile back.

"Have we had our toast?"  Aisling said brightly to the whole table.

"Let's toast the future!"

Everyone raised their glasses and drank.  Aisling drained her glass in
a couple of frothy gulps.

Jo's mouth fell open again.

"If I drank that fast, I'd hiccup for a month," she said.

"Are you sure you're all right, Ash?"

"I'm not sure," whispered Aisling, a fixed smile still glued to her
face.

"In a few minutes, I'll either be over at their table battering
Michael and Jennifer with your handbag yours is bigger than mine or
I'll be perfectly fine.  I don't know which.  Now, are they sitting
down yet?  Where are they sitting?"

"What are you two whispering about?"  said Mark, leaning towards them.
, "It's Michael and his girlfriend hissed Jo, 'over there."

"Where?"  demanded Mark.

"The second table on the left, beside the dance floor."

Aisling turned her head slightly.  She had no idea whether she wanted
to talk to Michael or not.

The woman in that dreadful white meringue dress Jo told Mark, bridling
like a mother hen seeing someone hurt her favourite chick.

"It's a dreadful dress.  Doesn't she have a full-length mirror in her
bloody house?  I can't believe anyone would go out looking like
that."

For the first time since she'd spotted Michael, Aisling smiled
properly.

"You're a howl, Ryan."  she said affectionately to Jo.

"You're so protective."

"Well, she ran off with your husband said Jo indignantly.

"I

mean, really!"

"You can only run off with someone who wants to run off in the first
place," Aisling said, in the tone of someone who'd spent an awful lot
of time turning the whole situation over and over in her head.

"Look what's happened to me as a result.  Michael's leaving changed my
life.  It was brutal, and not the sort of experience I'd recommend, but
it worked.  It changed my life and, boy, did it need changing.  And now
look at me."  She smiled and flicked back a lock of blonde hair.

"You're one hell of a woman, Aisling," Mark commented.

There can't be many women who've coped the way you have."

"Not to mention losing practically two stone and starting a new
business," put in Jo.

"How about a toast to you, Aisling and to Reservations?"

said Mark.

"Hello, guys."  Sam slid into his seat beside Aisling.

"What have I missed?"

"Oh, we've just been gossiping."  Aisling shot a warning glance at the
other two.

"So I asked him why it was going to take two weeks to put down a wooden
floor in the kitchen," Jo said, 'since it had only taken one week to
replaster all the downstairs."

"What exactly are you having done to the cottage now?"

inquired Sam idly.

Aisling stifled her irritation.  Sam spent hours in her house and had
listened to Jo and herself discussing the renovation of the cottage
often enough to know precisely what was going on, down to the last nut
and bolt.  He obviously hadn't listened to a word they'd said:

"It's nearly finished apart from a few minor details," explained Jo
patiently.

Aisling remembered when she'd indulgently repeated herself every time
Michael muttered.

"What?"

He usually said "What?"  halfway through dinner when Aisling was
regaling him with details of her day or telling him about the funny
thing she'd heard on the radio that morning.

Dinner chez Moran.  Michael indifferently munching his way through
Aisling's delicious stuffed pork with one eye on the newspaper and one
eye on his ratatouille to make sure that his fork didn't miss his mouth
and spill food down his shirt front.

Aisling couldn't suppress a shiver.  Had she really lived her life like
that?  Repeating herself endlessly.  When Michael hadn't been bothered
to listen?  Had she really been that quiet little mouse?  A mousey
mouse, she realised with a grin, running one hand through her blonde
mane.  A mouse with no confidence, no conversation and no waist.  She
took a sip of champagne to calm herself down.

Even her hands looked better nowadays, she realised, admiring the
fingers that curled around her glass, the short, well shaped nails
painted with a soft opalescent pink.  They were never going to look
like Vivienne's perfectly manicured hands.

But they were improving.  She'd been stirring chocolate sauce one night
at one of her catering jobs when she noticed that, though her hair,
clothes and figure were much improved, her hands let her down
completely.

Now she made herself wear rubber gloves when she was cleaning the bath
and scouring saucepans, something she hadn't bothered with for years.

Aisling glanced over to Michael's table.

Thank you, Jennifer, she said silently.  Thank you.  If you hadn't come
along, I'd still be living on automatic pilot, still worried about what
to cook for dinner, still utterly depressed.

You've no idea what a difference you've made to my life.  Or my
hands.

Aisling, honey, what are you going to have to eat?  Sam asked.

"I think the lamb sounds nice."  Sam was looking at the menu hungrily,
the subject of Jo's cottage obviously closed.

Aisling picked up the small menu.  Each course of the five-course meal
offered at least two choices.  Raw oysters or roast pepper salad, two
types of sorbet, consomme or rive mushroom soup, rack of lamb, salmon
cutlets or aubergine lasagne, dessert trolley or Irish cheese board. 
A wonderful menu.  "Oysters make me sick and I hate peppers," Sam
muttered.

He sounded just like Phillip when he was sulking for some reason or
other, Aisling realised.  And Sam was certainly sulking.  He'd been
shocked at the sight of her daring dress, but he hadn't been able to
make a fuss in front of Jo and Mark.  Instead, he was being charming to
all and sundry, while being very cool with her.  She hated childish
adults.

Stop it, Aisling, she told herself sharply.  He's funny, kind, very
sexy and crazy about you.  Don't ruin it.

"Maybe they can rustle up something else, a salad perhaps?"  she said
in a , placatory tone.

"I hope so."  He sniffed.

Aisling reached over for one of the bottles of white wine that had just
been placed on the table and filled Sam's glass to the brim.  When he
drank half, she filled it some more.  If that's what it took to keep
him amused, then she'd keep filling his glass all night.  It was like
giving the boys 7-Up when they were sick, or Calpol when they were
babies.

Could they rustle up a green salad or some alternative to the two
starters?  Aisling inquired.

When the waitress promised to bring a mixed salad for the gentleman,
Sam didn't even say thank you.  Aisling felt her temper rise.  If there
was one thing she couldn't bear, it was people who couldn't be civil to
waitresses, bar staff, whoever.

It drove her mad.  She looked down to find that she'd shredded her
cloakroom ticket.

By ten o'clock, the meal was practically over.  A few people were still
forking up the remains of some wonderful profiteroles.

The classical music, which had been piped through the room all through
dinner, was turned off and a woman with a microphone announced that the
charity auction would shortly begin.

"We've got a raffle for some marvelous prizes," she explained.

"The top prize is a luxury holiday for two to Tunisia."  Everyone
clapped appreciatively.  Tickets are five pounds each, or six for
twenty-five pounds."

"Oh, gimme a hundred, then," Jo said under her breath to

The classical music was slapped back on and the organisers started to
work their way around the tables, bearing books of tickets and cash
boxes.

"What were you going to tell me about Richard earlier?"

Aisling whispered to Jo.

"He rang me," Jo whispered.

"He didn't!"  said Aisling, aghast.

"Shush," hissed Jo.

"I haven't told Mark yet."

"Why didn't you tell me?"  demanded Aisling.

"What did he say?"

Jo leaned back in her chair and said nothing for a moment.

"Sorry.  I just felt very faint suddenly," she said.

"He rang me at work yesterday and he upset me so much, I didn't want to
talk about it.  The pig.  Hand me that menu, would you?"

Aisling gave her the menu and Jo immediately began fanning her face.

"He wanted to see me.  He said he was sorry he'd left me and he wanted
to try again."

Aisling was stunned.

"I can't believe it."

"Neither could I. I told him he could get stuffed," Jo said with
relish.

"And I have to say," she added, a triumphant smile hovering around her
lips, 'he was absolutely gob smacked when I said it.  He honestly
thought I'd welcome him with open arms and when I said "Get stuffed",
he was speechless."

"I'm almost speechless at the sheer nerve of him," Aisling said.

"Imagine phoning you for the first time in six months and having the
temerity to think you'd have him back."

That's Richard for you," Jo said, still fanning herself.

"He lives in a fantasy world where nothing ever goes really wrong.

If it does, he walks away.  And to think I wanted him to be a father to
my baby."  She shuddered.

"I'm so glad you have Mark," Aisling said gently.  "Me too.  He's involved, he wants to know how I feel and how the baby is doing every
moment of the day."  Jo couldn't keep the happiness out of her voice.

"He's the real father.

Richard may be the biological father, but he'll never be her real
dad."

Aisling didn't want to upset Jo, but she knew she had to ask.

"What if he demands access to the baby?"  she asked.

Jo absent-mindedly fiddled with a curl of her dark, glossy hair.

"I'm not sure," she said.

"He'd have a right to see her, of course, but I'd hate it.  I'd hate
him having anything to do with her when he didn't want me to have her
in- the first place."

"Have you talked all this over with Mark?"

"Yes," Jo replied.

"We talk about everything apart from this latest bit of news," she
added hastily.

"I'm trying to find the right time to tell Mark so he won't go
ballistic."

Knowing the sort of straightforward and honourable man Mark was,
Aisling could well understand how this fresh example of Richard's
appallingly selfish behaviour would send him into a cold, controlled
rage.

"We've talked about Richard wanting access and visitation rights," Jo
explained.

"Mark wants to do what's right for the baby.  He knows that she's
entitled to see her real father.  But," she broke off to emphasise the
point, 'he absolutely loathes Richard for what he did to me.  If
Richard has to come to my place to see the baby, I'll need to lock Mark
into the hot press beforehand so he won't murder Richard."

"Did someone mention that bastard's name?"  Mark turned to face them.

Jo blushed.

"I was just telling Aisling that we've been talking about Richard's
rights to see the baby."

The muscles in Mark's face tightened and his grey eyes grew icy cold.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed a voice, 'the auction is ready to
begin."

Saved by the bell, thought Aisling.  The loud voice of the auctioneer
drummed out of the speakers around the room and made conversation all
but impossible.  Aisling squeezed Jo's hand affectionately before
turning to face the dais.

"What am I bid for this football jersey?"  roared the auctioneer.

"A jersey signed by all the members of the Irish team, a perfect
Christmas present for the soccer-mad teenager."

Aisling watched with interest as people bid outrageous sums of money
for the oddest things.  Two china plates with butterfly designs
hand-painted in nail varnish made 1,000 because the artist in question
was the lead singer of a rock band.  Just as well she'd chosen singing
instead of art for her career, Jo said with a giggle.

A beautiful piece of driftwood made into a piece of sculpture went for
half that, even though Aisling felt it was ten times more beautiful
than the garish butterflies.  I know the money is being raised for
charity, but why do the items have to be so bloody daft?"  she asked Jo
when the auctioneer was giving his vocal chords a brief break.

"I think it's supposed to be more fun for the seriously wealthy bidders
if the stuff is totally useless Jo replied.

"Presumably, there's a certain cachet in being able to tell all your
rich pals that you spent 2,000 on a biscuit tin which Oscar Wilde's
cleaning lady swore belonged to him!"

It was when a man at the next table successfully bid for a tiny water
colour painting, that Michael finally saw Aisling.

They'd both turned to look at the purchaser and their eyes locked.
Though she was quite a distance away from him, Aisling could have sworn
he went pale with shock.  Not surprising.  The very idea of his
estranged wife and new girlfriend meeting at a party would be enough to
give any man an ulcer.

Michael probably expected her to race over to his table and throw
something at him, or to scratch Jennifer's eyes out.

Well, she wasn't going to do that.

Aisling allowed herself a little pat on the back.  She'd come a long
way from the enraged, grief-stricken wife of six months ago.  Let
Michael panic.  She wasn't about to lose her cool.

Sam had loosened up after numerous glasses of wine and two brandies. 
He wanted to dance with Aisling.

"Do you think they'll play the tango?"  he murmured into her ear.

"I'm quite good at Latin American dancing."

"We better wait till the auction stops and the music starts,"

Aisling advised, as he started nuzzling her ear.

She could feel one hand moving stealthily up her thigh, gently
caressing her through the fabric of her dress.

"So you don't hate the dress after all," she couldn't resist saying.

"It's very nice.  I'd prefer it if I was the only one to see you
looking this sexy," Sam said.

"You're mine and nobody else's.

Remember that."

She wasn't likely to forget it from the way he was holding onto her.

"Sam," she began, 'you've got to understand, I'm not a thing.

I'm a person.  I don't belong to anyone except myself."

He wasn't listening.  The band had just launched into the first bars of
Glenn Miller when Sam caught Aisling's hand and pulled her out of her
chair.

"C'mon, honey.  Let's show them how it's done."

Normally Aisling couldn't have thought of anything worse than being
practically the first couple on the dance floor, but for once she
didn't mind.  She and Sam made a handsome couple and she wanted to give
Michael the opportunity to see what he'd dumped.

When Sam spun her around, she could see Michael's poker face.  Jennifer
sat a little apart from him, looking strained.  Let them watch, thought
Aisling, bestowing a warm smile on Sam.  She'd put him straight about
the question of 'ownership' later.

Sam may have looked good, but he was no dancer.  After two fast
numbers, she was ready to sit down and rest her bruised toes when the
tempo of the music slowed.  Sam immediately slid one arm around her
waist and started to waltz clumsily, her body crushed against his.

"You look wonderful," he murmured through boozy breath.

"Thank you," Aisling replied with the sexiest smile she could muster.
Now was not the time to remind him that he'd hated her outfit a couple
of hours ago.  She closed her eyes and kissed him, a long, passionate
kiss more suited to the bedroom than the dance floor.  God, but she was
enjoying this.

She opened one eye and took a surreptitious look in Michael's
direction, delighted to see that he looked as if he'd just had a root
canal done at the dentist and been presented with the bill into the
bargain.

Another kiss, I think, she decided.  Poor Sam was going to be beside
himself with passion if she didn't stop.

"We should go home early," said Sam huskily when their lips finally
parted.

That wasn't part of Aisling's plan.

"We can't just go and leave Jo and Mark after they invited us," she
said hurriedly.

"Anyway, we've all tomorrow morning to lie in bed and ... read," she
added with a meaningful grin.

"I've had enough dancing, Sam.  I want to go to the ladies' room,

OK?"

They walked leisurely back to their table.  Aisling deliberately chose
a route which avoided Michael's table.  She'd go over to say hello in
her own time when she'd powdered down her undoubtedly shiny nose and
put on more lipstick.

In the ladies', she decided against giving herself another blast of
perfume it would look too obvious.  But she brushed her hair and
slicked on plenty of the coral lipstick which made her lips look full
and glossy.

"Hello, Michael, how are you?  Aren't you going to introduce me to your
friend?"  she practised.  No, that sounded wrong.

"Michael, darling, so nice to see you again."

Too false.  How about.

"Hi, Mike, nice to see you.  Can't stop.

My boyfriend's insatiable and we have to get back to bed immediately.
Bye."

There had to be a right way to do it.  Maybe there was a book How to
Behave When You Meet Your Ex and His Lover for the First Time.  And if
there wasn't a book, perhaps she would write it.  It would be a
bestseller, she was sure of it.

A woman washing her hands at the basins looked at Aisling enviously, a
quick peep when she thought Aisling wasn't looking.  She was tall and
heavily built, and wore the sort of size sixteen dress that Aisling
herself would have had to wear a year ago.  Poor thing, Aisling
thought, sympathetically.

She held the door open for the other woman as they left and smiled at

That's a lovely dress," the woman said longingly.

"I wish I could wear something like that."

Thank you," said Aisling with a friendly look.

"I'm still not used to being able to wear it myself, you know.  Six
months ago I wouldn't have been able to get away with this, but I've
lost loads of weight."  .

"Really?"  asked the woman, with the fascinated gaze of the eternal
dieter who knows the calorific content of every single type of
chocolate biscuit.

"Really," Aisling repeated.

"And if I can do it, anybody can.  See you."  She walked off, thinking
about the smile which had spread across the other woman's face a
there-is-hope-for-me-after-all sort of smile.  I'd be great as a diet
counsellor, Aisling thought happily.  She was so busy thinking about
how satisfying it would be to help other depressed and miserable women
lose weight and regain control of their lives, that she almost didn't
realise she had walked straight up to Michael's table.

Here goes, she decided.  There's no backing out now.

"Hello, Michael.  How are you?  You must be Jennifer."  She was amazed
at how calm and steady her voice sounded.

"Hello," stuttered Michael in shock.

Aisling didn't know which of them looked the more stunned.  Jennifer
stared up at her with wide, frightened eyes, like a rabbit caught in
the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut.

Michael looked utterly horrified."

Relax," Aisling said.

"I'm not going to bite.  We're adults, after all."

"Of course," Jennifer said breathlessly.

"Nice to meet you, Aisling.  The boys are always talking about you."

"I'm glad to hear it," Aisling said.  Close up, the other woman looked
tired and drawn, plenty of crow's feet around her pale blue eyes.  She
had to be thirty-five or thirty-six.

"Would you like to sit down?"  Jennifer asked politely, gesturing to
the empty chair beside her.  Michael shot her a withering look and she
flushed.  Her eyes glistened with what looked suspiciously like
tears.

They were having a row.  Aisling couldn't believe it.  She hoped it was
about her.  She sat down gracefully, determined not to spoil the effect
of her perfectly styled hair and beautiful dress.

"How are you both?"  she asked graciously, feeling rather like the
Queen at a garden party.  All she needed were the elbow-length white
gloves and the tiara.

"Fine!"  said Michael sharply, shooting Jennifer another meaningful
look.  The other woman's face fell and, for an instant, Aisling felt
sorry for her.  Michael had always been very talented in the
withering-look department.

"Sorry."  Jennifer pushed back her hair clumsily and left, rushing
towards the ladies'.

"Was it something I said?"  asked Aisling, still with the serene smile
on her face.

"No."  Michael sounded as weary as he looked.  The band struck up The
Carpenters' Close to You.

"You always loved that song," he said absently.

"And you hated it," Aisling answered.

"Did I?  I quite like it now."

Aisling's eyebrows shot up.

"Are you mellowing, Michael?"

she asked.

He snorted.

"No.  Yes.  I don't know."  He ran one hand through his hair, leaving
it standing up in dark peaks.  Once, she'd have cried at this point,
the point where she realised that she'd never smooth his hair down for
him again.  Not any more.  Her hair-smoothing days were well and truly
over.

"Did I interrupt an argument?"

"Sort of.  It was a bit of a shock seeing you here, that's all," he
admitted.

"You know why," he said.

"You've never met Jennifer and she feels so guilty about everything."

Typical, thought Aisling, she feels guilty but you obviously don't.

"We have to meet sometime, why not now?"  she said.

"I suppose he said, reaching for his cigarettes.  Silk Cut purple, she
noticed.  Amazing.  She'd tried to get him to stop smoking Marlboro for
years.  It took six months with another woman to have him down to a
lighter brand.  Things have been difficult recently and Jennifer got a
shock when she saw you.  You look amazing," he added.

"You do, you know."

"I know."  Aisling gave him her cat-devouring-a-meringue smile and
prayed that she wouldn't be struck dead for lying so blatantly.  When
did any woman ever say "I know to a statement about her looking good?

"Jenny's been sick, she had a bug and she doesn't look very good, so
she was a bit freaked out to see you here looking like some bloody
superstar."  He took a deep drag of his cigarette.

Score dix points to Aisling.  He thought she looked good and so did
"Jenny'.  Marvellous.  Make it douze points.  At least that explained
why Jennifer didn't look like the stunner she'd expected.  Perhaps she
had better days.  She'd want to.

"I shouldn't be telling you any of that, I suppose," Michael added
gloomily.

"I'm afraid that there aren't any rules for this type of situation
Aisling said, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

"So we'll have to make them up as we go along.  I'm sorry I don't fit
in with your version of the dumped wife a thirteen-stone heifer with a
bit of a booze problem she sniped.

"It would have been easier for you if I still looked like that,
wouldn't it?

So you could tell "Jenny" that you couldn't bear to live with me any
longer and she'd have believed you.  It's not so easy when I look
better than she does.  Tough, Michael."

Aisling gazed at him angrily.  She hadn't meant to lose her temper but
she couldn't help herself.

"It wasn't like that he protested weakly.

"You know that!"

"I didn't know anything," she said.  That's the whole point.

You never gave me a chance.  But," she gazed at him contemptuously,
"you did me a favour.  After all those years of telling me I'd be no
good going back to work, I did."
"Aisling!"  begged Michael, 'let's not
go into this now, please."

"Why?"  she demanded.

"Am I causing a scene?"  She glanced around.  Despite the loud music,
people were staring at them.

But she didn't care.  She'd waited a long time to tell Michael what she
really thought and now he was a captive audience.

"Thanks to you, I had to go out and get a job.  And thanks to me and my
skills, I started up a catering business.  Reservations.

It's very successful actually she hissed.

"But I doubt if you and "Jenny" would be able to afford to hire me.
It's an exclusive business, no riffraff."

"For God's sake, Aisling, let's be adults about this."  Michael looked
shattered.

"Adults?  If you want to behave like an adult, why did you bite her
head off when she was behaving like one?  Don't tell me she snapped.

"I know.  It's because that's the way you are, Michael, isn't it?
Difficult.  That's the polite way of putting it, anyway Aisling "added
sarcastically.  She looked at him with disdain.

"If Jenny's worried that I'm going to steal you back because I'm no
longer the frumpy wife, I can put her mind at rest.  Our relationship
is over, dead as a dodo, finito, finished, gone."  Aisling enunciated
each word clearly and crisply.

"So she can stop worrying.  Get her to come back and I'll tell her she
offered.

She was pleased to see that Michael looked hurt.  There wasn't a thing
he could say.

"In fact, I'll get her myself."  Aisling got to her feet abruptly.

She walked out of the ballroom.  Jennifer wasn't in the ladies'.

Aisling found her at the bar, gulping a gin and tonic as if her life
depended upon it.  Slimline tonic, too, Aisling noticed.

"You didn't have to leave Aisling said.

"There's nothing we have to talk about that you can't hear.  All we
need is to wait another four and a half years and Michael and I can get
divorced.  So don't worry about me wanting him back.  I don't."

Even as she said it, Aisling knew it was true.  She didn't want Michael
back under any circumstances.  She'd had twelve years of marriage and
that was enough.  It had taken many hours of sobbing to figure it all
out.  But she knew what she wanted now.  Aisling had tasted freedom and
she liked the taste.  Loved it, in fact.  There was no going back.
Jennifer would find that out for herself.  Sooner rather than later,
Aisling reflected, if Michael was true to form.

"Would you like a drink?"  Jennifer asked tentatively.

"No thanks.  I've got to get back to Sam.  He's so possessive, he hates
it when I leave him Aisling couldn't help adding.

Was she really here, talking calmly with the woman who'd stolen her
husband?  No, not stolen, she corrected herself.  The woman who'd been
there when he decided their marriage was over and that he wanted out.

"You know, new lovers can't wait to get you home to bed!"  Aisling
smiled wickedly.  She idly wondered if the wild start-of-the-affair sex
between Jennifer and Michael had dimmed.  Definitely, if the strained
atmosphere between them was anything to go by.

"See you soon."

She walked away with her head held high.

"Where've you been?"  Demanded Sam when she sat down between him and
Jo.

Talking to my husband," she replied sharply.

"What!"  he screeched, pushing back his chair and getting to his
feet.

"Where is he?"

"Calm down, Sam," said Aisling tiredly.  She'd had enough trauma for
one night without Sam's histrionics.

"What did he say to you?  If he upset you, I'll kill him!  I'll kill
him, anyway," Sam raged.  His face was flushed with alcohol, his eyes
were angry and he was actually balling his hands up into fists.

"What did you talk to him for?"  He glared at Aisling.

She'd had enough.  This was ridiculous.  Sam was going to fight Michael
over her, probably because he -didn't like the idea of Michael seeing
her in a sexy dress.  Or merely because he wanted to fight with anyone
who dared to look at her.

Aisling stood up until they were face to face.  She didn't even raise
her voice.

"Listen, Sam.  Who I talk to is none of your bloody business.

Michael is still my husband, not even my ex-husband yet, so we have a
lot of things to talk about.  Like our children, for instance.  Do you
understand what I'm talking about?"  she asked him as if she was
talking to a five-year-old.

"Aisling!"  he shouted.

"Shut up!"  she hissed.

"This is none of your business.  Do you understand?"

"No.  It is my business.  I'm with you, I'm responsible for you!"  he
snarled.

"You're not responsible for me, Sam.  You never were and you aren't
now.  Accept that or leave now!"

Shaking with controlled rage, Aisling sat down again.

"I'm so glad you're back," panted Jo.

"Are you all right?"  asked Aisling, Sam forgotten as she took in her
friend's pale, damp face.

"No.  I don't think so.  I feel very strange all of a sudden.

Mark went to the loo five minutes ago, and I've been feeling very
strange since then."

"I'm so sorry.  I was so busy with Sam, I never noticed ... Why didn't
you come and get me?"  Aisling hissed at Sam.

"I didn't know where you were!"  he retorted.

"Oh Ash!"  Jo's cry was loud and scared.  Her eyes were huge as she
looked at her friend.

"My waters just broke!  "

CHAPTER TWENTY 

Mark held Jo's right hand tightly as the limo raced towards the Coombe.

"Don't worry, Jo," he said encouragingly.

"You're going to be fine, I promise."

"But you've never had a baby sobbed Jo.

"How do you know?"

"I have and you're going to be fine," said Aisling reassuringly,
squeezing Jo's left hand.

"The baby's early.  I'm not due yet," wailed Jo.  How could she be
having the baby so soon?  She'd another three weeks to go, the baby was
premature.  Maybe she wasn't in labour at all.

She'd read the pregnancy books and she hadn't had the hours of
contractions she'd expected.  It had to be a false alarm.

"Aaagh!"  she screamed as another contraction hit her.

"Oh God," groaned Mark.

"Hurry up he yelled at the driver.

"He's going as fast as he can Aisling said in the calm and controlled
voice she used when the twins had nightmares.

"We don't want to end up in the casualty room before we get to the
delivery ward, do we?"  She glared at Mark.

"You're right, you're right he said.

"You've got to stay calm he added to Jo.

"I don't want to be calm she yelled.

"This hurts."

And it's going to hurt a hell of a lot more, Aisling reflected.

Wait till they got to the bit where Jo screeched that she was never
going to let a man get within a fifty-foot radius of her ever again.
Aisling remembered that one.  Listening to a woman screaming that sex
was off the agenda for ever was enough to put the fear of God into any
man.  Never mind one who wasn't even the father in the first place.

Once she'd realised that Jo was going into labour, Aisling sent Sam to
her house in a taxi to get Jo's hospital suitcase.

They'd packed it a few days before.

Jo already had a large collection of baby clothes, including
beautifully knitted matinee coats and shawls her mother had made, and a
selection of pastel-coloured baby gros Rhona had given her.  Packing
for the baby was no problem, she said, reading from the list.

"Nappies, vests, baby gros cardigans, soft towels, a hat, gloves,
breast-feeding bras, sanitary towels, nipple cream, the list goes on
and on.  It's like bringing an entire department store into hospital,"
Jo laughed.

"Breathe deeply, Jo," Mark said in an encouraging voice.

"That's later hissed Jo.

"All right, Jo.  Don't get upset," Aisling said.

"You've got to stay calm."

"Calm?  Shrieked the expectant mother.

"How can I stay calm?  I'm having the baby in a car."

"You're not, Jo."  Mark held her gently.  The pain of the contraction
faded.  They sat quietly for a few moments, Jo's eyes closed again, one
hand lay gently on her bump, the other tightly clasped in Mark's.

Jo was so glad it was Mark who was with her right now.  She couldn't
imagine what Richard would have done.  Phoned his mother, probably,
before retiring to the nearest pub for some Dutch courage.  He wouldn't
have been much help, wouldn't have been any help.

Mark wasn't like that.  He loved her and that meant he wanted to be
with her all the time.  Wonderful, wonderful Mark.  She could feel his
hand warm and strong around hers.

He seemed to understand that she didn't want to talk.  She wanted to
stay silent.  If she could keep her eyes closed and stay very, very
still, she mightn't have another contraction.

Then they could all go home.

"Aaagh!"

The pain was intense.  And terrifying.  There was no doubt about it, Jo
thought as she clenched her teeth, she was having the baby.  It was
going to happen very soon.

Thank God," breathed Aisling as the limo pulled up outside the
hospital.

"I thought we'd never get here."

"You and me both muttered Jo, between deep breaths.

Within minutes, she was being examined by a midwife who pronounced her
as three centimetres dilated.

"Dilated to meet you," Jo joked weakly.

"You're wonderful, do you know that?"  said Mark quietly.

"Even now you're able to make me laugh."

"Fear," said Jo.

"I'm bloody terrified.  I'm trying to make both of us laugh ..."
Another huge contraction gripped her.

The midwife, a down-to-earth woman named Paula, took Jo's blood
pressure, temperature and pulse before listening to the baby's
heartbeat.

"Both you and your baby are doing fine," Paula said calmly.

"You're definitely in labour, but it could be a long time before you
reach the second stage.  You've got to relax, Jo."

"I'm in labour, really?"  asked Jo in alarm.

"Yes, but you could have a long wait Paula explained.

"I'll be monitoring you all the time to see how you're doing, but
you've got to relax."

Jo felt as if a tight band was being wound around her chest, squeezing
her heart and lungs until she could barely breathe.  In labour.  She
was in labour.  There was no stopping it, there was no turning back.
The baby was coming.  She was terrified.

"Mark!"

"Yes, Jo, I'm here."

She squeezed his hand in terror.

"Oh Mark, it's happening and I'm not ready, I'm not ready at all."  Her
voice became a sob.

She clung to him, sobbing with a mixture of fear and pain.

Mark looked at Paula in anguish, not knowing what to do.

"You might feel better if you walked around for a while Paula advised
Jo.

"Would you like to do that?"

Jo nodded through the tears.  Anything was better than just lying back
on the pillows in pain.  She'd love to walk if only she could.  It was
all so terrifying, so utterly terrifying.  When Sam arrived with Jo's
things half an hour later, she was feeling more relaxed.

"She's calmed down a lot Mark told Aisling when he left the labour ward
to get Jo's nightie.

"They gave her an injection of pethidine.  She refuses to have an
epidural, as you know.  I wish she'd have one."

"Jo's terrified of the idea Aisling said.

"I did my best to convince her.  Told her I'd have had one if I could
when I was having the twins, but she won't hear of it."

Mark rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"She says you should go home, Aisling, and get some sleep."

"Sleep!  I don't think I could Aisling exclaimed, pulling her coat
tighter around her shoulders.

"I feel so useless out here, I wish I could do something."

"You feel useless Mark said, his voice strained.  At least you've gone
through this.  I don't know what to do at all, except tell her to
breathe deeply.  I can barely breathe myself when I see her in so much
pain."

Aisling gave him a hug.

"You're doing great.  She simply needs you with her, the hospital will
do all the rest.  Don't worry."

Aisling watched him go.  He looked utterly haggard, but then, they all
did.  Her eyes had been bloodshot the last time she looked in the
ladies' mirror and even Sam, who always looked in the prime of health,
was white-faced with tiredness.

"What time is it?"  murmured Jo when Mark went back to her.

"I think I dozed off."  She sounded almost drunk.  Paula had explained
that pethidine could do that to you.

"It's nearly three."  He stroked her face softly.  He was glad that she
was dozing off, glad that the injection meant she slept between each
agonising contraction.  He sat beside her, watching her eyelids flutter
as she slept.  She seemed to be having mini nightmares, tossing
restlessly and waking screaming when the pain hit her.  Mark held her
hand while she slept and wiped her hot face and neck with a cool face
cloth when she woke up.  Paula was fantastic.  She soothed Jo when he
couldn't.

"The baby's heartbeat is very strong she told Jo.

"It won't be too long now."

The hands on Mark's watch had crawled around to half four when a
red-haired nurse popped her head around the door.

"Mr.  Ryan, Paula said you should grab a cup of tea and I'll stay with
Mrs.  Ryan," she said.

Thanks, but I couldn't leave her," he replied.

"Go on," the nurse insisted.

"It could be a long night."

Mark gulped his scalding tea, not really wanting to wait until it
cooled.  He was afraid to be away from Jo for more than ten minutes.
Who knew when she'd go into the second stage?

"Mark!" He heard her long before he reached the ward.  She was
screeching in pain, her face contorted as a powerful contraction hit
her.  Her eyes were red with exhaustion and sweat had matted strands of
dark hair to her forehead.

"Jo, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I was gone," he cried.

"I've got to push!"  she screamed.

"Don't push yet."  Paula's voice was calm and controlled.

This isn't the time to push.  Take two short breaths and then breathe
out slowly," she advised, checking Jo's cervix.  Another nurse
monitored the baby's heart through the machine they'd connected to Jo's
belly.

"You're nine and a half centimetres dilated, Jo.  You're nearly ready.
How do you feel?"

"Bloody awful," panted Jo.

"Aaagghh!"

They propped her up with a pile of pillows, getting her into the most
comfortable position.

"You're doing great, Jo," Mark said.

Ten centimetres," said Paula.

Jo screamed with pain.

"Now I know why they call it "labour"."

"OK now, push!"  commanded Paula.

"A long, steady push."

Jo pushed, tucking her chin down onto her chest.  That was the right
way to do it, she was sure.  That was what they'd said at the classes.
Oh God, the pain, she couldn't take it.  How could the baby come out?
How would it fit?

"You're doing brilliantly, Jo."  said Mark encouragingly, one large
hand clasped tightly in Jo's small one.

"Take a deep breath as you feel each contraction beginning Paula
said.

"Ready ..."

Jo did her best and pushed as hard as she could.  She could feel the
baby, feel the baby coming out.

That's great, one more push.  It's crowning.  Jo, we can see the baby's
head."

Mark squeezed her hand and Jo felt the tears swell in her eyes.  The
baby, her baby.

"Don't push for a moment, Jo.  The baby's head is stretching the birth
canal.  We don't want you to tear Paula said.

"Relax."  Mark said.

"And pant added the red-haired nurse.

Jo panted, feeling the pressure lessen.

"Oh Jo, look, the baby's head!"  yelled Mark in excitement.

She could barely see, couldn't stretch any farther.  She so desperately
wanted to see the baby's head.

"Push."  commanded Paula.

"Just a couple more pushes, just two more!"

With one last push, Jo felt the baby ease out.  She gasped with relief,
and as Paula held the small bloodied body up for her to see, she gasped
with joy.

"She's a beautiful little girl Paula said triumphantly.

Tears blinded Jo.  She watched Paula expertly check the tiny infant.
She'd read all about the Apgar score to assess the baby for breathing,
heart rate and response to stimulation.  Before, the Apgar had been
words on a page now it was the most important thing in the world to
her.

"Oh Mark."  Jo held her breath with terror.  Please let the baby be all
right.  The baby let out a loud wail, a healthy sound that brought
colour to her mother's cheeks.

"Is she all right?"  Jo asked, barely able to speak with fear.

"You've got a beautiful little girl, Jo."  said Paula.

"She's seven pounds one ounce, very healthy.  She scored an eight on
her Apgar."

Paula laid the baby, all wrapped up in a soft towel, in Jo's arms.  Jo
gazed down at the huge blue eyes, the downy dark hair clinging to her
head, and the small pink mouth screwed up with crying.  She'd never
felt anything like it before, Jo thought, the powerful and intense love
she felt for her tiny, fragile baby.  She held the baby's delicate
little hands, marvelling at the tiny fingers.

"She's so beautiful," said Jo, holding the fragile baby close to her
chest.  Mark sat on the edge of the bed and stroked the baby's head.
His huge hand dwarfed the infant's red face.

As if she had responded to his touch, the baby stopped crying and
snuggled instinctively closer to Jo's breast.  She made little sucking
noises with her mouth and Jo was about to open her hospital gown to
feed her when Paula appeared beside her.

"Because she was premature, we've got to make sure that she's healthy
the midwife said, gently taking the baby from Jo.

"The paediatrician wants a look at her.  I'll be back with her as soon
as I can."

Jo felt as if a part of her was missing.  She laid her fingers over the
mound of her belly, still huge from carrying her little passenger all
those months.  If something went wrong, if the baby was sick, Jo didn't
know how she'd cope.  She'd die if anything happened to the baby, she
just knew it.

"She'll be fine, Jo."  Mark leaned over to kiss her forehead.  It was
no good.  She loved Mark to pieces, but he couldn't comfort her when it
came to her darling baby.

After fifteen of the longest minutes of Jo's life, Claire, the
red-haired nurse, returned with the baby and the paediatrician in
tow.

"She's fine," explained the doctor.

"Perfectly healthy.  She's quite big for a pre-term baby at seven
pounds one ounce.  And she's perfect."

"I know, isn't she?"  Jo beamed up at him.

"You hold her, Mark," she added.  When Mark took the infant into his
arms, she mewled like a kitten at first and then snuggled peacefully
into his chest.

"She's fantastic Mark said in awe, staring at her as though he'd never
seen a baby before.

"A daddy's girl already," said Jo with a smile.

Half an hour later, the baby was sleeping peacefully in her crib when
Claire came into the brightly painted hospital room Jo had been wheeled
into.

"You need to get some rest," she told Jo.

"I'm exhausted," Jo admitted, 'but could I have a cup of tea,
please?"

"Yes.  Do you want one too?"  Claire asked Mark.

"I'd kill for some tea," he replied gratefully.

"She's so beautiful, isn't she?"  Jo gazed into the cot beside her bed
where the baby lay sleeping.

"How could she be anything else when she's got the most gorgeous mother
in the world?"  Mark sat on the edge of the chair beside Jo's bed and
leaned over towards her.

"I had this all planned," he said.

"We were going to leave the Shelbourne early and get the limo to drive
us up to the cottage, where I have candles, champagne, flowers and the
CD player with your favourite Mariah Carey CD all ready to swing into
action.  And then," he paused and looked at Jo intently, his grey eyes
warm with love, "I was going to ask you to marry me.

So will you marry me?"  he asked softly, so as not to wake the baby.

"I think this is the perfect moment, with our daughter asleep beside
us."

He fumbled around the inside pocket of his dinner jacket which lay on
the chair behind him.  A moment later he produced a small navy leather
box, opened it, and offered it to Jo.

"Oh, it's beautiful," she breathed, stunned by the square-cut emerald
surrounded by tiny diamonds.  As she moved the box, the little diamonds
twinkled in the light.

She looked up at Mark.

"Oh Mark, thank you so much.  I do.  I will.  Whatever!"

She'd never loved him more than at this moment, with stubble darkening
his jaw, eyes red-rimmed, his face pale with tiredness and strain. 
He'd been with her for the birth of the baby, their baby.  She was
Mark's child, there was no doubt in her mind about that.  He leaned
forward and kissed her gently on the mouth.

"I'm so glad.  I've wanted to ask you for a long time, but it had to be
the right moment."

Jo grinned tiredly as she lay back on her pillows.

"I think we can safely say that we'll never forget this moment she
said.

The door swung open and Claire arrived in with a small pot of tea and
two cups.

"Your friend is still outside.  She can come in for a moment if you'd
like."

"Mark, go and get Aisling," said Jo.  Tell her we've some news for her.  "

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

Do I look OK?"  Jo twisted and turned in
front of the mirror in her bedroom.  Did her bum look too big in the
cream brocade suit?  The slim fitted jacket flattered her curves and
the combination of the long straight skirt and high-heeled cream boots
made her look like an elegant Edwardian lady.  Or at least it had when
she tried it on in Amanda Wakeley's shop in London.  But now she wasn't
so sure.

It wasn't the traditional wedding dress, but as she and Mark weren't
having the traditional church wedding, she preferred a low-key outfit
to go with the simple civil service.  A ceremony attended by their
close family and a small reception in the beautiful estate in
Enniskerry's Powerscourt was what they'd both wanted.

The ceremony was at three.  It was still only half one, there was
plenty of time for last-minute panic attacks about whether her outfit
looked all right and would she have to insist that Ralph, the
photographer, doctor the wedding pictures to make her look slimmer.

Jo examined herself in the mirror.  She was still a little pale, even
though she'd used at least half a ton of bronzing powder.

But at least she'd lost most of the weight she'd put on carrying
Isabel.

If only her bum was as slim as it had been before she'd got pregnant,
then she'd be totally happy.  But you couldn't really tell thanks to
those lycra-panelled knickers that sucked everything in.

Her dark hair was piled up on top of her head.  A few tendrils
clustered around her face.  Jo fiddled with these curls restlessly.

"You look great, stop worrying."  Aisling looked up from the bed where
she was trying to undo Isabel's baby gro to change her nappy.  At
three months old, Isabel Ryan was a very energetic young lady and
enjoyed nothing more than wriggling madly when she was having her
clothes put on or taken off, kicking the undresser in lots of painful
places.

"Let me, Ash."  Jo got down on her knees beside the bed and took over
from Aisling.

"How's my Isabel?"  she cooed, kissing her daughter's snub nose.  The
baby squealed with delight and kicked harder as Jo tried to ease her
tiny feet out of the cream to welling outfit.

"Don't kick Mummy in the tummy, pet.  Now you've got to be very, very
good while Mummy gets ready to marry Daddy," murmured Jo, as she
expertly undid the baby gro and unfastened the nappy.

"Won't you be good, Isabel?"  she asked.

Isabel responded with another couple of uncoordinated kicks and a happy
gurgle.

"She's a love."  Aisling sat on the edge of the bed and watched, with
more than a hint of longing in her own voice.

"Isn't she just?"  Jo said proudly.

"We've been so lucky with her.  When I went to the creche for the first
time last week, three of the mothers there couldn't believe it when I
told them how good Isabel is.  I think they think I'm making it up to
make them jealous."

"Not many babies sleep solidly- for eight hours at night."

Aisling opened her handbag and pretended to search for her lipstick.
She had to get over the maternal feelings which tore at her heart every
time she held Jo's little daughter in her arms.

The twins were awful for sleeping.  I'd get Phillip off to sleep when
Paul would wake up, or vice versa."

Aisling outlined her lips with lip pencil and then applied the deep
pink colour which went perfectly with the fitted dusky rose wool
trouser-suit she was wearing.

It was just as well she'd worn the long-sleeved pale pink body
underneath, she thought.  It was the coldest day in February, freezing
winds whipped around Jo and Mark's cottage in the Dublin mountains.
"Come on, darling, help Mummy put your dress on," Jo was saying
softly.

"I'll help," Aisling offered, seeing the difficulties Jo was having
trying to slip the cream silk overdress, the same colour as her own
elegant suit, over Isabel's head.  By the time Jo finally managed to
put the cream bonnet with the silk ribbons on her daughter's dark hair,
Isabel looked like a baby from an eighteenth-century French painting.

"All we need are Marie Antoinette's shepherdess's dresses, bonnets and
a couple of sheep and we're all set to be hung in the National
Gallery," Aisling said with a laugh before extracting a camera from her
handbag.

"Smile!"

"We've got half an hour before the car comes so I decided to open one
of the bottles of champagne Mark left in the kitchen."  Laura Ryan
appeared at the bedroom door with a tray, three glasses and a bottle of
Cristal.

"Champagne."  cried Jo in delight.

"My favourite.  Mum, I didn't know there was any champagne in the
house."

"Your husband-to-be is highly organised," her mother replied with a
smile.

"He told me about the case before he left and said he'd hidden a
Chocolate Orange in the cupboard under the sink for you to go with
it."

"Oh."  Jo sighed appreciatively.

"He knows I love Chocolate orange."

"With champagne?"  asked Aisling.

"With anything."  Jo and her mother laughed at exactly the same time.
Aisling was struck again by how alike the two women were.  There was no
way you'd ever think that the lithe and dark-haired Laura Ryan was a
grandmother, never mind the mother of grown-up children.

"Let me take Isabel."  Laura picked up her granddaughter with delight.
Isabel gurgled happily and blew bubbles at her adoring granny.

Jo draped a towel across her mother's shoulder so she could cuddle
Isabel without ruining her wedding outfit with dribbles.

"Granny has to look good in front of your daddy's relatives,"

Laura explained as she adjusted the towel.

"You look fantastic, Mum."  said Jo sharply.  "There won't be anyone
there to hold a candle to you.  Anyway, I told you that Mark's family
is very nice.  His sister, Denise, is lovely, although I have no idea
where she got that little bitch Emma from," Jo added thoughtfully.

"She's the only one I was worried about.  I could picture her making
snide remarks all day, but not any more.  She knows what side her bread
is buttered on now Jo added vehemently.

Tell me, what's happened?"  demanded Aisling, agog.

Jo abandoned all pretence of putting on her eyeliner.

"Well," she said with a definite glint in her eye, "I went into the
office last week with my copy and I had Isabel with me, of course. 
That little cow was there, sitting in my seat as cool as a cucumber and
she'd dumped all my stuff on top of my filing cabinet.  She didn't
expect to see me, I can tell you."  Jo grinned triumphantly.

"She went puce and started moving her stuff off the desk quickly.  I
went in to talk to Rhona and when I came out she was on the phone
bitching about me."

"I don't believe it."  said Aisling.

"How stupid can she be, talking about you like that when you were
there."

Jo shrugged.  That girl is a real mystery to me.  Sometimes she's so
smart and bitchy, and other times she comes across like a complete
fool.  Anyway," she took a sip of champagne, "I waited until she was
off the phone, let Rhona take Isabel, then I called Emma into Rhona's
office.  I told her that I knew exactly what sort of person she was,
and I said that even though I didn't believe in throwing my weight
around normally, she'd better watch out when I came back to work.

"You may be Mark's niece," I told her.

"But I'll be his wife.  You figure it out."  That shut her up."

Aisling and Laura howled with laughter.

"Well done Laura said, "I'm proud of you."

That's priceless.  I'd have loved to have seen her face said

"You will.  She's going to be at the reception Jo pointed out.

"But just wait till you see how nice she is to me.  She didn't think I
had it in me to be hard, but she knows better now."

"You could never be hard, Jo."  Aisling said.

"Not in a million years."

Jo considered this as she screwed the lid off her mascara tube.

"I've wise ned up, maybe that's it."

"Haven't we all?"  Aisling thought of the past year and all the changes
it had brought to her life.  In a short period of time, she'd gone from
being a depressed married woman to being a fulfilled working mother
who'd managed to set up her own company, and hold down another job, and
look after her beloved twin sons on her own into the bargain.  She'd
certainly toughened up.

, She'd even managed to exorcise Michael's memory thanks to Sam.  The
affair had been wonderful at first.  It had turned into a bit of a
nightmare at the very end.  Aisling cast her mind back to the day after
the charity ball, the day she'd told Sam to get out of her life for
good.

She'd just got home after dropping some things into the hospital for Jo
and was about to start dinner when the doorbell rang.  It was five in
the afternoon, the boys were watching TV and she wasn't expecting any
visitors.

"It's Sam announced Phillip.  He stuck his head around the kitchen
door.

Just what she didn't need.  After last night's confrontation, she could
do without another one.  She was sick and tired of Sam Delaney.  She
opened the freezer to see what she could defrost for dinner and waited
for Sam to come looking for her.

When he didn't appear, she went into the sitting room.

"Where is he?"  she asked in a puzzled voice.

"Outside," Phillip said innocently.

Aisling glared at him.

"Why didn't you open the door?"  she demanded.  Before Phillip could
answer, the doorbell rang again.

"I thought you weren't going to let me in Sam said, when she opened the
front door.

That was just Phillip playing games she said tiredly, leading the way
into the kitchen.

"Little brat."  Sam's voice was harsh.

Aisling whirled around in fury.

"Don't you dare call my son names.  Who the hell do you think you are?"
she yelled.

"Jesus, Aisling.  Don't fly off the handle," Sam said, taken aback.

"It's only a comment, I'm sorry.  Look, I'm here to apologise for last
night, so why don't I do a double apology?

Sorry for flying off the handle last night and sorry for saying your
son is a b ... sorry," he said lamely.

"What's wrong, Mum?"  demanded Paul, rushing into the kitchen with
Phillip on his heels.  The pair of them stared at Sam accusingly.

"What's he said now?"  Phillip's furious face was so like Michael's, it
was uncanny.

"Will we throw him out, Mum?"  asked Paul.

Aisling felt her heart burst with pride.  Her little heroes, ready to
take on a grown-up three times their size just to protect her.  She
went over and hugged them both.  They were growing up so quickly, in a
couple of years they'd be as tall as she was.

"No, boys, it's OK."

Paul relaxed at her words, but Phillip's body was still tensed as if he
was ready to fight.  He moved out of her embrace and looked up at Sam
steadily.

"Our dad isn't here, but don't think you can boss Mum around," he
hissed.

"We don't like you.  Why don't you go back to America?"

"Yeah, why not?"  said Paul.

Aisling was stunned.  She had no idea that the twins disliked Sam so
much.  She'd thought they got on all right with him.

But when she cast her mind back over the few times when the four of
them had been together, she realised that when they all went to
McDonald's or the cinema, both boys sat on her side, never beside Sam.
Funny, she'd never thought about that before.

"It's all right, boys," she said.

"Everything is fine, everything is going to be fine."  She smiled at
Phillip.

"Go on and watch the TV.  We'll have dinner in an hour.  "As they
left, Sam dragged out a kitchen chair from the table and sat down with
a thump.

"You're ruining those boys, ruining them because you're guilty about
being separated he said in his mid-Atlantic drawl.  Aisling realised
that she hated the way he spoke, his American twang suddenly sounded so
false.

"When I was their age, I'd have been given a good beating for speaking
to an adult like that.  And that's what Phillip wants.  A few slaps ,
would be good for him."

She turned to look at him, taking in his flushed face and angry eyes.
He was a bully, all right.  Why hadn't she noticed it before?  She'd
been seduced by the way he made her feel.

She'd wanted to get her own back at Michael by having such a sexy,
handsome boyfriend.

She'd let that, and his amazing ability in bed, blind her to his
faults.  Not any more.

"You're entitled to your opinion about children," she said evenly.

"But don't think you're going to try your theories out on my children,
because you aren't.  And you're not going to try it out on me, either,
Sam.  It's over between us.  So if you could leave, I can get back to
living my life without you telling me where I'm going wrong every five
minutes."

Sam stared at her open-mouthed.

"You can't mean that, Aisling," he said.

"What about us, about our plans ...?"

There is no us any more.  It's over."

He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her onto his lap, his words
cajoling.

"Please, Ash, don't say that."

"Let me go!"  She wrenched herself free of his grasp.

"Aisling."  Sam stood up and tried to put his arms around her, but she
backed away.

"Just go, Sam."

"Yeah, go."  Phillip and Paul were back, standing at the door like
small sentries.  For a moment, Aisling felt her chest tighten as Sam's
face grew dark.  His jaw tensed.

Jesus, he wasn't going to hit them, was he?

"Boys, come here!"  she cried.  They ran to her and stood in front of
her.

"Go!"  she said again.

He shrugged.

"I'll go, but you'll be sorry.  I know you will.

You'll want me back."

Yeah, when hell freezes over, she thought silently.  Nobody said
anything as Sam turned and walked out the door.  He slammed the front
door behind him.

How predictable.

"Well boys, what do you want for dinner?"  Aisling asked brightly,
determined to hide how shaken she was by the encounter.

"Or should we go to McDonald's for a treat?"

"We'll cook," Phillip announced.  He pulled up a chair for her at the
table.

"We can defrost just as well as you can."

Aisling had to laugh.  She got herself a glass of icy white wine from
the fridge and sat down at the table.

"OK, boys, what are we eating?"

"Are you thinking about Sam?"  asked Jo.

Aisling looked at her friend and smiled.

"You know me so well, Jo," she said.

"Well enough to know that you've done the right thing," Jo said
quietly.

"Oh I know that."

"I'll take Isabel downstairs while you finish getting ready, girls
Laura said, taking the baby out of the room.

"Now I know where you get your perceptiveness from," Aisling said.  She
sat on the pale yellow duvet and looked up at her friend.

"I'm not upset, Jo.  To be honest, I'm very happy.

I love my life now, I love the freedom.  OK, juggling work, more work
and child minders isn't easy, but there's this huge sense of freedom in
everything I do.  I make the decisions, I decide what I'm going to do
every day, every week," she explained earnestly.

"It's incredibly liberating.  Sam was great for my selfconfidence, at
the beginning anyway," she added wryly, 'but being around him made me
realise that I don't want another man to worry about.  Not for a long
time.  And when I do want someone else, it has to be on my terms. ""So
you're happy?"  asked Jo tentatively.

"I know it's childish, but I want you to be happy on my wedding day."

Aisling got up and wrapped her arms around Jo.

"I am happy.  I'm so happy for you and Mark too.  It's wonderful seeing
how happy you both are with Isabel."

Thanks for everything, Ash," Jo said.  Thank you for being here today
and thank you for being so good to me when I needed you."

"What are friends for?"  Aisling asked with a shrug.

"Now tell me, this photographer, Ralph, who's taking the wedding
pictures.  Is he handsome?  Is he single?"

"Yes and yes," said Jo, a tad too enthusiastically.

"He's drop-dead gorgeous.  Dark hair, brown eyes, great body.

There's only one problem he's gay."

"Is he a mature adult?"  demanded Aisling.

Absolutely," Jo replied.

"Fine.  We can work on everything else.  Just as long as he's grown-up,
that's all I want.  Now, shall we go to a wedding?"

"You bet."