‘Leave it, Miss Fix-it,’ Jack groused. ‘It’s a bank holiday. Anyway you’re jarred, you’ll just have to do it all again on Tuesday.’

‘You’re right.’ Ashling was just sober enough to know that she was drunk. ‘I’m making a pig’s mickey of it.’

‘Go home,’ he ordered.

It was nearly half six anyway. Fuzzily she picked up her bag, then asked tentatively, ‘Doing anything nice for the long weekend, JD?’ Only because she had a drop taken.

‘JD?’ Jack enquired, curiously.

‘I mean, Jack, Mr Devine, whatever.’ Ashling was embarrassed to have let slip her own private nickname for him. ‘Doing anything nice?’

Jack was surly. ‘Don’t know. I’ll visit my parents on Sunday. The rest depends on the weather. If I can’t go sailing, I’ll just bunker down and watch Star Trek videos.’

‘Star Trek? Well, er, “Live long and prosper,”’ Ashling encouraged, trying to do the Vulcan split-finger salute.

Jack stared at her narkily. ‘Illogical, Captain Fix-it. I won’t be doing any prospering this weekend.’

‘Why not?’

With sudden embarrassment, he admitted, ‘It can’t have escaped your notice that my girlfriend is in a strop.’

Ashling couldn’t help it. The words were out before she knew it. The drink talking. ‘Why do you always fight with her? She’s lovely. Can’t you make a bit more of an effort? She says she never sees you because you’re always out sailing. Perhaps if you went less often… ?’

She realized she’d way overstepped the mark and waited for the wrath of Jack, but instead he laughed, albeit unpleasantly.

Too late Ashling remembered that there were two sides to every story. ‘Isn’t it true?’

Jack paused. ‘Far be it for me to bitch about someone who isn’t here to defend themselves.’

‘So you don’t go sailing?’

‘I do.’

‘But…’ Then Ashling thought that perhaps she understood. ‘Does she say it’s OK for you to go, then get cross afterwards?’

After a hiatus, Jack admitted reluctantly, ‘Something like that.’

‘But you see,’ Ashling explained, ‘even though she says it’s OK to go, she doesn’t mean it. Go on, talk to her, be nice.’ Her eyes lit up. Problem solved.

‘Little Miss Fix-it,’ Jack shook his head indulgently, ‘why do you have to make everything all right for everyone?’

‘But I’m only…’

‘Little Miss Fix-it,’ he repeated, amused. ‘I’ll think about it. And how about you – are you going away for the weekend?’

‘No.’ Ashling was shy as soon as the spotlight was trained on her. ‘I’ll just see my friends and stuff…’ Go out with Marcus Valentine, hopefully, but she wasn’t telling Jack that.

‘Have a good one,’ he said.

As Ashling headed for the door, Jack, suddenly curious, called after her, ‘Hey! Miss Fix-it! Do you ever watch Star Trek videos?’

Ashling looked over her shoulder and shook her head. ‘No.’

‘I suppose not,’ he said.

‘I’ve nothing against them.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ Jack muttered.

‘But I’m more of a Doctor Who girl, myself.’

29

On Saturday evening, at a quarter to seven, Ashling and Ted arrived on Ted’s bike for babysitting duties chez Dylan and Clodagh.

‘They own this?’ Ted took in the double-fronted red-brick house.

‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ Ashling stood on the doorstep and rang the bell.

‘We won’t have to change nappies, will we?’ Ted asked, suddenly stricken.

‘No, they’re too old for that. We’ll just have to play with them, amuse them.’

‘Well, that should be easy enough.’ Ted cleared his throat and self-consciously smoothed back a lock of his hair. ‘Ted Mullins, funniest man in Dublin, reporting for duty, sir!’

‘They might be a bit young for post-modern, ironic stand-up.’ Ashling’s heart sank. ‘I’d say the Three Little Pigs would be more their cup of Ribena.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Ted corrected. ‘People underestimate children’s intelligence. Will I ring the bell again?’

It took a while before the door was answered. Dylan arrived, his arms soapy, his T-shirt wet and sticking to his chest.

‘How’s it going?’ He seemed distracted. Then Ashling and Ted noticed the echoey howls and bawls coming from upstairs.

‘I’m bathing Craig,’ Dylan explained.

‘He doesn’t seem happy.’

‘The worst is yet to come. I still have to rinse his hair.’ Dylan winced. ‘It’ll sound like he’s being burnt alive, but don’t be alarmed… I’d better get back.’ He was halfway up the stairs. ‘Clodagh’s in the kitchen.’

Clodagh was at the table desperately trying to persuade Molly to eat something. Anything that wasn’t a biscuit, crisp or sweet. In the last couple of weeks, Molly had gone on hunger-strike, just for the hell of it.

Ashling passed Clodagh a folder containing ten copies of her CV.

‘What’s thi—? Oh right, thanks.’ In a fluid motion, Clodagh stuffed the folder beneath a pile of children’s books strewn on the table.

‘Aren’t you going to get ready?’ Ashling took in Clodagh’s jeans and T-shirt. ‘Your taxi will be here soon.’

‘I just want to make sure she eats something…’

‘Why don’t I try?’ Ted offered gallantly.

But Molly stuck her bottom lip out and let it tremble theatrically at the suggestion.

‘Thanks, but…’ Clodagh wearily continued battering a spoon against Molly’s sparse but clenched teeth. Nothing doing. Now that Molly had an audience, there was no chance that she’d eat a thing.

‘Have some scrambled egg, love,’ Clodagh urged.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s good for you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there’s protein in it.’

‘Why?’

As well as refusing to eat proper food, Molly had recently started on the ‘Why?’ game. Earlier that day she’d asked twenty-nine ‘Why?’s in a row. Clodagh had gone along with it in a fatalistic curiosity to see how far it would go, but she’d cracked before Molly had.