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Thanks to Tadhg Keyes for advice on what groovy young men are wearing.

Thanks to Conor Ferguson, Niall Hadden and Alex Lyons for the information on the world of advertising.

Thanks to Liz McKeon for advice on toning tables.

Thanks to Dr Paul Carson, Isabel Thompson of HUG, Barry Dempsey and AnneMarie McGrath at the Irish Cancer Society and all at the Terrence Higgins Trust for the time and information they so generously and patiently gave.

Thanks to Mrs Mary Keyes for the County Clare sayings and for making me take lots of bad language out.

Thanks to Emily Godson for enlightening me on the world of acting in Los Angeles.

Thanks to Neville Walker and Geoff Hinchley for information on how the gay young man about town entertains himself. (I never knew!)

Many others have helped with practical advice, encouragement and support. I’m very grateful and would like to thank them all. I sincerely hope I haven’t left anyone out, and if I have, I’m really sorry. Suzanne Benson, Suzie Burgin, Paula Campbell, Ailish Connelly, Liz Costello, Lucinda Edmonds, Gai Griffin, Suzanne Power, Eileen Prendergast, Morag Prunty and Annemarie Scanlon.

Thanks to my beloved Tony for everything, for all the support, both practical and emotional. For reading the book as it’s written and holding my hand and telling me I’m not a complete failure. For running up and down the stairs bringing me cups of tea. For giving me feedback on characterization, plot development, spelling, grammar and anything else you care to think of. I couldn’t do it without him.

And finally, thanks to Kate Cruise O’Brien who worked on this book with me until March 1998, when she died, tragically and unexpectedly.

1

At the chrome and glass Camden restaurant the skinny receptionist ran her purple nail down the book and muttered, ‘Casey, Casey, where’ve you got to? Here we are, table twelve. You’re the –’

‘– first to arrive?’ Katherine finished for her. She couldn’t hide her disappointment because she’d forced herself, every fibre in her body resisting, to be five minutes late.

‘Are you a Virgo?’ Purple Nails swore by astrology.

At Katherine’s nod, she went on, ‘It’s your destiny to be pathologically punctual. Go with it.’

A waiter called Darius, with dreadlocks in a Hepburnesque topknot, pointed Katherine in the direction of her table, where she crossed her legs and shook her layered bob back off her face, hoping this made her look poised and unconcerned. Then she pretended to study the menu, wished she smoked and swore blind that the next time she’d try to be ten minutes late.

Maybe, as Tara regularly suggested, she should start going to Anal Retentives Anonymous.

Seconds later Tara arrived, uncharacteristically on time, clattering across the bleached beech floor, her wheat-coloured hair flying. She wore an asymmetrical dress that glowed with newness, sang money and – unfortunately – bulged slightly. Her shoes looked great, though. ‘Sorry I’m not late,’ she apologized. ‘I know you like to have the moral high ground, but the roads and the traffic conspired against me.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ Katherine said gravely. ‘Just don’t make a habit of it. Happy birthday.’

‘What’s happy about it?’ Tara asked, ruefully. ‘How happy were you on your thirty-first birthday?’

‘I booked ten sessions of non-surgical face-lifting,’ Katherine admitted. ‘But don’t worry, you don’t look a day over thirty. Well, maybe a day…’

Darius bounced across to take Katherine’s drink order. But when he saw Tara a look of alarm flickered across his face. Not her again, he thought, stoically preparing for it to be a late one.

‘Veen-ho?’ Tara asked Katherine. ‘Or the hard stuff?’

‘Gin and tonic.’

‘Make it two. Right.’ Tara rubbed her hands together with glee. ‘Where’s my colouring book and crayons?’

Tara and Katherine had been best friends since the age of four, and Tara had a healthy respect for tradition.

Katherine slid a colourful parcel across the table and Tara tore the paper off. ‘Aveda things!’ she exclaimed, delighted.

‘Aveda