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By Root 1455 0

book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN-13: 978-0-14-027181-2

For Niall, Caitríona, Tadhg and Rita-Anne

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my fantastic editor Louise Moore and all at Michael Joseph and Penguin for their hard work and enthusiasm.

Thanks to all at Poolbeg.

Thanks to Jonathan Lloyd and all at Curtis Brown.

Thanks to Caitríona Keyes, Mammy Keyes, Rita-Anne Keyes and Louise Voss who read this book as it was written and kept demanding more.

Thanks to Eileen Prendergast and especial thanks for giving me the name for the book!

Thanks to Siobhan Coogan for insider info on being a mammy.

Thanks to the Simon community for generously giving time and information about homelessness.

Thanks to Morag Prunty and everyone at Irish Tatler for revealing the world of magazines to me.

Thanks to all the stand-up comedians I know, none of whom are anything like the ones in the book!

Thanks to the Clarence hotel.

The following people also helped greatly with advice and enthusiasm. If I’ve forgotten anyone, please forgive me: Suzanne Benson, Jenny Boland, Susie Burgin, Ailish Connelly, Gai Griffin, Suzanne Power, and Annemarie Scanlan.

Thanks, as always, to my beloved Tony, for everything.

Prologue

‘Dammit,’ she realized. ‘I think I’m having a nervous breakdown’

She looked around at the bed she was flung in. Her well-overdue-for-a-bath body was sprawled lethargically on the well-overdue-for-a-change sheet. Tissues, sodden and balled, littered the duvet. Gathering dust on her chest of drawers was an untouched arsenal of chocolate. Scattered on the floor were magazines she’d been unable to concentrate on. The television in the corner relentlessly delivered daytime viewing direct to her bed. Yip, nervous-breakdown territory all right.

But something was wrong. What was it?

‘I always thought…’ she tried. ‘You know, I always expected…’

Abruptly she knew. ‘I always thought it would be nicer than this…’

1

At Femme magazine, something had been in the air for weeks, a feeling that they were living on a fault-line. Speculation finally burst into flames when it was confirmed that Calvin Carter, the US Managing Director, had been sighted roaming around the top floor, looking for the gents’. Apparently he’d just arrived in London from head-office in New York.

It’s happening. Lisa clenched her fists in excitement. It’s actually finally, bloody happening.

Later that day the phone call came. Would Lisa pop upstairs to see Calvin Carter and British MD, Barry Hollingsworth?

Lisa slammed down the phone. ‘Too right I would,’ she shouted at it.

Her colleagues barely looked up. People slamming phones down, then shouting, were ten a penny in the magazine game. Besides, they were trapped in Deadline Hell – if they didn’t get this month’s issue put to bed by nightfall, they’d miss their slot with the printers and would be scooped once again by arch-rivals Marie-Claire. But what did Lisa care, she thought, hobbling to the lift, she wouldn’t have a job here after today. She’d have a much better one somewhere else.

Lisa was kept waiting outside the boardroom for twenty-five minutes. After all, Barry and Calvin were very important men.

‘Should we let her in yet?’ Barry asked Calvin, when he felt they’d killed enough time.

‘It’s only twenty minutes since we called her,’ Calvin pointed out, huffily. Obviously Barry Hollingsworth didn’t realize just how important, he, Calvin Carter, was.

‘Sorry, I thought it was later. Perhaps you’d show me again how to improve my swing.’

‘Sure. Now, head down and hold still. Hold still! Feet steady, left arm straight, and swing!’

When Lisa was finally granted admission, Barry and Calvin were seated behind a walnut table approximately a kilometre long. They looked frowningly