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two-pennyworth in, ‘they run fund-raising marathons and all sorts.’
    ‘Three cuppas a day keeps heart attacks at bay,’ Isobel contributes.
    ‘So you see,’ says Janet, ‘it’s probably nothing. They’ve no doubt caught it in time.’
    ‘That’s what I thought,’ I say satisfied. Phew. For a moment I was considering going home early, but now…
    ‘Was he a very good friend of Declan’s?’ Henrietta’s been unusually quiet this evening but now she chips in.
    ‘I’ve never heard of him before. But, I don’t know, his reaction was quite weird. Maybe he’s been speaking about him loads lately and I just haven’t noticed, being so busy with my new job and all… Did I tell you Walt Whitman came in Friday?’
    ‘Only ninety-five times.’ Isobel does a mock yawn as she tucks a lock of her long brunette hair behind her ears. ‘You were hissing down the phone to me when he was in the office, remember?’
    ‘How’s work going, Cathy?’ asks Henrietta sweetly. ‘Still loving it to pieces?’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘Mmm?’ Isobel gives me a curious look.
    ‘Had a funny day, that’s all. Maybe I’m just a tad oversensitive with some of my colleagues. That’s what Rosa thinks. I’ve got this awful feeling that I’m not that popular.’
    ‘Of course you’re popular.’ Henrietta puts her arm around me. ‘Everybody loves you, Cath.’
    ‘Although, saying that, you do work part time,’ Isobel declares. ‘And it’s a well-known fact that full-timers hate part-timers.’
    ‘And the old guys hate the new guys,’ Henrietta adds.
    ‘And the men hate the women,’ says Janet fiercely.
    ‘And the permanents hate the temps. Yessiree,’ Isobel sums up. ‘Offices aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, you know. Ooh Carlos, over here.’
    Carlos, the waiter, ambles across and takes our order.
    Here we are in our usual haunt, Tropicos. We’ve been coming here years. We do try different places occasionally, but always end up returning. The spicy potatoes are utterly addictive, the damson crumble deliciously delectable and the relaxed convivial atmosphere make it a home from home.
    The WOWs or rather Wednesday Once Weeklies meet, yes, you’ve guessed it, every Wednesday evening. It’s like an organic structure, constantly changing andevolving. Once one woman leaves there’s always another to fill her place. Similar to
Zulu
. Except none of us get killed. Cross fingers.
    Lately we’ve consisted of:
    Henrietta. Co-founder, mother of six-year-old twins. My second best friend in the world. Lives about three streets away from me – only thirty and extremely attractive with delicate features and a whippet-thin frame. She is also one of those people that seem to have got everything together. Quietly confident, calm, never shouts or gets harassed. Admired by all. Gone through quite a bad time recently, having miscarried her much-wanted third child, but has kept a brave face on it.
    Isobel. Mother of three. Tall, powerful looking, thin as a stick and stiff backed like she’s been doing the Alexander technique for years. Handsome rather than pretty, deep-set eyes, always smartly turned out and rather po-faced until she smiles. The oldest of our bunch having just reached the ripe old age of forty-four. When you first meet her you think she’s a bit haughty and off-hand, but once you break through the barriers with a beer or two, or in her case a few white wine spritzers, you find that underneath she’s a real softy. Her middle child goes to Barrington Juniors while mine and Henrietta’s go to Princes Road Primary. Different schools, different tribes. We’re slowly bridging the gap – taking special care not to praise our own school too much and occasionally slagging it off, just to make her feel less of an outsider.
    And then there’s Janet – a beady eyed woman, short dark hair, thirty-two with tattooed shoulders who happened to turn up at one of our girly evenings and had such a good time she’s joined us