Keen-eyed and alert as she was this day, Rona noticed immediately when Sacha entered the magazine's office. She sprang into the air - some of the other people in the room even thought they heard a jubilant "whoop" escape from her throat - and jogged over to the doorway to greet Sacha warmly. "Sacha! How are you? All ready to crank out another winner for us?"

"Well . . ." Sacha didn't really handle enthusiasm well: she didn't trust it. "I think" she said cautiously, "that we ought to wait perhaps until we get some fan-mail or something, before we start calling my column any kind of 'winner'."

"Hannah likes it" replied Rona.

"Hannah likes me" said Sacha. "It's not the same thing." Even as she said this without thinking, she realised the unexpected truth of it, and it gave her pause for thought.

The pause gave Rona an opportunity to dash off again back across the room upon hearing the magazine's telephone ring. "Word on the Street" she said chirpily, "this is Rona the Wyvern." She looked sharply at the astonished faces scattered about the room. "Oh yes, I know what you all call me" she snapped cheerfully, covering the mouthpiece of the 'phone with her hand. "Stop gawking and get back to work, come on everyone." She removed her hand from the mouthpiece. "Yes. How can I help you?" She became aware of Sacha hovering a little impatiently somewhere off her right shoulder.

On the other end of the 'phone line was one of the magazine's semi-regular contributors, explaining why his book review couldn't be in for that week's issue. "Oh, for god's sake that's the piss-poorest excuse you've ever given me" said Rona in a tone that was resolutely refusing to become exasperated. "Do you ever wonder exactly why you contribute to this magazine?" She put the 'phone down and rolled her eyes.

"Christ, Rona" someone piped up from nearby, "it's not the fucking New York Times you're running here." (On hearing that Rona was apparently running the magazine and not himself, Si looked up curiously, quietly, from his desk, but his curiosity quickly vapourised again and he turned back to writing his editorial.)

"And why the bloody hell not?" demanded Rona, raising an eyebrow and placing her hand on her hip as if this was the ultimate argument-ender.

"Uh, Rona . . ." said Sacha, but Rona didn't hear her and picked up the 'phone again to make her usual round of calling the magazine's tardier contributors to find out what was happening.

Sacha fidgeted slightly anxiously, drumming her fingers on the side of the small parcel she held in her hands. She glanced down at it and wondered whether it was appropriate. She wondered how long Rona would be on the 'phone; then when the answer turned out to be a surprisingly long time, as she finished one call and started another, Sacha wondered whether Rona had even noticed her there; eventually she came to wondering whether she looked foolish standing there like that, waiting to talk to Rona. She was slightly miffed to find herself concerned about something so unimportant, but she couldn't help but realise how much some of the magazine's other regulars thought of her as a kind of teacher's pet - which annoyed her not because she desperately wanted them to like her, but because it defined her only by her relationship with somebody else: it infantilised her. Or so she felt, and that annoyed her more than just about any of the other numerous things that annoyed her. She was on the verge of abandoning her mission and looking for a spare computer to begin writing her column instead, when Rona put the 'phone down and turned to her. "Oh, Sacha! You're still there! Sorry mate, I thought you would have given up by now."

Sacha smiled wanly. "Uh, yeah right." She glanced nervously to the side - she was always a little awkward in these situations.

"What's that?" asked Rona, pointing to parcel Sacha was holding.

Sacha looked down at it as if she hadn't realised it was there. "Oh . . . Well . . . I mean, I know you don't like making a big deal of it . . . I mean . . . And it was a couple of weeks ago, I guess, but . . ."

"Sacha" giggled Rona, "what the hell are you on about?"

Sacha shut her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She shook her head clear. "Oh, fuck it" she declared, and unceremoniously thrust the parcel into Rona's hand. "It's a birthday present."