Sacha excused herself, saying she had to go to bed: the long working days coupled with having to go into the Word frequently to write her column, and topped off by the growing hostility towards her whenever she went in there, were all getting a bit much for her system, and she could feel herself coming down with an illness. Rona, however, was still in a mood to talk - it was only ten p.m. - and needed somebody to whom she could vent her feelings. She rang up Hannah.

"Hannah, I need a drink."

"That's my kind of talk."

They met at a cocktail bar near Rona's house that wasn't too flash, but was cheap and yet offered the illusion of class that Rona felt like acting up to. Hannah ordered them a Gin Collins each - it was a phase she was going through - and the drinks were presented to them, smelling strongly of cheap alcohol and not much else. They paid and retreated, taking refuge at a small triangular table edged against a wall near an artificial log fire.

"So what's up?" asked Hannah innocently.

Rona told her about the special edition of the Word on the Street that Si was apparently putting together. Hannah listened patiently, and at the end of it all frowned. "So . . . I don't really get what the problem is" she said. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you say there's a problem then honey, you know better than me. But I don't get it."

"Well for starters" Rona began to explain, "Sacha says he's sacked half the writers."

"Didn't you always say half the people there were crap anyway?"

"Yeah, but at least they wrote something. Which was only half readable, I admit. But once I'd got done with it it was fully readable."

"But you're not there anymore."

"I'm not there anymore, and by the sounds of it there aren't enough other people left there to get the work done. He's got this grand idea for some 'Special Edition' - but how's it gonna get written? Is he gonna do it all himself?" I'd like to see him try!"

Hannah nodded. "Okay. Sounds like the magazine's going down the toilet fast, then. What do you care, though? You got out of there. You got out of there clean."

"I care -" Rona paused for thought. "I care because it was a nice little mag, nothing great, sure, but it could've cruised along happily for a few more years maybe - but because of one dickhead . . ."

"One dickhead who owns it" pointed out Hannah.

"Sure. But all the same - there was no reason for it to go down, not yet." It could have been something, Rona thought glumly. She took a sip of her cocktail. "Ugh." She wrinkled up her nose. "This drink's terrible. D'you want another one?"