‘He hasn’t said anything to you?’

‘No.’ He hadn’t. And she hadn’t said anything to him about her application.

Which Tara now realized wasn’t the same thing at all.

Emily’s eyebrows jiggled again and she put a finger to her lips and stepped out on to the landing, beckoning Tara to follow her. Then she leaned over the polished oak banister, embellished with a range of locally grown carbohydrates, and peered down the stairwell to the ground floor.

David was standing outside the downstairs meeting room, fidgeting with his tie. As they watched, he knocked sharply on the door – a brisk three-note rap – and was summoned inside. The door closed behind him.

Tara’s heart dropped in her chest.

Emily turned to her. ‘That’s where they’re doing the interviews, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I mean, I guess so.’

‘Well, then.’ She sashayed back into the kitchen for her tea. Emily loved being proved right. ‘He’s going for it. Good luck to him.’

It took the final shreds of Tara’s self-control not to let her disappointment show. That was that. If David was applying for the role, with his qualifications and his experience and his charm, that was it. He’d probably hypnotize the bloody interview panel into giving him a company car too.

The energy drained from her. Was it too late to go home? She was experiencing a genuine, undeniable family crisis. In fact, Tara argued, some people would counsel that she shouldn’t even do the interview in her current mental state. Was it even possible to outline your vision for an outreach therapy programme if there was a real chance that you might be ambushed by a mental image of your mother having sex with the woman who taught you to drive?

‘Oh, Tara, don’t look like that!’ Emily grabbed her arms. ‘It won’t just be decided on the basis of qualifications! I mean, you’ve got … qualifications too. And you really know this area – you’ve spent your entire career in this town, whereas David’s worked in London and Newcastle and Birmingham – big cities with big-city problems. You know exactly how small-town people tick.’

‘Are you trying to make me feel better?’

‘Yes!’ Emily frowned. ‘Am I not?’

‘Not really.’

‘God, I’m sorry.’ She looked contrite. ‘Do you want a biscuit?’

They looked at the plate by the kettle: a collection of green cookies in the shape of shamrocks. There was a Post-it note stuck to the counter next to it, on which someone had written THIS IS CULTURALLY OFFENSIVE TO THE CELTIC DIASPORA!!! in angry capitals.

‘Judith?’

‘I think so.’

Tara sighed and took a shamrock. Then a second one, along with her cup of coffee. She was going to need all the luck of the Irish now, if that wasn’t a politically questionable thing to wish for.