This was a different person from the one she had seen in the car park earlier in the evening; the woman who read the news and conducted the programme was confident and relaxed, with a smile on her face. Her hair was different, a little wilder – a spikier look instead of the helmet-like hair she usually had, and it made her appear livelier somehow. She asked the weather guy what they could expect and she asked the sports reporter what that evening’s sport roundup would be covering, before looking straight into the camera and thanking people for watching.

Stella paused the replay and rewound to watch that part again. She had never taken a good look at Gréta before, never watched her carefully. She paused the replay right at the end of the broadcast, with Gréta looking directly into the camera, just as she had looked into her eyes in the lift, and Stella had to admit to herself that, although on the screen Gréta appeared even tubbier and you couldn’t say that she was exactly pretty, she exuded a sexy energy. Maybe there was nothing so surprising about the pretty woman on Tinder wanting to see her again.

48

Úrsúla tiptoed to the front door and put her ear to it, listening for any sound outside. She held her breath and took care not to make the slightest sound with her every movement. She had no desire to have visitors, and whoever it was could hardly be paying a friendly call; these days people had the manners to call ahead, 117as everyone knew how busy her family was now. It could hardly be anyone selling stuff from door-to-door as it was getting on for eleven o’clock, and knocking after ten was seen as the height of bad manners.

She was startled by another knock; she felt its force pass through the wood and into her cheek. All that was between her and whoever stood outside were these hardwood planks. She wondered who was so determined they continued knocking when there had been no response after the first two attempts.

Of course, it might be something completely innocent: a neighbour needing to borrow some milk or some such everyday errand. But Úrsúla was feeling the effects of the comments below the articles in the online newspapers, which she had been unable to resist reading, so she was terrified that whoever was standing outside meant her harm. At the same time she was furious with herself for being so frightened. This was the woman who hadn’t turned a hair when faced with an Ebola outbreak or a burst of machine-gun fire. She was the woman who could drive into a famine zone, step out of the car and start organising emergency relief without letting the sight of the children’s swollen bellies or the wailing of the mothers with dying children in the arms get to her. She could see how ridiculous this situation was and couldn’t help an ironic smile at the thought of their direction the online debate would take if people could see the new minister of the interior, the heroine of overseas aid, shaking with fear, too scared to open her own front door.