Fran and her companion are standing now, gathering bags and jackets.

‘I’m just going to say hi to my neighbour before she goes,’ I tell Adana and begin making my way across the bar, dodging around a group of Italian tourists who’ve just walked in. But by the time I get there, Fran’s table is empty. She and her friend have left half-eaten meals and half-drunk drinks and two fifty-euro notes. A baffled-looking waiter picks up the money.

‘They didn’t even ask for the bill,’ he mutters, and begins clearing glasses. The main door swings shut behind them and I stand staring, wondering what caused Fran to leave in such a hurry.

11

May 1985

FRAN PRESSED THE MURPHYS’ doorbell and stepped back, almost falling off the doorstep in the process. Behind her, her best friend Zara giggled just as Robbie Murphy opened the door, smiling briskly at the two of them.

‘Come on in – Mary’s upstairs getting ready, and Lily’s watching television. Come through.’

‘Thank you, Mr Murphy,’ Zara simpered, with another small giggle.

‘Thanks,’ Fran said.

Lily was in the living room, sitting on a cushion on the floor, watching Road Runner. Fran winced. That constant beep-beep. Lily didn’t seem to mind, but then, she was three. Road Runner wasn’t aimed at jaded seventeen-year-olds. She perched on the edge of the couch, while Zara stood by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, smiling at Robbie.

‘So, ladies, how are things? Studying hard?’ Robbie asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Zara said with a coy dip of her chin. ‘Nearly done with the exams though, and then we’re off on our J-1 to America.’

‘J-1?’

‘It’s a work-travel visa. We’re spending the summer in Virginia Beach.’ She grinned. ‘Doing as little work and as much travel as possible.’ She turned and ran her hand across a row of books. ‘You must be a great reader, Mr Murphy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books in one place.’

Fran groaned silently.

‘The non-fiction books are mine – the ones on accounting and history and politics. You young ones would be bored to tears by them. The novels are Mary’s. I’m not into fiction but she loves it.’

Zara pulled out a hardback history of World War II.

‘I’m the same,’ she said. ‘I much prefer non-fiction.’

Fran stifled a laugh. The only non-fiction Zara ever read was Jackie magazine.

Robbie beckoned Fran through to the kitchen then, and Zara put the book back on the shelf to follow.

‘Fran, can I ask you to heat that milk for a bedtime drink for Lily, in half an hour?’ he said, pointing to a small saucepan on the hob.

‘No problem, Mr Murphy,’ Zara piped up before Fran had a chance to answer. ‘Are you and Mrs Murphy off anywhere nice?’

‘A dinner-dance in the Burlington, the only reason you’ll catch me in a monkey suit.’ He touched his bow tie and winked.

‘Well, I think it suits you!’ Zara said, giggling again.

Fran bit the inside of her lip. She should have come on her own. Young-free-and-single Zara was generally a liability. Humiliated-after-a-break-up Zara was a disaster waiting to happen.