As Imelda dealt the cards, she saw a flicker of curiosity animate Debbie’s rather dull face, rousing her sluggish imagination like a dead car battery being jump-started. When Imelda turned over the Nines of both Wands and Pentacles, and the Chariot, she could barely believe her eyes. But once again her instinct had served her well and the tarot told her why. Debbie clearly had hidden depths, should she care to plumb them.

‘Your market stall would be a great success,’ she told Debbie. ‘You’d earn a very comfortable living and, what’s more, you’d love it!’

Debbie grinned. ‘That’s amazing! But now can you tell me when I’ll get married?’

Once Debbie had gone, Imelda took Grisha outside for a walk. The air was sticky, and the park noisy and unbearably congested with bodies wandering this way and that, and once Grisha had found a convenient tree and relieved himself, Imelda was keen to return to the peace and quiet of the booth. They were waylaid in the entertainment lounge by Ruby, who was busy supervising preparations for the disco. All the chairs and tables were being moved to the sides of the room, and the DJ was setting up his equipment on the stage.

‘You are coming tonight, aren’t you?’ Ruby asked her. ‘I could do with some moral support as well as the hired muscle. These guests are going to be a proper handful. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss that last dance with Cillian,’ she added with a wink.

Imelda still wasn’t sure. Music and dancing were two of her favourite things, and crowds her least favourite. She found the cacophony of energies and emotions exhausting and disorientating. But what about Cillian? It was true that she hadn’t specifically told him that she would be there, but then she hadn’t said she wouldn’t be. Her silence had implied acquiescence. And she really wanted to dance with him.

‘Yes,’ she told Ruby. ‘I’ll be there.’

Back in the booth, Imelda rested her head in her hands. Her headache was receding, and she began to think about what she might wear that evening and, rather annoyingly, about Debbie. Was she, Imelda, really so very different, mooning over Cillian? She allowed herself to think about what it might be like to be with him properly – coupled. And yes, she realised with relief, she was different. Nothing could ever induce her to give up dukkering for domesticity. Her mother never had. But then Shunty-Mae and Alexei had always remained undiluted individuals; united, but never shackled, by love.

Vivienne walked into the booth unannounced and sat down. Imelda hid her surprise admirably.

‘Good afternoon, Vivienne. Are you here for a reading?’