Sometimes – when June wasn’t about – she set Dickie’s gifts out on her bed and greedily looked them over, running her fingers lightly over all this finery. Dickie was going places, talking to her about new business contacts, exciting opportunities opening up. As Dickie’s wife she would soon get used to such luxuries. She was being included in his life, in his future. Sod William Maguire, she was going to put him right out of her mind. Dickie was correct – he was a runt and a nuisance. He made her feel bad, so she refused to think about him any more.

‘Few of us are meeting up round at Kim’s. It’s business. You can’t come.’

‘Who’s Kim?’ asked Dora.

He didn’t answer that.

‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? Change of plan. You go off home now. Frank’s brought the car today.’ Dickie was leading her over to a pale blue Mark II Zodiac. It was vast, and looked expensive. There was a squat, ugly man in a camel-hair coat sitting in the back, looking at his watch. ‘Sorry. As I said, it’s business. I got to go.’

‘Can’t I just say hello?’

Dickie didn’t even seem to hear her. He walked away, over to the car. Dora, irritated by his manner, followed.

Dickie went round to the driver’s side and Dora followed. When he opened the door she inhaled the scent of new car: leather and luxury.

‘Look . . . can’t I come?’ she said. ‘I won’t get in the way, I promise.’

To her surprise, Dickie’s face twisted in anger. ‘No! I told you, Dora. You go off home.’

‘Who’s this?’ came from the back seat.

Dickie shook his head in irritation. ‘Nobody, Frank, I just . . .’

Dora bent and shot out a hand to the man seated in the back. She gave him her best broad smile. ‘I’m Dora, Dora O’Brien.’

‘All right, Frank?’ Dickie sounded nervous. He shot a look of pure venom at Dora.

‘Hello, Dora,’ said Frank, shaking her hand briefly.

‘Hello, Frank,’ said Dora, beaming.

‘Why don’t you come along?’ said Frank.

‘No! She shouldn’t,’ said Dickie.

‘Come on, Dora. In you get,’ said Frank, as if Dickie hadn’t said a word. He pushed open the back passenger door, and Dora scrambled in. She smiled at him. Jesus, he was ugly. Frank had wavy greased hair like Edward G. Robinson in the movies. He had black stony eyes and a hefty, puggish, squashed-in face with small features and a thin wet mouth. If he tried to kiss you, you’d just have to run off screaming in the opposite direction.

‘Frank . . .’ said Dickie, shaking his head.

‘Start the damned car, Dickie. Get a move on,’ said Frank.

‘So who’s Kim?’ Dora asked again.

‘She’s a club girl,’ said Dickie. ‘Always out for a drink and she don’t much care who’s buying. She’s dating Tony Dillon at the moment.’

There was a snort from Frank. ‘That cunt,’ he muttered and gave Dickie a hard look in the driver’s mirror. ‘We going now?’