In her head, she divided her life in two. Most people would guess the line fell at the point where she’d become famous. In fact, it marked her discovery of the truth about her father. Afterwards, she’d been more conscious of danger, more suspicious of men. She’d become less tolerant of sleazy banter and of the reptiles who took advantage of young models. She’d like to say she’d been extra-sensitive towards her mother. She hadn’t. Tess knew that her wilder episodes had hurt Ginny and Flan. The older she got, the more she thought about her mam – and about others who’d suffered in the same way. As much as she loathed women gushing about how motherhood had changed their lives, Daisy had knocked something loose in her. While Tess wouldn’t claim that getting older had made her a better person, it had made her a more equable one. She didn’t want Conor tramping in and spreading disarray.

‘Before I know it,’ said Conor, ‘you’ll be eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking Pimm’s.’

‘Don’t mock it till you’ve tried it,’ said Tess, polishing her sunglasses with the skirt of her mint green dress. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a glass of Pimm’s, especially in this weather.’

‘What’s next? Shooting pheasants? Entering your gooseberry jam in the village fete?’

‘Conor, if you knew anything, you’d know it’s the wrong time of year for shooting pheasants. I have eaten a few, though. Very tasty they were too.’

‘If only they could hear you in Kilmitten. “Notions,” they’d say.’

‘I’m sure the notions police gave up on me a long time ago.’

Polishing complete, Tess put on her sunglasses. The June afternoon sparkled with the promise of early summer. The sky was an interrupted blue, the trees a pale shade of green. In the paddock, Daisy was displaying her pony-riding skills for Miles and Sharon. Tess and Conor were sitting at the rear of the house, banks of flowers in front of them, the air perfumed with lavender and rosemary.

Their talk shifted to Tom’s latest exploits. The previous week, he’d given a long interview to a Sunday supplement. The Accidental Minister, the piece had been called. The photographs of the rising politician and his lovely family had been soft focus, the interview even softer.

‘How does he do it?’ asked Conor. ‘All that nonsense about his passion for rural life. He ran out of Kilmitten when he was seventeen.’

‘Didn’t we all?’ said Tess. ‘I suppose he changed his mind … or had it changed for him.’