If her curiosity had been piqued by the late-night summons, it was now at fever pitch. Why were Conor and Tom so worked up? Did one of them have a problem at home? Had some other family-related issue popped up? Or, and she feared this was the most likely explanation, was the emergency connected to Conor’s Father Galvin obsession? Whatever was going on, there was no reason to send Nina back out into the night. If they insisted on being awkward, they would have to cope without Tess’s advice.

‘If I’m not wanted …’ said Nina, with a tinkle of nervous laughter.

‘Of course you’re wanted,’ replied Tess. ‘You’re with me.’

They were in the kitchen now, Conor bending over to fiddle with the coffee machine. ‘We’ll have a coffee, anyway,’ he mumbled, ‘but perhaps we should leave it at that. I probably shouldn’t have called.’

‘Ah, here …’ started Tess, her words coming to an abrupt halt when Tom entered the room.

His face was swollen – had he been crying? – and his suit looked like he’d stolen it from a scarecrow. Tess had thought Nina looked rough, but compared to Tom, she was ready for the cover of Vogue.

‘Is there a problem?’ she said. ‘I thought you had an important day tomorrow.’

‘I do.’ His gaze darted past her towards Nina. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, looking at Nina like she was a white-hot coal, a vial of ricin, something not to be touched.

Tess had been in quite a few bizarre situations, but she couldn’t think of anything to compare with this. ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

‘Nothing,’ said Conor, still playing with the coffee machine. ‘It can wait.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, and the rest. Half an hour ago, you were all urgency. “You’ve got to get over here,” you said. So I do as you ask, only for you to say, “Meh, maybe my problem isn’t such a big deal after all. Why don’t we have a coffee and forget about it?” Seriously, Conor, this isn’t fair. I’m entitled to know what’s happening.’

‘What did I do?’ asked Nina.

‘Nothing,’ repeated Conor.

Tom made a small noise, a cross between a catch of breath and a moan. ‘We’ll have to tell them,’ he said. ‘They’re going to find out at some stage.’

Conor looked up. ‘This isn’t the right time.’

‘It’s my story, and I want to tell it.’

They sat in the half-light, Tom and Conor on the sofa, Nina and Tess across the room in two outsize armchairs. The strange preface, the furtive looks, the off-beam comments had warned Tess to expect trouble. Still, when Conor and Tom began, she had difficulty grasping their words. It was as if they were communicating in Morse code: the sounds were familiar, but she didn’t know what they meant.