Jessie ignored them. She also suppressed the urge to tell the tourists that they were getting off in the wrong place. With its curve of pale beach, rippling ocean and horseshoe of brightly painted houses, Clooneven was heart-stoppingly lovely. At this time of year, however, it was marked by the off-season dullness common to seaside towns everywhere. The gift shops were closed, the bars quiet, the beach deserted. The town was waiting for the summer season to unfurl.

In early April, the couple would be lucky to find a half-decent meal or a drinkable cup of coffee. If they did, chances were the coffee would be provided by the woman waiting at the town’s sole bus stop. Jessie’s sister, Lorna, had a navy blazer draped over her shoulders, a large pair of sunglasses on top of her ash-blonde head and a pursed-lip expression that suggested this was not how she’d wanted to spend her afternoon.

As Jessie descended the steps of the bus and retrieved her luggage, Lorna gave a quick smile of acknowledgement. ‘That’s a lot of stuff you have with you,’ she said, followed swiftly by ‘God, you’re very pale.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s been . . .’ Not knowing how to finish the sentence, Jessie allowed it to trail away. She’d barely spoken for five or six days, and her voice was rusty from lack of use. She heaved her black suitcase into the boot of the SUV, placed her other bag onto one of the back seats and climbed in beside her sister.

Familiar sounds and smells – the squabbling of seagulls, the tang of seaweed – filled her head. The rain had been replaced by high watery cloud. Fearing what Lorna would say next, she wished she’d chosen to walk the five kilometres to the family home. She was also annoyed with herself for not spending more time preparing her story.

At thirty-six, Lorna was seven years older than Jessie. Along with her husband, Simon Keating, she was the owner of several businesses including a café, a grocery shop and an amusement arcade. As she was fond of reminding people, she hadn’t allowed her mediocre education to hold her back. ‘Hard work,’ she would say, to anyone willing to listen. ‘Hard work and perseverance.’ By contrast, Jessie with her honours-laden Leaving Cert and lah-dee-dah degree from Trinity College didn’t even own a car. What Lorna chose not to say was that the most lucrative businesses in the portfolio – the shop and the arcade – had originally been owned by Simon’s parents. He’d also inherited a house the size of a nursing home. In recent years, the couple had remodelled it into a palace of glass and pale brick.