When she was drunk, Jessie liked to describe herself as a Marxist. She was against the accumulation of wealth for wealth’s sake. She supported public housing, rent controls, a basic income for all. In her lower moments, and there had been too many of these lately, she envied her sister. She pictured life with a husband, two children and under-floor heating. She thought about certainty, stability and the sort of comforts that came with a conventional grown-up life. Not that she’d say any of this out loud. She didn’t want hypocrisy added to her list of failings.

As Lorna drove past the hotel, the seaweed baths and the golf clubhouse, she stayed quiet. Her angular face shone, like she’d taken a bath in motor oil. Maybe she’d been on a spa weekend. Or maybe it was a glow of self-righteousness.

When finally she spoke again, her words were crisp. ‘They’re incredibly upset, you know. I mean, they won’t say as much to you, but it’s difficult for them.’

‘I get that. I’ve told them I’m sorry.’

‘Everybody saw it. And, if they didn’t watch it live, they’ve come across it on Facebook. How could you do that to Mam and Dad? What were you thinking?’

Jessie pulled at the sleeves of her leather jacket. ‘Ah, Lorna. You’re making it sound like I killed someone.’

‘You’ve killed your reputation anyway. You’ll be lucky to get more work.’

‘If I come up with stories, I’ll get work.’

Even as the words left Jessie’s mouth, she knew they weren’t true. The media had changed. There were too many journalists and too few paying jobs. Dublin was overflowing with young reporters who were willing to write whatever their bosses wanted while shooting a video, recording a podcast and engaging in spirited arguments on Twitter. Newsrooms were staffed either by interns or by creaking veterans with nowhere else to go. The veterans spoke about atrocities they’d covered and expenses they’d claimed, while lamenting young people’s lack of initiative.

Once, she’d had notions of becoming a serious journalist, someone who wasn’t ashamed to list the publications she’d worked for on her Twitter biography. She’d pictured herself filing dispatches from a Syrian refugee camp or chasing an exploitative landlord down the street. Alternatively, she’d imagined moving to London and becoming one of the blondes who wrote about sex in the Sunday Times. Critics would describe her as ‘fearless’ and ‘unflinching’, and publishers would outbid each other in pursuit of her take on modern life.

Instead, she’d settled for a world where ‘Kate Middleton Re-wears Outfit’ and ‘Daughter of Famous Man Goes on Holiday’ were considered stories. Her work had become safe. Shallow. She’d written soft features about soft lives, and even that was gone from her now.