She had arrived in London six weeks earlier with Nina, Tom and a college friend of Tom’s named Fergal. They’d managed to find a tiny flat in Shepherd’s Bush. As dingy a place as had ever been built, it had two bedrooms, a living room, a minuscule kitchen, a mould-infested bathroom and a resident mouse. The rent had made Tess gasp. On the plus side, the flat was a short walk from the Tube and a few streets from the bar where Tom was working for the summer. In September, he’d be returning to college in Dublin, as would Fergal and Nina. Tess couldn’t say what she’d be doing.

Following a mediocre Leaving Cert, she’d drifted into a secretarial course at St Ursula’s. Although she’d been able to discard her school uniform, the woman who ran the course, Miss Gallagher, had insisted that her girls wear office clothing. By this, she meant a skirt, a cardigan, preferably in shades of grey or beige, and sensible shoes. Miss Gallagher, who was as thin as a stalk of celery and about as much fun, handed out extra work to any girl who broke the rules. Tess delighted in stretching her diktat to its limits. Her shoes were either vertigo-inducing or more suited to a building site than a typing pool; her skirts swept the floor or barely covered her backside. She paid for her distinctive style with the one pound fifty an hour she earned from a part-time cleaning job at the supermarket in Templemorris. One squally April afternoon, following a disagreement about the best way to take office minutes, Miss Gallagher had asked if Tess wanted to continue with the secretarial course. ‘Do you know what?’ she’d replied. ‘I don’t think I do.’

At least she’d stayed long enough to become a moderate typist. Her shorthand was more of a work in progress, and her bookkeeping skills were non-existent.

Tess’s departure for London had been hastened by her mother’s latest boyfriend. Jim Duignan wasn’t an out-and-out sleaze, but Tess couldn’t warm to the guy. He hovered around the house, laughing at his own jokes and giving unasked-for advice. When she’d first spoken about moving, her mam’s reaction had been muted. Indifferent, almost. On the eve of her departure, this had changed, and her mother had practically clung to her leg. ‘What’ll I do without you, Tessy?’ she’d said. ‘You’re all I’ve got.’

‘I’m not going far,’ Tess had replied. ‘These days London is as close as Dublin. You’ll have to come for a visit.’