Tess took a hit of the joint. With her other hand she played with the soft material of her skirt. An ankle-grazing number in swirls of blue, she’d bought it from a stall in Camden Market. It was her current favourite. What she would do now, she didn’t know. For all that she moaned about secretarial work, it was moderately well paid. It allowed her to meet the rent and have a life. She could apply for full-time office jobs, but how long might that take? She’d need a reference, and Marjorie was unlikely to supply one. She could scrounge off Nina and Tom, but only for a week or two. They were saving money for their second year at college.

‘I’ll start looking again in the morning,’ she said, giving the joint back to Tom. One of his work colleagues had a sideline as a hash dealer. Tess wondered if he made much money. ‘I’ll have to try another agency and hope they don’t want a reference.’

‘There’s always bar work,’ said Tom.

‘I suppose, except I don’t have any experience. Besides, I like having the evenings free. Sure we hardly see you – or Fergal.’

‘I don’t know how the pair of you cope without us.’

Nina rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine. While not a smoker, she was fond of cheap sauvignon. They all were. So far, their summer had been fuelled by Moroccan hash and dry white wine. ‘I’ll ask in our place tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think there’s anything left.’

Nina had a strange job in the City. She spent her days processing cheques and application forms from people who wanted to buy shares in Britain’s airports, which were about to be privatised.

‘Who owns the airports now?’ Tom had asked.

‘Everybody,’ Nina had replied.

‘So they’re selling them to themselves?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘You’d have to love this country,’ he’d said. ‘They’ve so much money, they’re buying what they already own.’