They were a conundrum, Nina and Tom. It was obvious that Tom fancied her, and that she liked him back. Tess had imagined that sharing a flat for the summer would bring them together. Instead, they’d fallen into a pattern where Tom pretended to make fun of Nina, and she pretended to take offence. Tess thought of Tom as a fellow traveller. He was always up for a lark, for having a laugh today and worrying about the consequences tomorrow. Nina was more measured. She would veer only so far from the straight and narrow before her puritanical streak took over and dragged her back again. Still, there was a spark between them, Tess was sure of it. One of them had to make a move, though, and neither was showing any sign of doing so. Tom was surprisingly slow, and while Nina liked to talk about women taking control of their lives, she could be very old-fashioned.

‘I’ve the job for you, Tessy,’ said Tom, through a cloud of smoke.

‘Go on.’

‘Did you ever consider becoming a nightclub hostess? A lovely-looking girl like you should have no bother. I’d say any of those places around Leicester Square would snap you up.’

‘Stop it, Tom,’ said Nina. ‘Next we know, you’ll be suggesting that Tess puts a tart card in a phone box: “Long-legged Irish girl available for light caning”.’

‘Needs must,’ said Tess. ‘I can see myself serving cocktails in a bikini, feathers in my hair.’

‘That’s the attitude,’ said Tom. ‘You’d be in your element, coming home with fistfuls of fivers.’

‘All of them shoved inside my bra by grateful patrons.’

‘You’re joking,’ said Nina.

Tess laughed. ‘I am. Although I read a piece in the Evening Standard the other day about marrying for money – so the guy can get a work visa, you know? – and I must admit, it’s starting to sound attractive.’

The sky was at full snap, crackle, pop now, the rain drumming against the glass. In London, even the rain was loud.

‘Seriously, Tess,’ said Nina, ‘you’ll get a new job. You might even find something you like. And if you don’t, you can always go home again. That wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?’

‘It mightn’t be far off. The thought of another year in Kilmitten makes me feel ill. No, I’ve escaped, and I’m not going back.’ She signalled to Tom for the joint.

‘It doesn’t have to be Kilmitten. What’s wrong with Dublin?’

‘Nothing, except I prefer it here. Anyway, I’m sure you’re right. London’s a big old place. There has to be a job with my name on it.’