Nina had never expected to be eclipsed by her friend and she often thought about their contrasting fortunes. She told herself that this was petty, that she was no better than the girls who still talked about their debs night when they were in third year at college. ‘Get over it,’ she said to herself. But knowing that your thinking is corrosive doesn’t make those thoughts go away.

If most people in Kilmitten were impressed by Tess’s fame, there was sniping too. She was thin because she hadn’t been fed properly as a child or because she existed on cigarettes and black coffee or because she threw up after every meal. Her looks were the kind that wouldn’t last. It was a desperate shame she had no father. And why, in the name of God, if she was doing so well was her mother still clocking in at the chipboard factory? Ginny Fortune had put the doubters straight. ‘I’m forty-one years old,’ she’d been heard to say. ‘What am I meant to do? Sit at home watching repeats of Murder, She Wrote?’ This was followed by some suggestions as to what the begrudgers might do with themselves.

Tess said that, while she was able to help her mother, Ginny was determined to maintain her independence. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘Mam won’t ask for anything. I’ve given her money and clothes, and we’ve gone on holiday, but if I try to do too much she gets all thick on me.’

As Nina got closer to Kilmitten, she was struck again by the beauty of the narrow roads. In some places, the trees formed an arch; in others, the hedges were laced with honeysuckle and whitethorn blooms. Ten minutes and she’d be home. First, she needed to pop in to the local shop to buy a toothbrush. Packing straight after a row with Tom hadn’t been a wise idea. The words continued to echo through her head, a reminder of the strains between them.

Once, she’d wondered if they would return to live in the village. Despite some lean years, the Crossans’ filling station remained open. Nina had pictured Tom running the business while she taught in the primary school. Not that she’d ever said this out loud. Talking about the future made him anxious. More recently, she’d come to accept that he would never go back. The way he spoke about school friends who remained, his pitying tone and mournful headshake, made this clear.