They were driving away from Shannon airport now, past the factories and the housing estates. When asked about home, Tess found it hard to come up with an adequate description. In her circles, people tended to have a toora-loora-loora, pigs-in-the-kitchen view of the west of Ireland. They thought it was all donkeys and drunks, nuns and the IRA. The month before, she’d met a designer who’d been genuinely amazed that she’d grown up with electricity and running water. It was hard to give people a sense of the real place, to say, ‘Well, it’s more complex than you think.’

‘So, how are the police treating you?’ she asked Conor, whose driving was as erratic as his temperament was steady.

‘Guards, Tess. We’re called guards. You’re back in Ireland now.’

‘Very funny. How are you getting on?’

‘Okay. I can’t pretend I love spending my days talking to women who’ve been mugged, and looking for young lads who might have done the mugging, but somebody has to do it.’

Conor was stationed in Termonbeg on the outskirts of Cork City. A suburb tacked onto a suburb, it sounded bleak.

‘One day you’ll be the boss,’ said Tess, ‘and you’ll look back on this as good training.’

‘Says the woman who gets paid a fortune to traipse up and down a ramp. Something big’s up with you, though, isn’t it? You haven’t stopped grinning since you got off the flight.’

‘I’m happy to be home.’

‘You may well be, but there’s something else.’

‘Now I can see why you’re the guard and I’m a humble model. You’re right, I’ve had some news. Some great news. I’m going to be on the cover of British Vogue.’

‘You’re on lots of covers,’ said Conor, his brow crinkling, the way it always did when he was confused.

‘This is different. I’m sure most of the village would be more impressed if I was on the cover of the Sacred Heart Messenger, but in my world, this is a big deal.’

‘Don’t you have to be a saint to make it to the Messenger?’

‘Damn. I guess that one’s not going to happen, then.’

‘Congratulations,’ he said.

‘Cheers. By the way, not a word at home. I don’t want folks thinking I’m boasting.’

‘I don’t know where that girl got her notions from,’ said Conor, in a raspy imitation of Mags Moynihan.

Tess giggled. ‘Mam’ll be pleased, though.’