‘We haven’t a clue,’ said Tess, ‘and even if we had, we wouldn’t talk about it here.’ She peered around. Several eavesdroppers looked away. Craned necks drew back in, and men began staring into their pints as though they held the secrets of the universe. ‘Anyway, what is it you want us to do?’

‘I was hoping the two of you might talk to me,’ he tipped his head towards Tess and Nina, ‘about what it was like growing up in the village, your memories of Father Galvin, that type of thing. I’d ask Conor, only I’ve a feeling I’d be wasting my time.’

‘Your feeling is spot on,’ replied Conor. His eyes roamed the ceiling. He wished the guy would go away.

‘Will you think about it?’ asked Julian.

‘Well—’ started Nina.

Tess intervened. ‘Gosh, I doubt it,’ she said, a teasing tone in her voice. ‘Not this weekend, at any rate. I’m busy and I’d say Nina is too.’ She rooted in her bag and took out a business card. ‘Here’s my agent’s number. I’ll be away for the next fortnight. Give her a shout after that, and she’ll let you know if I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Could you not give me your phone number?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she said, like a queen dismissing a courtier. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve a lot to discuss.’

When Julian had left, Nina turned to Tess. ‘Are you going to do an interview?’

‘Not a chance, but I liked messing with his head. What about you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

Conor reckoned Tess was as good as her word. About Nina, he was less sure.

Chapter 14

Tom stepped outside and inhaled the ripe smell of the city. Warm weather always gave him a freewheeling feeling. The shop had been busy earlier, but it was quiet now, and he expected it to stay that way. Many of the customers came directly from the nearby dole office, so the weekends were usually less lively.

When Tom had started working in Val’s, he’d been wary of the locals. Scared, even. He’d realised that seventeen years in Kilmitten and two in UCD had left him ill-prepared for the north inner city. His nerves hadn’t been helped by the lads who’d hung out on the next corner. A gang of teenagers with spiky hair and spikier attitudes, they’d revelled in shouting abuse at passers-by. Sometimes they’d smoked or kicked a ball or played with their crutches (there was always a lad on crutches), but mostly they’d got their kicks from firing stones and roaring ‘Student’, their highest grade of insult, at Tom. Eventually, he’d found the courage to yell back, and the stoning had stopped. Now, when he thought about those weeks, he was mortified by his immaturity. And his snobbery.