Nina found herself thinking about Tess’s new apartment. Imagine: her old friend owning an apartment in London. ‘It’s not much,’ she’d said. ‘A glorified cupboard, really.’ Her protestations weren’t convincing. The apartment was in Kensington, after all. Kensington! Nina wondered if she’d ever get to see it. She wondered how much it had cost. No doubt Tess’s Vogue cover would earn her a tidy sum. ‘Obviously, I’m pleased,’ she’d said, ‘but, you know, it’s just a stepping stone. If I make the cover of US Vogue, then we can all go mental.’

Nina was reminded of a saying favoured by one of her primary-school colleagues. When faced by a demanding pupil, Eddie Mason would shake his head and mutter, ‘Much wants more.’

Stop it, she thought. You’re being unfair. Tess had never been one for pretence. If she thought she could do better, she’d say so. If she didn’t trust someone, she’d make her feelings plain. And yet something had altered. Step by step, she was pulling away. Nina supposed that everybody changed. Her own ideas were shifting. She didn’t want to become one of those people for whom possessions were more important than ideas, but neither could she pretend that money was of no significance. Being good at her job wasn’t enough. She wanted to be successful. These days, more women were becoming principals, and she reckoned this was something she should aim for.

She returned to her book, then quickly set it aside again. Martin Amis wasn’t for her. Up ahead, a plane was scorching through the seamless blue sky. If anything, it was too hot, a rare complaint in Kilmitten. She was thinking about going for a walk when her mother arrived with two glasses of orange juice.

She handed one to Nina, then lowered herself into the other deckchair.

Nina rubbed the cold glass against her face. ‘Thanks.’

‘I gather,’ said her mam, ‘that you met the television fellow?’

‘Your spies were out last night. Who told you that?’

‘I bumped into Brendan Talty down the village. He said he saw you talking in Pilkington’s. “The pair of them were having a great old natter,” he said. You know Brendan, he’s as bad as his wife for telling tales.’

Nina explained how she’d been introduced to Julian by Brendan’s daughter, Liesl. ‘I couldn’t ignore the guy,’ she said.

‘Of course you couldn’t, love. I’m playing with you. Don’t mind your father. Granted, he’s suspicious of the TV programme, but he’ll calm down. He gets worked up and within minutes he’s forgotten what it was that had him so annoyed.’

‘I can’t believe anybody had time to talk about me. I thought there’d only be one topic of conversation in the village today.’