She waited on the kerb in her trench coat. When he pulled up she got into the passenger seat. I’m not exactly playing hard to get, am I? she said.

He looked at her, just for a moment, and swung out on to the road.

Forty minutes later she was back in the house. Gina had managed to get drunk in her absence and was drumming on the table with her nails. That was quick, she said.

Really quick, said Cushla. She ran the hot tap and washed her hands, going at them with Fairy liquid and a nail brush until the grey-brown water ran clear from her fingers.

What has you so dirty? said Gina.

For God’s sake, said Cushla, turning the gas on under the water again. Michael had driven her to a derelict farmhouse. He’d pulled her from the passenger seat and slapped her palms on to the roof of his car. She didn’t know if she’d enjoyed it, but she loved the way he looked at her right before he hauled the gusset of her knickers aside and fucked her.

She folded the pasta into the pot and sat at the table, flicking through the magazine. The women in the photographs were heavily made up, showing flashes of glistening skin. She smoothed her plaid skirt and went to the cooker to drain the pasta. Some of the spaghetti had clumped into a gluey, corrugated sheet. She salvaged what she could and tossed it in the sauce.

Gina looked at it without enthusiasm when she put a plate in front of her. Is that wee Gerry fella your boyfriend now?

What if he is?

I bloody hope he is. Staying out all night. All the phone calls. You’ll be the talk of the town.

Cushla twirled spaghetti and raised her head. Stop making such a big deal about it.

Gina lifted a single strand and stared at it. Watch yourself, she said. You’ll end up in the family way. She set down her fork and didn’t touch the food again.

Cushla scarcely chewed hers, letting it slither down her throat. The ache in her belly had vanished. She was ravenous.

They went into the sitting room to watch television. Cushla lay on the couch and felt herself sink into the place between sleeping and waking. She sensed a hand on her, unsure if it was real or dreamt, and struggled upright.

That wee lad’s in the hall, said Gina.

Gerry? Bring him in, said Cushla, rubbing her eyes.

Not him. The other wee lad.

Cushla stumbled from the room. Tommy McGeown was at the foot of the stairs. Oh, said Cushla.

Were you expecting someone else?

Yeah. I mean, no.

Michael, maybe? he said, tilting his head slightly in that way he had.

She could feel panic moving over her face. Tommy was watching her, his expression inscrutable. Did he know something? Had he seen them?