If they had said she was in love she would have pooh-poohed the idea. She might have felt love for her parents, but with the death of her baby sister they had been too occupied with their own grief to notice they were neglecting her. By the time they did, it was too late. By then Claire was helplessly, hopelessly enamoured with the McArdle family.

Claire was a solitary child given to reading a lot and playing imaginary games by herself in the wilderness that passed for a garden behind their house. Her mother was a teacher and believed it was never too early to become acquainted with books. Claire's first memory was sitting in her bath turning the vinyl pages of Puss in Boots. She remembered the water slopping the shiny plastic cat and crooning sadly because he had gotten his fur 'all wet.'

Christopher, who was two years younger than Claire, never opened a book. He was 'games' mad, spent all his time hopping, throwing or kicking a ball, which pleased their father who was also sport crazy and spent his weekends glued to the television watching Grandstand and Match of the Day. Claire didn't feel much, if any, affinity with Christopher.

When Claire was ten, another baby had been born; a little girl with hair a shade blonder than Claire's and grey eyes fringed with sooty lashes. She and Christopher had doted on Bella, bonded together this one and only time out of mutual adoration. 'Make an angel face,' Claire would coax and the little darling would show her pearly teeth in a smile. 'Now a devil face,' scowling and wrinkling her button nose obediently. Claire was besotted with this tiny sibling, willing the school bell to ring so that she could run home, eager for the reality of her.

The baby was her mother's joy and delight and her death from meningitis when she was two cast Annette into a deep depression. She lost her optimistic view of life, her sweetness of expression. At thirty-eight years of age she became weepy and withdrawn, lying in bed with her face to the wall, refusing to take an interest in anything. When she got up at last and resumed her normal routine she performed her tasks like an automaton, without flair, the spirit gone out of her. Claire's father, Jim, tried to cheer her but could not break through the barrier Annette had erected about her. There was a marked difference in their relationship. He became hesitant, almost apologetic, as if it was somehow his fault. Her mother no longer laughed at his clowning and he had lost his faith in his ability to make her laugh.

Kay Martin threw a frilly housecoat over her nightdress, slipped her feet into fluffy pink mules and hurried hopefully downstairs to meet the postman. As she jumped the last few steps, she was just in time to see the long awaited envelope bearing the distinctive purple and gold crest of Celtic Airway drop through the letter box.

With a cry of triumph, Kay darted forward and snatched it off the faded Aubusson rug. Turning, she raced upstairs to read it in the privacy of her bedroom.

'Yes! Yes! Yes!' her heart sang with delight. Her preliminary interview for the coveted job of air hostess had been successful.

'We have pleasure in informing you that a further interview has been arranged for you at the airport on Thursday 4th October.'

Brilliant! She lowered the sheet of paper to give vent to her feelings.

'We hope you will be able to attend,' she read on when she had calmed down, 'and we would appreciate it if you would please telephone ext. 412 to confirm this appointment.'

With shining eyes Kay thought how she had always wanted to become an air hostess. Ever since she was a little girl and had got her first glimpse of the airline's advert on the airport road. Staring at the cardboard cut out of the glamorous smiling hostess in uniform, she had fervently sworn that the minute she was old enough, she would apply herself.

In August when Celtic Airways ran their recruiting advert, that's exactly what she had done, filling out an application form and posting it off with two photos as requested.

Now her head filled with dreams, her heart high with hope, Kay crossed to her dressing-table to gaze at herself in the mirror, approving (in view of the confirming letter) of the dark, delicately arched brows, the thick cloud of dusky hair falling forward on her forehead, the deep-lashed 'filmstar' eyes of that verdant shade that often goes with dark-haired, fair-complexioned Celtic beauty.

Truly, as had often been remarked, Kay Martin was a very typical Irish beauty, a veritable dark Rosaleen of poetic fancy but - there the resemblance ended, for Kay was very much a girl of the sixties. The look as though butter wouldn't melt in her lovely mouth was totally misleading, as more than one of her suitors had found out to his surprise - and later gratification!

Kay let her long thick eyelashes droop and smiled seductively at herself in the mirror, 'Welcome on board', she tried experimentally in her deepest most alluring voice. It had all the suggestiveness of an invitation to the kasbah. She giggled and dropped the pose, 'Failte,' she cooed with what she imagined was soft Irish charm. 'Heel-lo there,' waggling her fingers close to her cheekbone, intent on knocking them dead.

A heavy hand thumped on her bedroom door bringing her back to reality and her aunt's maid looked in, her long face morose.

'You still here,' she grunted, carelessly dumping the dustpan and brush she was carrying on top of Kay's freshly ironed blouse.

'Peg!' Kay cried in protest, jumping up and rescuing it before she could do it any more damage.

Unmoved, Peg went about scooping up clothes, tissues and pieces of fluff, the accumulated rubbish of weeks, and throwing them on the bed. Her stockings were rolled below her knee and held in place with garters of shredding black elastic. When she bent over, the veined underside of her thighs was visible; irregular purple and red rivers on a white seabed.

Kay tore her eyes away from contemplation of Peg's secret places and stuffed the letter in her bag. She felt a pang of disquiet when she saw the time. Only a miracle could save her now from the supervisor's sarcastic, 'Late again, Miss Martin! Making quite a record for yourself these days.'