It was a pity Marie-Claire wasn’t coming home this year. There was something about her granddaughter that softened the atmosphere. She had a carefree way about her that was contagious, and she could make Imelda laugh like no one else could, with her impudence. Imelda smiled. She’d three other grandchildren and, while she loved them, Marie-Claire was her favourite.

She’d better get a move on; Keelin would be here in five minutes. She went into her own bedroom, patted her hair, powdered her cheeks with Mac bronzer and rolled her lipstick over her lips.

The Frenchman wouldn’t find her lacking in her toilette.

The kettle had no sooner boiled than Imelda heard the rental car crunch over the stones in the drive. She whisked off her apron, placed it on the oven rail and went to open the front door.

‘Welcome, home, Keelin. Happy Christmas,’ she greeted her daughter. They hugged. Imelda was glad Keelin remembered not to kiss her in the French fashion, on each cheek. That nonsense irritated her greatly. Once was enough to kiss a person, there was no need for a pantomime, she’d said crossly to Armand after all the kissing eventually got too much for her.

‘Armand, come in, happy Christmas to you, too,’ she said in as friendly a tone as she could manage.

‘Mrs O’Brien’ – she’d told him sharply when she’d first met him not to call her Madame, she didn’t run a house of ill repute – ‘it’s very good to see you looking so well. The felicitations of the seasons to you, also,’ her son-in-law said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

The felicitations of the season, indeed, Imelda thought irascibly. Why couldn’t he just say happy Christmas like everyone else? ‘Get in out of the cold’ – and don’t be annoying me, she would have liked to add, but she restrained herself. She’d given herself a stern talking to earlier and told herself to keep her sharp tongue under control. It got her into a lot of trouble, but keeping silent about things was not in her nature.

To take her mind off the antipathy triggered by her son-in-law’s arrival, she busied herself making tea and cutting thick fingers of Christmas cake. Her cake had turned out particularly well this year; no sunken fruit or burned sultanas at the edges. She could serve it up to the Frenchman with pride.

‘The house is lovely, Mam. The holly and ivy are so decorative along the mantelpiece with the fairy lights woven through,’ Keelin lauded her mother’s festive touches.

‘I saw it done in a magazine when I was at the hairdresser’s and there’s plenty of holly out in the garden, so I cut a basket full and chopped the ivy off the wall. Even though I say so myself, I made a good fist of it,’ Imelda declared.