She’d never have admitted it, but back in the day Mum had decided that because Luke’s dad, Brian, was a mere electrician—contrasting with Daddy Walsh, the accountant—the Walshes were somehow better than the Costellos.

It made no difference that both Mum and Daddy Walsh had come from humble backgrounds and that Daddy Walsh had gained his qualifications via a correspondence course instead of spending four free-and-easy, duffle-coated years swaggering about Trinity College like an entitled young buck.

For once in her anxious, status-obsessed life Mum had relished her position as top dog.

Until the Costellos had extended an invitation to tea. Poor Mum had swanked along, prepared to be generous about their mean little abode—and then Dad had parked the car outside.

‘This?’ she’d asked, staring in green-tinged shock at the well-kempt, handsome house. Yes, it was a suburban semi-d, but it boasted double glazing, up-to-the-minute gutter work and a fibre-glass front door.

Once inside, the square-footage appalled her. A large extension into the spacious back garden had resulted in an attractive conservatory and an enormous, light-filled kitchen. The converted attic yielded up two extra bedrooms, both boasting built-in wardrobes and en-suites.

Worse still, the workmanship everywhere was excellent: doors hung straight, they shut easily and silently, the light switches didn’t deliver mild electric shocks and you could run your hand along the banisters without your skin being torn to bits by stray splinters.

Mum kept swallowing and swallowing. When Mrs Costello produced an array of pretty cakes and mini-tarts she stuttered something about how they must have spent the day baking.

Mrs Costello had a good laugh at that. ‘Life’s too short for making quiche. The Laden Table did all this.’

The Laden Table! Mum was borderline obsessed with the place. How she yearned to be like her friends, who could casually pick up the phone and place an impromptu order for beef stroganoff for ten. But Mum was held back by shame—certain that buying from the Laden Table was the same as paying for a series of Facebook ads, confessing to being an appalling cook.

It had been a tough eighty minutes. In fairness, it often is when two random sets of parents are brought together because their respective children have fallen in love. Luke and I churned out most of the chat and even Dad made a stab at it, but because he spoke so rarely it was hard for him to gear up.

Mum managed the occasional strangled sentence. ‘That rug…it looks like a Gooch luxury hand-tufted Berber. Oh, it is? Eighty per cent off, well…lovely.’

On the way home, Mum remained silent for most of the journey. As we crossed the Liffey, back into the southside, she murmured, in the tiniest of voices, ‘It was like a small hotel.’ Then, ‘How did they get eighty per cent off the rug? I never see anything but rubbish in the sales.’