In the frilly powder room, Helen was alone, sitting on a pink velvet pouf. She looked tearful—and Helen never cried.

‘Rachel. I’m not pregnant.’

‘…Did you think you were?’

‘Yeah. My period is only a day late but, yeah, I did.’

‘…This is your first month of trying?’

‘I know. But I thought…I was hopeful. You can hug me if you want.’

Carefully, I wrapped my arms around her—and then she did cry.

‘Helen…’ I felt helpless. ‘I was the same. Every month I thought this was the one where it had actually worked. And in the end it did.’

From the way her body stiffened, it was clear she’d remembered what had followed.

‘That won’t happen to you,’ I said.

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. And my worry was that if Helen didn’t get her desired outcome, it could kick-start another descent into the darkness.

‘You’ve got to remember,’ I said, ‘that trying to get pregnant when you’re not sixteen is a marathon, not a sprint.’

‘A marathon, not a sprint,’ she repeated. Then, with a scornful look, ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

She was obviously fine again. ‘Come on, we’d better go back out there.’

I was hoping that Mum hadn’t noticed our absence. But up on the dais, with her elevated overview, of course she had. As I scurried back to my table, her laser eyes burned a hole in my back.

Luke mouthed at me, Everything okay?

Embarrassed by his pity, I gave an abrupt nod, then turned my head.

Behind Mum, an actual, real-life band was setting up on the small stage. When, finally, she surrendered her microphone, the band leader announced they were kicking things off with an old-timey waltz set—which generated a veritable trickle onto the floor. Mum was out there with Dad. Uncle Donagh, showcasing his new knees, had Auntie Phyllis in a hold. Imelda and Philomena were dancing with each other and they all looked joyous and jolly which, despite everything, made me smile.

…Except something was going on with Claire and Adam. I watched her yank him by the tie into a hungry clinch. In the parlance of our culchie cousins, she was ‘ateing the face off him’. Devouring him. From a distance it could have been mistaken for passion, but to me it was clear she was in a blind fury. If someone could die from being snogged, Adam would have been a goner.

I was about to get up and intervene when abruptly Claire desuckered her face from Adam’s, shoved him away and stalked off, only to fall into the hands of Anna and Angelo, who garlanded her with concern.

Meanwhile, at our table, Auntie Dolores was on her feet, trying to pull her husband out to dance. He batted her away. ‘Stop. No.’

‘Daithí, please dance with me.’