‘Suits can be tight,’ Helen said. ‘Remember their wedding? Sweet. Jesus. Remember the debate we had, wondering if he had the trousers specially tailored or if it was just down to…him?’ At my stricken face, she muttered, ‘Anyway, he’s an asshole.’

‘Stop talking about him,’ I said. ‘Like, please.’

If they didn’t knock it on the head, I’d have to leave. Since yesterday, I’d been awash with humiliation—both old and new. Every time my memory reran the little home-movie of the dismissive flick of his eyes in the church, fresh shame flooded in.

Underneath the shame was an appalling sadness.

But I’d be okay. So long as I didn’t take anything to sidestep the pain—and I wouldn’t—this awful discomfort would eventually disperse.

‘If I could have your attention,’ Mum called. ‘Claire, Helen, before I arrive at the hotel, you’re to have the guests all fired up. Make them practise yelling, “SURPRISE!” Do it a few times. My sisters, but especially Imelda and Philomena, won’t want to, and some of the cousins are right bitches too, but tell them there’ll be no goody bag for them if they don’t. Ah, here’s Margaret. What’s that you’re wearing?’

‘A shirt-dress. It’s new!’

A blue-and-black checked flannel button-down, the sleeves rolled back over a slubby grey T-shirt, it was very Margaret. With flat black leather knee boots and her choppy bob, she looked comfortable and stylish. It was a great look and it really suited her.

‘You’re…well turned out.’ Mum sounded surprised.

‘You look like a social worker,’ Helen said.

‘…who’s having an affair.’ That was Claire trying to be nice and it made Margaret laugh. Not that there was any chance of Margaret having an affair. Of all of us, her relationship was the most convincing. She and Garv were lovely to each other.

‘How are you, Rachel?’ she asked. ‘How was Luke?’

‘We didn’t speak.’

‘Oh. Well. How did he…look?’

‘Do any of you care about my surprise party?’ Mum exploded. ‘Or do you just want to talk about Luke Costello’s tight trousers?’

‘I’ll take Luke Costello’s tight trousers for five hundred dollars,’ Claire said.

‘Ah now! Bitta respect for Dr Spork!’ Helen said.

‘Who? Oh, Quin.’ Mum snorted. She didn’t like him. ‘Cocksure of himself,’ was her sour assessment.

Confidence was usually seen as a positive. But Mum was from that generation of Irishwomen who prided themselves on raising children with rock-bottom self-esteem. Nothing galled them as much as an offspring with confidence. Quin might have got away with it if he’d put the effort into charming her—because he could be very charming when it suited him—but, contrary fecker that he was, he decided not to. (‘Why should I?’ He’d declared. ‘I shouldn’t have to apologize for who I am.’)

‘Is Spork coming to my party?’ Mum asked.