But in a move far more legendary than I’ll ever admit, my mild-mannered brother finally located his balls and gave Mum and Dad a giant bollocking. They’ve subsequently agreed to accept Athena as the CEO of our family foundation—the newly named Audacity Foundation—and Mum seems to have forgiven her for being a shameless little hussy (Mum’s words) remarkably quickly. I suspect it’s that the likelihood of Athena popping out mini Angel Gabriels ramps up with every passing day.

I have to say, though, even if we’ve put that particular episode of the Sullivan Family Soap Opera to bed, it’s a timely reminder that Mum can never, ever find out the full scope of Marlowe’s new role.

Dad comes over and gives me a hug that involves backslaps hearty enough to displace my lungs. He’s wearing a navy suit with pinstripes so wide they call for a cigar. Unlike Gabe, Mairead and me, who have only ever known extreme privilege, Dad grew up on the Dublin docks before emigrating to the UK with his father to make fortunes beyond their wildest dreams. As a consequence, Ronan Sullivan is a bon viveur, a man whose wealth and status are still novel enough for him to simultaneously struggle with them and enjoy the fuck out of them.

Or so it seems from my vantage point, anyway.

Finally, he releases me, gripping me by the shoulder tightly enough to remind me that he’s still the boss, even if he’s passed the reins of his businesses onto the next generation now. ‘How’s my boy? Behaving yourself, Bren?’

It’s a loaded question that probably has two desired responses: a reassuring absolutely regarding our behemoth of a construction firm and a cheeky fuck, no for the women in my life.

‘Only in the ways you’d want me to,’ I tell him with a wink, and he laughs right on cue.

‘Good man, good man. Glad to hear it. I can’t persuade you to come along tonight? There’s a seat going spare in the box, and it would mean the world to your mam. Sure, we could look for Les.’ He nudges me forcefully with his elbow.

And there it is. The ribbing and the guilt trip, all rolled into one tidy package.

‘I can’t, Dad. I’m catching up with some friends later. And you know I don’t take my meds on the weekends. I’d be a liability.’

If reminding my father of the time when surviving a trip to the theatre with me was his worst nightmare is the easiest way to get out of thespian jail guilt-free, then I’ll happily throw myself under the bus.