A therapist once explained to me that a family system is like a play. Everyone has their role to perform, and if you choose to reject your role and reinvent it, it does not go down well, because it throws everyone else’s role into disarray. If I wasn’t the disruptive troublemaker, Gabe wouldn’t have been the academic saint, and Mairead wouldn’t have been the dutiful little mother. Never mind that I run a company with an equity market capitalisation of eleven billion pounds.

Dad reacts exactly as predicted, rearing back with a laugh as if he’s dodged a bullet. ‘Damn, you’re right, son. You go and blow off some steam or you won’t be of any use to anyone on Monday.’

He still has a way of making me feel like my position at Sullivan Construction is a tenuous one, contingent solely on the blind luck of my circumstances and not the hard graft I’ve put in ever since I graduated from uni. Sometimes, it seems as though he sees me as the pesky but charming mailroom guy who would do well to tamp down his personality so as not to ruffle any feathers, rather than a CEO who has repeatedly proven his mettle.

But there’s no point in saying anything. Not to Dad. So I nod without a comment and wave him off as he heads over to join Mum and Athena.

My sister zeroes in on me, and I hastily pour a glass of wine for her.

‘If it isn't my favourite stallion wrangler,’ I say, kissing Mairead's cheek. ‘How are the horny beasts doing?’

‘The four-legged ones are fine,’ she shoots back, looking me up and down. ‘But you didn’t put that porno black shirt on for us. So I suspect the two-legged ones will be going on the prowl later.’

‘Ha fucking ha. Sour grapes aren’t a good look on you, sis.’ I jerk my head in the direction of her long-suffering husband. ‘When’s the last time you let Peter near you without a riding crop?’

She smirks, sipping her Meursault with irritating sang-froid. ‘Quality over quantity, dickhead. I'd rather have one thoroughbred than a stable of ponies. Speaking of which, heard you've got a new filly starting Monday.’

I look over my shoulder at Mum. It’s not a secret, but the last thing I need is my eagle-eyed sister dropping any unwarranted speculation. ‘News travels fast.’

‘Athena mentioned it. Said she's gorgeous, smart, and way too good for you.’

I narrow my eyes at her. Women. Why do they always have to have an angle? I don’t know for certain what her angle is, just that there is one and it probably involves tripping her brother up with her devious conversational skills just as effectively as she used to with her skipping rope.