‘It’s a fantastic birthday party, Mary,’ Susie said. ‘Lily’s having a great time and that’s the main thing.’

Mary nodded. Susie was right. The dessert faux pas wasn’t a big deal – as long as Lily was happy, that was all that mattered.

‘Imagine, three years old already,’ Susie went on, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Must be time for a baby brother or sister!’

Susie had six children, the younger three of whom were there that afternoon, racing around Mary’s kitchen. Susie had also brought her babysitter, Cynthia. Cynthia was ostensibly there to help Susie with the children but as far as Mary could see, she’d spent most of the afternoon topping up her own glass and laughing with the dads.

Mary shook her head, smiling at Susie. ‘Oh, I think one baby’s plenty for me.’

Ines O’Brien, who was retying a bow in her daughter Cora’s hair, made a clicking noise with her tongue, and Della threw Mary a pointed look. Mary’s face heated up again. Dammit. She shouldn’t have said that in front of Ines.

‘Ines, would you like some cake?’ She held out a plate. Peace offering.

‘No, thank you, I never eat cake,’ Ines said, her Spanish accent laced with disdain. She lit a long, slim cigarillo and moved to the open patio door.

Mary looked at the remaining slices. ‘Ellen,’ she called, and a blonde head turned her way. ‘Is your mom going to stop by for some cake?’

Ellen shook her head and went back to her huddle with Aoife. Ellen lived next door, but her parents kept themselves to themselves. Her mother always matched Mary’s wave with a nervous wave of her own, though never accepted invitations to drinks or dinners or card nights.

She’s intimidated by you, Della had said once. Lots of the neighbours are.

Mary didn’t think she was in any way intimidating and said so.

It’s because you don’t look and sound like everyone else; because you float while the rest of us straggle, Della had explained.

That wasn’t quite accurate, but Mary knew what she meant. Her American accent stood out from the South Dublin inflection of the other Rowanbrook residents. Her long sundresses and rope flip-flops were at odds with her neighbours’ A-line skirts and sensible Scholl sandals. And her lipstick – well, unless it was a dinner dance, no one else wore lipstick at all.

The exception to all of this was Ines O’Brien. She’s like a cut-price Mary Murphy, Della had said once. Mary had shushed her, laughing. It wasn’t true. Sure, they were both ‘other’ – one American, one Spanish – but apart from that, they were quite different, Mary reminded Della. Ines was far more glamorous, for a start. Expertly applied make-up, with perfectly painted eyebrows in thin arches above long-lashed eyes, and deep red lipstick in a permanent pout. Her jet-black hair was darker than Mary’s and made her look far more groomed. More vampiric, you mean, Della said, and Mary laughed again. They shouldn’t laugh, Mary thought now, looking over at where Ines stood alone, smoking by the back door. It couldn’t be easy turning up at something like this, knowing everyone knew your business.