A shocked silence descended once more onto the Christmas gathering. Punch-drunk, reeling, raddled, stupefied and combat-fatigued, we all just stared at our matriarch. Some ants crawled across Ruth’s hand. I hoped they were the South American flesh-eating type. Finally, I spoke up on behalf of my sisters. ‘Well, Mum, you’ve definitely brought religion into our lives, because now all of us really do know what it’s like to be in hell.’

Then, extracting Amber’s famous pavlova from the esky by my feet, the youngest, most polite, most pliable, most intimidated Ryan daughter smashed it into our mother’s face.

The younger members of the Ryan clan had clambered up out of the pool some time ago and had been watching the melodrama unfolding beneath the gazebo. They were so startled not one of them had checked their iPhone or taken a selfie or Instagrammed anything for at least, oh, twenty minutes.

Bella: ‘If only we’d brought them up better.’

Jake: ‘It’s pathetic, really. I mean, this is our gene pool?’

Zoe: ‘Is it too late to put ourselves up for adoption?’

Alice: ‘Oh, shit. The worst thing is . . .’

Justin: ‘There’s something worse than this drunken display?’

Alice: ‘. . . now there’ll be no Secret Santa.’

30

The Insular Peninsular has everything in common with the Wild West, except for, well, dress sense, lingo, gun laws – oh, and access to abortion. But Christmas Day had left the Ryan family feeling like they’d been in a shootout in the O.K. Corral.

It was, without doubt, the worst Christmas any of us had ever experienced. Lunch had been abandoned, uneaten. Presents were left unopened, beneath the tree, Santa’s secrets never to be revealed. There was only the prospect of a month of ham sandwiches to indicate that Christmas had even happened at all.

Lying in the darkness that night, Harry and I were as far apart from one another as it was possible to be in a double bed. I’d expected him to go sleep on the couch, and he’d expected me to abandon the marital bed. It was your classic stand-off, except, well, lying down. We hadn’t spoken to one another since lunchtime. I actually had no plans to speak to him for the rest of my life. My last words to him were, ‘You’re a total arsehole, only not as useful. Why don’t you make like Santa and only visit us once a year?’