The next hour was a mixture of the sound of scraping forks against our plates and stilted conversation about as interesting as the plain boiled rice I was shoveling into my mouth. Beth asked how I got on in my exams and what I wanted to study at uni and I made up some suitable non-sarcastic answers. At one point Dad managed somehow to segue a comment about avocados into a conversation about the death penalty to get me talking. I don’t know how he did it. That was his special skill.

“Right, but what if I was murdered. Would you not—”

“Dad, seriously, realistically, if anyone is going to murder you it’ll be me. So no.”

“But what if—”

“Oh God, make it stop,” I wailed.

Once we’d all choked down dinner, Dad cleared the table and Beth settled on the sofa. She looked out of place. She didn’t belong on our sofa.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of the first time I’d met her. I’d been out with Mum, maybe a week after she’d moved out at most, and when I came home Beth was there, looking guilty in the same spot on the couch. Dad had tried to act casual.

“How was your mum?” he said, after Beth had jumped out of the seat like it was on fire and made some flimsy excuse to leave. “Did you do anything nice?”

“Who was that?” I said sharply, ignoring his attempt at diversion.

“Hmmm? Oh, Beth, an advertising client.” He skittered out of the living room into the kitchen and I followed him. Dad was a web developer and worked with loads of advertising people. The client thing could have been true. She looked like the kind of person who worked in advertising. That’s the best kind of lie, isn’t it? The one that’s technically true.

“Why was she here?” I took a seat at the small breakfast table and kept my voice purposefully steady. I wanted him to convince me. A sick feeling in my stomach had started churning the moment I saw her and I wanted it to go away. I really wanted to be wrong.

“She lives nearby. I said I’d meet her here to discuss some things so I could be home early for a change.”

He started pulling pots and pans out of the cupboards. I watched him pretend to examine a package of dried pasta as though the nutritional information was suddenly important to him.

“So how was your mum?” he asked again.

I felt myself detach from the moment. The sick feeling in my stomach faded away.

“Did you sleep with her?” I felt like I was watching the scene unfold instead of participating in it. Like it was all happening in the mirror.

“What? Saoirse!”