‘I’ll ring him,’ I promise. ‘I’ll do a really grovelly apology.’

‘Come on, then,’ Edie says. ‘Let’s face the music.’

‘Got the flowers?’

Edie grabs them from the back seat. We get out of the car and head up the path to Mum’s front door.

‘I don’t think you’ve told me all that went on at your lunch date,’ I say, several cogs and levers whirring in my brain. ‘I seem to remember you being very vague about it.’

Edie looks at me askance and I see a spark of guilt in her eye.

With perfect timing, Mum opens the door. ‘Darlings!’ she says as if she weren’t expecting us. ‘How lovely to see you!’

‘Hello, Mum,’ Edie says, avoiding my questioning gaze and holding out the conciliatory bunch of flowers. ‘Great to see you too.’

My sister’s interrogation will have to wait.

Chapter eighty

Chapter eighty

The table is set with crisp, white Irish linen and pure white delicate porcelain. It looks fabulous. The silver is out in full force. So is the Stuart crystal. There’s a delicate arrangement of white carnations and green frondy bits. My mother could set the table for a state banquet and not be found wanting. She has, however, turned lumpy mashed potatoes into an art form. Her skill at presentation surpasses her culinary expertise. With a graceful smile and an elegant sleight of hand, she puts a bowl of grey, humped puree down in the middle of the dining-room table and I have to admit there’s a certain surreal sculptural quality to it. It wouldn’t look entirely out of place in a Salvador Dalí exhibition. Edible, they will not be. Given the fact that her cooking could have had a chance to improve over the years, I can sometimes understand the reason why my father left us. I can only hope she was better in the bedroom—otherwise he will have my utmost sympathy.

‘This is so lovely,’ my mother says, clasping her hands to her delicate bosom. ‘Having both of my big girls here together.’

Edie and I smile sickly smiles.

‘And I know that a roast dinner is your favourite.’

Edie and I both hate roast dinner—particularly my mother’s version of it. The hostess trolley is steaming quietly in the corner of the room, which is never a good sign. It means the carrots will have been in it since some time yesterday. My mother likes to make her preparations well in advance. She is not familiar with the term al dente. Cabbage? Minimum two hours at a rolling boil. If you were sporting ill-fitting dentures, you would be safe eating in my mother’s home. Unless, of course, you touched the meat. Mum puts down a block of something black.