For once in her anxious, status-obsessed life Mum had relished her position as top dog.
Until the Costellos had extended an invitation to tea. Poor Mum had swanked along, prepared to be generous about their mean little abode – and then Dad had parked the car outside.
‘This?’ she’d asked, staring in green-tinged shock at the well-kempt, handsome house. Yes, it was a suburban semi-d, but it boasted double glazing, up-to-the-minute gutter work and a fibre-glass front door.
Once inside, the square-footage appalled her. A large extension into the spacious back garden had resulted in an attractive conservatory and an enormous, light-filled kitchen. The converted attic yielded up two extra bedrooms, both boasting built-in wardrobes and en-suites.
Worse still, the workmanship everywhere was excellent: doors hung straight, they shut easily and silently, the light switches didn’t deliver mild electric shocks and you could run your hand along the banisters without your skin being torn to bits by stray splinters.
Mum kept swallowing and swallowing. When Mrs Costello produced an array of pretty cakes and mini-tarts she stuttered something about how they must have spent the day baking.
Mrs Costello had a good laugh at that. ‘Life’s too short for making quiche. The Laden Table did all this.’
The Laden Table! Mum was borderline obsessed with the place. How she yearned to be like her friends, who could casually pick up the phone and place an impromptu order for beef stroganoff for ten. But Mum was held back by shame – certain that buying from the Laden Table was the same as paying for a series of Facebook ads, confessing to being an appalling cook.
It had been a tough eighty minutes. In fairness, it often is when two random sets of parents are brought together because their respective children have fallen in love. Luke and I churned out most of the chat and even Dad made a stab at it, but because he spoke so rarely it was hard for him to gear up.
Mum managed the occasional strangled sentence. ‘That rug … it looks like a Gooch luxury hand-tufted Berber. Oh, it is? Eighty per cent off, well … lovely.’
On the way home, Mum remained silent for most of the journey. As we crossed the Liffey, back into the southside, she murmured, in the tiniest of voices, ‘It was like a small hotel.’ Then, ‘How did they get eighty per cent off the rug? I never see anything but rubbish in the sales.’
Back in the present, I said, ‘Mum, no need for you to come to the funeral. You’d lost contact with her.’
And I needed to be free to leave at a moment’s notice, without being told I was being disrespectful.
‘Now that’s settled, I need some advice.’ Claire got to her feet and began removing her fashion-forward flares.
‘What’s going on!’ Mum cried. She was terrified of naked skin.
‘Francesca says my kneecaps look like the faces of two old Russian women wearing headscarves. Do they?’
Francesca was Claire’s seventeen-year-old and shaping up to be a handful. But she could be very funny and on the money. Interested, I focused on Claire’s kneecaps. They were bumpy, certainly, but I wasn’t seeing actual old women.
‘I don’t know,’ Mum said. ‘If you stare at anything long enough, it starts looking funny.’
‘Like the man who saw Michael Bublé in a slice of toast,’ Margaret said.
‘I do see old women in headscarves, yeah,’ Helen said. ‘But I don’t know if they’re Russian.’
‘D’you know what’s a gas thing to do?’ Mum exclaimed, obviously bored of Claire’s knees. ‘If you stare at your own face in the mirror for long enough, you start to look like the devil.’
‘Ah, never mind.’ Claire was also bored. ‘It’s not going to stop me wearing short dresses.’
‘Put your trousers on again, good girl,’ Mum said.
4
Crunchie launched herself at me in ecstatic welcome and Kate declared, ‘Rachel, hey, you’re home!’
‘Hello. Hel-lo, who’s a good dog?’ As Crunchie danced around, I rubbed her ears. ‘Who’s a good dog? You are!’
In the living room, Kate pointed at her paused screen. ‘Korean series. Completely insane. But I love it. Maybe you should give it a go. So would you like some tea? Camomile and rose.’ She’d clambered off the couch and was already in the kitchen, getting me a cup. ‘Helps with sleep.’
‘What about you, my clean-living little niece! How’d your surveillance go today?’
‘Good! Your man turned up; I got lots of photos.’