Dinner Party E-Book

Sarah Gilmartin

• Herausgeber: ONE
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A MAJOR FICTION DEBUT, THIS REMARKABLE IRISH NOVEL ABOUT THE MESSINESS OF MODERN FAMILY LIFE COMES WITH PRAISE FROM MEG MASON TO ANNE ENRIGHT __________ AN IRISH TIMES TOP TEN BESTSELLER SHORTLISTED FOR THE IRISH BOOK AWARDS NEWCOMER OF THE YEAR 'Gilmartin is clearly a writer to watch' Clare Chambers 'The search is off - here is our next read. Here is an expert writer' Meg Mason 'Sarah Gilmartin gives us terrific, complex characters and strong themes, in prose that is charged with insight' Anne Enright __________ Kate has taught herself to be careful, to be meticulous. To mark the anniversary of a death in the family, she plans a dinner party - from the fancy table settings to the perfect Baked Alaska waiting in the freezer. Yet by the end of the night, old tensions have flared, the guests have fled, and Kate is spinning out of control. But all we have is ourselves, her father once said, all we have is family. Set between the 1990s and the present day, from a farmhouse in Carlow to Trinity College, Dublin, Dinner Party is a dark, sharply observed debut that thrillingly unravels into family secrets and tragedy. As the past catches up with the present, Kate learns why, despite everything, we can't help returning home. A brilliant coming-of-age page-turner about the complications of sibling relationships and the trauma of family secrets, perfect for fans of Kate Atkinson, Maggie O'Farrell and Anne Enright __________ FURTHER PRAISE FOR DINNER PARTY 'Gilmartin's depiction of an Irish family across the decades leaves the reader in no doubt how complicated love can be' John Boyne, author of The Heart's Invisible Furies 'A fresh, confident and compelling new take on sibling dynamics and family secrets that are never far from the surface' Henrietta McKervey, author of A Talented Man 'Sarah Gilmartin is a really wonderful storyteller. A writer here to stay' Joseph O'Connor, bestselling author of Star of the Sea 'A classic Irish family saga... A blazing new talent in Irish fiction' Gavin Corbett, author of This is the Way 'One of the best Irish debuts I've read this year. A novel of family - full of warmth, insight, tragedy and, ultimately, how to survive it all...' Rick O'Shea 'A family gathering goes disastrously wrong in Gilmartin's raw, emotionally searing novel about the toxicity of secrets and the inescapable lure of home.' Waterstones 'Exquisitely captured. . . beautifully paced, confident and insightful' Daily Mail 'Gorgeously wrought and moving' Irish Times 'A fine debut' Irish Independent 'Delicately studied' Sunday Times, Ireland 'A finely observed Irish debut' Guardian 'Gilmartin writes beautifully' Sunday Times, Culture __________ READERS LOVE DINNER PARTY 'A tense, literary page-turner' 'An incredibly poignant story of a family torn by loss and grief' 'A totally compelling read about fraught family relationships, sisterhood, loss, grief and everything in between'

Leseprobe

3

5

People eat their dinner, just eat their dinner, and all the while their happiness is taking form, or their lives are falling apart.

Anton Chekhov

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEEPIGRAPHDUBLINHalloween 2018CARLOWAugust 1999CARLOWSeptember 2006DUBLINMay 2018DUBLINHalloween 2018DUBLINHalloween 2019ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS COPYRIGHT

7

DUBLIN

Halloween 2018

8

9

 

When the gleeson twins were eleven years old, they ran away from home one afternoon. They made it as far as the old mill on the outskirts of town before their mother’s red Jeep pulled up beside them in the rough. The girls got into the back without a word. They didn’t look at each other, just knew somehow to accept defeat, because most things in life were to be accepted. Later that night, Elaine had woken Kate up, her cold fingers prodding Kate’s shoulder across the divide of their single beds. In the soft darkness of the room, Elaine had announced that one day soon they would get off the farm. They would, in fact, get off the island of Ireland entirely and be free to do whatever they wanted in some unknown country with no family ties at all. Kate, who was used to keeping her ideas to herself, especially in the middle of the night when she wanted to go back to sleep, didn’t point out that if the twins were together, they would always have family wherever they went. Instead she’d squinted at Elaine, pulled the duvet over her shoulder and rolled in to face her side of the wall.

Every year on her sister’s anniversary, Kate thought of that night with useless, superstitious longing. If only she could change it. If only she had said yes, for once. What parts of her she would give to have another chance. Her arms, her legs, her rickety bones. But no—enough—this game helped no one. As the bus back to Raheny stalled in the morning traffic, she tried to focus on the day ahead. She shifted closer to the window, away from her seatmate and his sandwich. With a cool swipe of her hand, 10she cleared the condensation and looked down at the street, the chalky pavement of College Green and all the people rushing by.

Today was the sixteenth anniversary of her sister’s death. An incredible number, but you couldn’t argue with numbers—they had no give. This evening the family, or some of the family, were coming to her apartment for dinner. Kate had the day off work to prepare, the recipes laid out on the counter at home, the final few things she needed in the lime green grocery bag at her feet. It wasn’t even half eleven. Everything was going to be fine.

At the turn for the Northside quays, the bus missed the lights. A woman in front of Kate said to the person next to her, ‘There’s so much traffic we’re going backwards.’ The seatmate agreed and the conversation went relentlessly round, each of them talking over the other, saying the same things, until Kate felt that she might never get off the bus. The windows had fogged again and the vents at her feet piped sour heat up to her face. She popped a button on her coat, elbowing the man beside her by mistake. ‘Sorry,’ she said. He ignored her and leaned forward for another bite of his breakfast bap. The yolk split, smearing the ketchup like pus into blood. Kate moved as far away from him as she could, which was not very far at all. Her right ear started to ring, a kind of static fuzzing inside her head. Across the aisle, a toddler screamed, his sharp little cries sucking the light right out of the sky.

At Fairview they stopped for more passengers. A group of teenage boys stomped up the stairs, all jerky limbs and stale smoke. The tallest one pulled on a Scream mask and lurched at some girls by the stairwell. Kate closed her eyes, drowning out the shrieks. She ran through the evening’s recipes in her head, visualizing the photo of the Baked Alaska, the sheen of the meringue, the torched golden tips.

A loud hiccup broke her concentration. The man had finished his bap. Instantly, the teenagers took up the challenge, their frog 11chorus bouncing hiccups and burps around the deck. The noise, the way they seemed to liquify and fill the space—graffitied satchels, bum fluff, trainers with scraggly laces. Some unknown floor gave way inside her. Reaching for her shopping, her hand touched the man’s rucksack and she stood up too quickly, her thigh striking the frame of the seat. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ The man made room for her to get out. At the bottom of the stairs, a standing passenger stared at her with dense curiosity. Two women in the disabled bay nudged each other. Kate moved past them, pressed the red button on the side panel and bit into a hangnail while she waited for the Coast Road stop.

Home, finally, she dropped the bags on the couch and kneaded her thigh. The apartment was cold, but she left her coat on a chair all the same, glad to be free of it. Incense from the morning’s mass was still on her jumper, woody and cloying. She’d tried to light a candle after the service but the slot snatched her euro without a flicker. Looking over her preparations now, she wondered if it had been a sign. The four settings on the dining table, immaculate last night, seemed cramped and showy in the daylight. The gold-rimmed china her mother had given her for her thirtieth was meant for a grander room. But no, she was being ridiculous—it was just her family coming for dinner. Her two brothers and her sister-in-law, that was it. Peter, the eldest, on his own from Carlow, then Ray and Liz, who could be all over each other or not speaking to each other, depending on the day. They were her family, and she had made them dinner before. They were not hard people to please. And yet. The feeling returned, stronger than before: she could so easily have cancelled. She could have stayed in and drunk a bottle of wine. Three bottles of wine. She could have taken the Luas to Ray’s house in Ranelagh and gone trick-or-treating with Liz and the girls. She could have gone home to Cranavon and sat up with Peter and Mammy until the early 12hours, like she’d done for other anniversaries. Instead Kate had invited them all for dinner, though if you pressed her, she couldn’t say exactly when this had happened. Things had been strange for a while now. Life was blurry; each morning the sun rose in a muslin veil. The small stuff was more to the centre, somehow, taking up all the space, blunting her capacities.

In the kitchen, she unloaded her shopping and folded the bag into the bag of bags. She lined up her spoils on the island. Truffle oil from the Arno valley, elastic bands, a pre-carved pumpkin, hand cream, cereal, juniper berries for Liz’s G&Ts. She left the pumpkin and cream to one side and put everything else away. On the counter, the recipes in their clear plastic sleeves were shining in the morning sun. Kate looked out the picture window and thought of her sister.

Between the chopping and the mincing and the rolling and the baking, the hours passed quickly. Her last job was to pipe meringue over the ice cream and slot the dessert into the freezer. When she’d finished the spikes, she stood back to admire her creation. She was proud of it, a mad-looking thing like a jester’s hat. All at once, the evening stretched in front of her, full of possibility. She opened the window over the sink as wide as it would go and the fresh, salty wind came across the room. Outside the light was low in the sky, a strip of pale blue between two bands of cloud. ‘Everything is OK,’ she said out loud to no one.

At ten to seven, she rushed into the bedroom and took off the silk dress that had seemed like such a good idea earlier in the week. The olive green did nothing for her complexion, her mother was right. Kate’s eyes were the wrong kind of brown, different to Elaine’s—their amber warmth, the dark limbal rings around the iris. Non-identical twins. Fraternal twins, their mother used to say. If Kate had been able to salvage something of her 13sister’s, it would have been her eyes. These were the kind of terrible thoughts she’d been having for years. There was no one you could tell. The only person who would get it—who would, in fact, have been thrilled to hear it—was dead.

After ransacking the wardrobe, Kate put on her black wrap dress and reapplied concealer over the crusty patch beside her lip, leaving a haw mark as she leaned closer to the mirror. The doorbell gave a jerky ring. She took one last look at her reflection and told herself to move.

At the hall table, she stopped and lit the tea lights in the pumpkin before opening the door.

‘Hello! Hello! Hi! How are you?’

Everyone spoke at once, then stopped at the same time, and there was a moment, a split second, where Kate thought she might quickly close the door in their faces without them noticing. But no. Her brothers were right there, standing like little-and-large bodyguards on either side of Liz.

‘Kate?’ said Ray, as if he didn’t know her.

Liz looked beyond her into the apartment. She’d had her hair done, the blonde ends feathery.

‘You look gorgeous, Liz,’ Kate said, ushering them into the hall. ‘I love the hur.’

‘Sullivan! I’ll book you in. You won’t know yourself.’ Liz left a moist kiss on Kate’s cheek.

Ray said, ‘Only a thousand euro a go. Extra for the grey bits.’ He patted his own hair, which was mostly black and stiff with gel. They all laughed, a trifle too loudly and for too long. The pumpkin light seemed to grow in thin, lambent fingers up the wall.

Kate complimented Liz’s blouse only to discover that it was a dress, an all-in-one designed to look like separates.

‘Well, now,’ said Peter. ‘Imagine that.’ He was taking an age to undo his wax jacket and Kate wished he would hurry up. 14

Liz gave a twirl, a flash of silver in the hallway.

‘All looks the same to me,’ said Ray.

‘You’re such a gentleman, Raymond.’ Liz backhanded his chest. ‘I married him for his manners.’

Kate felt like she was holding them to account in the hallway. ‘Come in, won’t you, come in.’

‘I’ll take that for you, Liz.’ Peter hung up their coats. ‘And you, Ray.’

‘No!’

They all looked at Ray. His heavy-lidded eyes held some secret or joke, impossible to say which.

‘What are you like?’ said Liz.

‘Sorry.’ He pulled the navy sports jacket so that it strained against his shoulders. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit cold.’

As they moved down the hall, a saxophone solo came from the living room.

‘Is that jazz I hear?’ Peter sucked his cheeks in—the sharp bone structure of the Gleeson men, a face that suited the extra flesh of ageing.

‘I think so,’ Kate said. ‘Random playlist.’

‘Might you know who it is, Peter?’ Ray winked, but then Liz cut across Peter’s jazz musing and said she was desperate for gin. She gave Kate a bottle of wine wrapped in purple crêpe paper and headed for the kitchen, Ray in tow.

Kate was left alone with Peter who surprised her with a bear hug, squashing the bottle into her ribs.

‘Well,’ she smiled as he let go. ‘Thanks for coming this evening. I know it was—’

He held up a hand and she said no more. She loved his gestures, which were always so considered and morose.

He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen, sniffing the air. ‘Beef,’ he said. ‘I’ve a nose for meat. It smells delicious, Kate. 15Muy bien.’ He massaged the jowly bit under his chin and all she could see was their father. Peter and Daddy, walking the fields of her childhood. They would come back in the evenings, stinking of dung and feed, full of the lightness of the outside world.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Get yourself a beer. Dinner will be ready in no time.’

When Kate went into the kitchen, Liz was lifting the foil off the parsnips. ‘Look at all this,’ she said. ‘You’ve put me to shame. My pauper’s stroganoff.’

On the counter, a bowl-shaped glass was full of gin, junipers bobbing.

Kate said, ‘Your stroganoff is to die for.’

‘You think?’

‘Totally.’

‘Well, your mother loves it anyway,’ Liz smiled. ‘We had her with us on Sunday again. She gets the bus now, you know. Flies up the motorway.’

‘Mammy—on the bus?’

‘What’s the point in Raymond driving the whole way down just to bring her back? She was fine about it.’

‘How are the girls?’ said Kate. ‘The messers.’

‘They’d a party at the crèche this afternoon.’ Liz jiggled the ice in her glass. ‘One princess, one skeleton pirate. You can guess who.’

‘Lainy the pirate,’ said Kate. ‘Definitely.’

‘And Lia beside her like royalty,’ Liz laughed. ‘Can you picture it?’

‘Aw,’ said Kate. ‘Show us a photo.’

While Liz found her phone, Kate looked into the living room where her brothers were squashed on her two-seater, staring at a blank television. Fair-haired Peter and dark-haired Ray, the difference decreasing with age. She couldn’t hear what Peter was 16saying but it was probably about his new drainage system. He’d called last night and spent nearly half an hour telling her about the trap and the suction and the way gravity wasn’t as simple a concept as everyone thought.

‘Here, what are you like?’ Liz swiped the wine bottle. ‘That’s not a drink.’ She filled Kate’s glass, then walked over to the picture window and looked out at the dark. ‘So, any word from your man?’

Kate felt her heart quicken. She would kill her brother and his big mouth. ‘What man?’ she said. Two months on, she could still see Liam’s face on their last night together. Tanned, gorgeous, full of shame. It’s over Kate, it’s run its course. All the its had killed her.

‘Ray said something about a break-up. I never even knew! You should have brought him over for the stroganoff.’

‘It wasn’t anything serious,’ Kate smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s finished.’

But Liz was tapping away on her phone now, mercifully uninterested. ‘The bloody babysitter is useless. She was watching something called Demonic when we left.’

‘Well,’ said Kate. ‘It is Halloween.’

Liz laughed, sweeping the hair off her graceful neck. She turned on her heel and walked into the living room.

Kate took the scallops out of the fridge, the silver bloom on the flesh disappearing when she removed the cling film. The pan hissed on the hob and she quickly dressed the plates with rocket. As she waited for the scallops to caramelize, she tipped half her wine into the sink. Inside she could hear Peter and Liz arguing about childcare, and she waited for Liz’s spiel about the twins and her sacrifices and the cost of the crèche. No, she stopped herself, that wasn’t fair. She didn’t know why she was being so harsh tonight—poor Liz who’d done nothing but compliment her efforts since she’d arrived. Kate placed three fat scallops on each plate and then took one off her own and put it on Peter’s. 17

‘This is real china, Raymond.’ Liz was examining a side plate as Kate approached the table. ‘Did you nick these from herself? I swear I won’t tell.’

‘Don’t touch the good china!’ Ray caught Kate’s eye and they both laughed.

Liz poked a scallop with her fork. ‘What are we eating anyway?’

‘Bivalves,’ Peter announced. ‘You know they make their own shells? The internal organs do the business. They secrete this substance.’

‘Fascinating,’ Liz said.

‘Just scallops,’ said Kate, sitting down.

Liz reached for the bread rolls. ‘Very fancy.’

‘They’re delish, Katie.’ Ray beamed at her. ‘I’m loving the purée.’

‘Is that what that is?’ Liz peered into it, searching for pond life. ‘There’s a woody taste.’

‘Truffle oil.’ Peter shook his head at the ignorance.

‘If it isn’t Carlow’s finest foodie,’ Liz said.

They all laughed, even Peter, but Kate felt bad as he reddened and pulled at the collar of his check shirt.

‘How are your Spanish classes going, Peter?’ she said.

‘Oh, muy bien,’ he said. ‘Muy bien.’

She wondered if that was his repertoire. Well, it had only been a few weeks.

Ray said, ‘These are the nicest scallops I’ve ever had.’

Kate cut through the jellied centre of one. She placed a sliver on her tongue but couldn’t taste the delicate flesh through the butter. She looked back at the couch and thought she could smell it on the cushions. ‘I used too much butter,’ she said.

‘Nonsense,’ Peter said. ‘Good Irish butter. Nothing better for you.’ Ray gave him a look over the bread basket. Kate cut another slice, and another, nudging the end of it under the rocket as Liz 18reached across her for the wine. Her perfume smelled like lilies on the way out and just as Kate had the thought, she noticed that Liz’s earrings were flowers too, big silver daisies that covered her lobes, and then, even funnier still, there was another kind of flower, a little pink rose, a logo really, on the breast pocket of her dress. Kate had to get away from the table to stop herself from laughing. She went to the speakers on the mantelpiece, feeling dizzy the closer she got to the music, the track shifting suddenly into a faster chorus. Turned the volume down and up again, wishing she’d left it alone. When she went back to the table, the light felt lower than before—a softer texture to everything, the swish of Liz’s hair, the folds in the napkins.

First to finish, Peter left his cutlery in the centre of the plate, shaking his head at the offer of another bread roll. There was a sheen on his forehead and Kate wondered if the room was too hot. Ray still had his jacket on, open now over a crisp white shirt.

‘Fair dues, Kate,’ said Peter. ‘It’s a lovely idea to ask us here tonight.’

Liz nodded. ‘Away from those bloody trick-or-treaters. I swear, they bus them into the neighbourhood every year.’

‘I meant for Elaine.’ Peter raised his glass. ‘To remember our sister Elaine.’

He gave the toast much louder than necessary and it rang out solemnly.

‘To Elaine,’ they echoed.

‘Mammy should be here with us too,’ Peter said. ‘We had words this morning, I’ll admit it.’

Kate nearly spilled her wine, catching the stem of the glass just in time. She looked across the table at Ray, similarly dumb-founded, though he recovered first, as usual.

‘Say that again, Peter, will you?’

‘I’ve said what I wanted to say.’ 19

‘That our mother, Bernadette Gleeson, is in the wrong?’

‘Don’t act the blaggard, Ray.’

‘The blaggard!’

‘Words were exchanged between Mammy and me,’ said Peter. ‘But it was not to be. I’ll say no more about it.’ He closed his eyes for a second, his thick blond lashes confirming the end of the conversation.

Kate wondered how she would have felt if her mother had shown up as a surprise guest. She pictured her sitting at the table in her cream wool two-piece and emerald teardrop earrings, her hair in the rigid platinum bob that was never greasy, not even if she didn’t wash it for a week. Her face would be pale with powder, two lightly pinked cheeks offsetting her eyes. She would be immaculate as always and the imaginary effort of it gave Kate a lump in her throat.

‘Earth to Kate?’ Ray waved a hand in front of her face.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I knew Mammy wouldn’t come, but thanks for trying, Peter.’ Her mother had never been to the apartment, said it was too far a trip for public transport, which implied that it was Kate’s fault for still not knowing how to drive at thirty-two, and in a way, it was. Kate stood to clear the plates. She could smell the sweetness of the meat starting to crisp.

‘Peter, you tried.’ Ray pursed his lips. ‘And look, won’t we have a better night without her?’

‘Let’s not,’ Peter said.

Ray said, ‘Come on, you of all people.’

‘Yes, I’m the one—’

‘We have her every Sunday,’ Ray said.

‘Four children she had.’ Peter frowned. ‘That’s not nothing.’

‘She’d have monopolized the evening. It would have been Dinner Party: A Tragedy.’ Ray tried to bow in his seat.

Liz laughed. ‘Or Halloween Dinner: A Massacre.’ 20

‘On tonight of all nights.’ Peter grasped his napkin. ‘Have ye no heart?’

Ray held up his hands. ‘Not another word, I promise.’ As Kate set off with the plates, Liz gave a little snort.

Stacking the dishwasher, Kate felt guilty. There was more to her mother than Ray would allow. It would be easier, in fact, if she was a monster. Though he was right that she was insufferable at mealtimes. Kate remembered so many meals at home, years and years of meals, where the food mimicked real food in everything but taste, and nothing got done, not a slab of yellowing butter in a dish, without an explanation of the effort that went into it. And nowadays, although Peter did the cooking, perhaps because he did the cooking, Mammy announced herself in other ways. Ray called it The Noise, her ability to hijack whatever conversation was unfolding—the price of cattle, the Middle East, the various accolades of her own grandchildren—and turn it into some story involving numerous people that none of them knew.

Kate slammed the dishwasher door shut and took a deep breath, five seconds in and out. She reminded herself that her mother was down in Carlow, bothering no one.

The timer pinged for the root vegetables. As she bent for the oven, the red light shone into her eye. Behind her, Ray appeared with the bread basket and some stray cutlery balancing on top. A fork clinked to the floor.

‘Whoops, sorry.’ Ray almost dropped the basket.

‘It’s only a fork.’ Kate picked it up, wiped a streak from the herringbone tiles.

They came face to face when she stood. The skin on his nose was porous, dozens of tiny black dots.

‘Remember what she was like?’ he said.

‘Not tonight, Ray.’ 21

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He left the cloth in the sink. ‘Here, Kate. Are you OK? I mean, this year especially, with your man and all.’

‘You know his name.’

‘Liam the Shithead.’

Kate smiled in spite of herself. ‘You shouldn’t have told Liz.’

‘She gets all sorts of things out of me.’

‘You didn’t tell her he was married?’

‘Jesus, no.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Did you hear from the wife again?’

Kate remembered the call from Joanna, the dexterous, violent eloquence of her. ‘Once was enough.’

Ray tipped the salad into the bin. ‘Well, at least it’s done. Over. Those scallops were something else by the way. Did you get enough?’

Kate pretended not to hear. Her brother stooped to help her manoeuvre the Wellington out of the oven. The pastry was golden, just about to flake. The layers held their shape as she lifted it from the tray. It was the best pastry she’d ever made. A feeling of pure bliss came over her at the tiny pastry cow she’d carved onto the top for Peter.

‘Wow!’ said Ray. ‘Will I ring the Michelin crowd?’

‘It’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?’

‘Kind of? You’re an artist.’ Ray moved away as she arranged the plates.

The smell of the meat, salty sweet in its buttery blanket, wafted through the kitchen. Sticking the wooden spoon into the gravy on the hob, she broke the skin that had started to form. The liquid shimmered as the bits dissolved.

‘We never see you any more, Katie.’ Ray took a beer from the fridge. ‘You should come round more. The girls miss you.’

‘I’m sorry. I know, I miss them too.’

‘How’s work going?’ 22

‘Anthony’s in Frankfurt for the week so I’m just answering phones.’

‘Conville Media,’ Ray trilled. ‘How may I direct your call?’

‘Hilarious,’ she said. ‘It’s not all bad. Me and Diya took a two-hour lunch yesterday and no one noticed.’

‘Nice.’

‘We nearly didn’t come back, but I bottled it.’

‘Diya’s still mad as ever?’

‘She’s the best.’ It was true—their friendship was one of the reasons Kate was still there, languishing away in her marble reception prison.

‘Any word on the accounts job?’

‘Hmm.’ She’d forgotten she’d told him, the night of the stroganoff when he’d been waiting outside the bathroom.

‘The one where you’d travel.’

‘Didn’t get it. They gave it to Francesca. She’s been there longer than me.’

But really it was because Kate’s boss Anthony had said he couldn’t do without her. A man is nothing without a good PA! And she’d wanted to say, no, Anthony, a man is nothing when he’s dead—bludgeoned into oblivion by a stapler.

She cracked the pastry with the carving knife. The meat was a rosy pink, the juices running off the board. Ray went to the sink to get her a cloth.

‘There’ll be other jobs,’ he said.

‘Ah, reception’s not that bad. You get to hear the goss, see all the hangovers. I could do a nice sideline in painkillers.’

‘But your degree,’ he said.

She tapped her temple. ‘Still got it.’

‘What about—?’ He gestured around the kitchen. ‘Has Liam said?’

‘No.’ 23

‘I suppose you can’t stay on, not really?’

‘I know. I’m looking.’ The truth was, Liam had given her a soft deal and she couldn’t afford anywhere as nice. ‘But the sea, the promenade. I—’

‘The promenade?’ He eyeballed her. ‘You’re not back running?’

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not.’

He looked over at the bin. ‘You’ll get through this. You just need to focus on the positives. That’s all you need.’

Kate hacked into the Wellington, messing up the slices, the duxelles spreading across the board like dirt.

‘Careful,’ said Ray. ‘Watch the poor goat.’

‘It’s a cow.’

Ray laughed and Kate joined in—it did look more like a goat—but there were tears underneath the laughter, the fizzy pressure of them at her nose. For a moment, she felt her sister’s presence in the room. In the warm, warm kitchen, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, jumping like a black cat onto the island, her sister, a ghost, dark with love. It was the same every year around the anniversary. You could call it a visit, or you could call it hell.

Kate let go of the counter.

‘Do you ever think of her, Ray?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But it seems so long ago.’

‘You’ve Liz and the girls.’

‘It’s mad they’re twins too.’

‘That’s how genes work, you fool.’

‘Do you still miss her as much?’

‘I—’ Kate heard the clack of heels.

Liz landed in, her large, abstracted eyes everywhere at once. ‘You pair are having the time of your life in here while I’m out there listening to your man go on about his one true love—sewage. Of all the things to bring up at a dinner party.’ She 24left an empty wine bottle on the counter. ‘Is there another in the fridge?’

Kate looked at Liz looking at the mess on the counter.

‘I forgot to chill the next one.’

‘It’s still wine, isn’t it?’ Liz said. ‘And you’ve ice?’

Kate nodded.

Liz’s gilded head was already in the freezer when Kate remembered the dessert, the big surprise.

‘You’ve gone all out, Kate Gleeson!’ Liz glanced back at them. ‘Is it safe to have meringue in the freezer like that?’

‘It’s safe.’

Distracted, Kate carved the meat the wrong way, some slices bigger than others, one centimetre, two centimetres, three, impossible to tell now. She couldn’t make out the next question, not even when Liz repeated it.

‘Are you OK, Katie?’ Ray touched her shoulder.

She nodded.

‘Come on, Raymond.’ Liz tipped ice into a bowl. ‘Save me from sewage.’

As Ray shrugged and left her to it, Kate looked at the Wellington getting cold on the counter. She put two slices on their plates and one on her own.

‘Look at this feast.’ Peter helped set the platter in the centre of the table.

Splashing balsamic over the vegetables, Kate could feel Liz’s eyes on her but she kept going, asking Ray about his business as she spooned out the parsnips.

‘Did the dry needling bring in clients?’

Ray shook his head. ‘The problem is the clinic up the road.’

‘The problem is this guy spends his days gossiping,’ Liz said.

‘I do not.’ Ray jigged in his chair. 25

‘Tell them what Daniel Hartigan said yesterday.’ Liz came in close. ‘He’s treating the principal of the secondary school. Goodbye waiting list.’

‘But the girls are only five,’ Kate said.

‘Lia is five going on fifteen. Tell them the story, Raymond.’

‘Client confidentiality,’ he said.

‘Go on, you’re no fun. And would you take off that jacket for Christ’s sake?’

Ray obeyed, draping the jacket over the back of his chair. His shirt made his teeth look unnaturally white. Kate wondered if he’d had them done. Her brother was a long way from Cranavon these days, and it made her both hopeful and sad.

‘Come on,’ said Liz.

‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘No telling tales.’

‘Didn’t you tell me?’ Liz poked Ray in the belly. He smacked her hand away, his thick brows coming together as he tried not to laugh. ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s this old chapel on the school ground. And one of the fifth years, right.’

‘Wait till you hear who her father is.’

‘Let’s just say he’s a well-known TV presenter.’

‘Of the Sunday Night Show!’

‘Jesus, Liz.’

Liz reached over the carrots for the warm Sancerre. ‘Wha?’

Between the pair of them, they managed to entertain the table for the duration of the main course. The story had something to keep everyone happy—a fifth-year student selling handjobs in a disused chapel—plus Liz the human footnote to keep things rolling. The playlist had turned to ’70s classics at some point, its overlapping, showy melodies matching the bright energy of their back and forth.

‘But tell them what she said, Raymond.’

‘I’m telling them.’ 26

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I am!’

‘Tell them the line, won’t you? It’s the best bit, come on.’

‘She said—’ Ray convulsed for a second, ‘She said, with a straight face to Dan Hartigan, that her profits had grown faster in the first quarter than the Tesco case study they were doing in Business.’

Liz howled laughing.

‘Well,’ said Peter. ‘I’ve heard it all now.’

Kate pushed her pastry to one side. It wasn’t often she ate red meat and it was filling. She looked around the table at the sated faces and thought that the evening had been saved, after all. Liz deflaked the remaining slices of Wellington with her sparkly silver fingernails. Peter slumped in the chair, twirling his glass like a connoisseur. ‘A mighty feed, Kate,’ he smiled. ‘You’re an excellent cook. You should do it more often. We’d be here in a flash, wouldn’t we, lads?’

‘Dinner’s not over yet,’ Ray said. ‘Isn’t that right, Katie?’

‘That’s right. Dessert’s the best bit.’

‘I didn’t realize it was a competition,’ Liz said. ‘You’re so… what’s the word?’ She started to laugh. ‘We played this game in work on our last night out where you had to think of the perfect word to describe a person. We should do it now!’

Kate forced a smile.

‘Just one word?’ Peter frowned. ‘You can’t sum up a person in one word.’

Kate finished her water, reached for the jug and refilled everyone’s glasses, all the ice cubes clinking out.

Peter rolled a leftover piece of gristle between his fingers. ‘What did they pick for you, Liz?’

‘Innovative.’

There was a giddy kind of silence. 27

‘Fair play,’ Peter said.

‘Come on. Let’s do it for each other.’ Liz slugged her wine. ‘Each of us in turn. Do me first, I can take it, I promise. And you’re not allowed innovative, that’s cheating.’

‘It’s a fine way to start a fight at a dinner party,’ Peter said.

‘Why?’ Ray’s brows shot up. ‘What are you afraid of, bro?’

Liz started to giggle.

‘Peter’s right,’ Kate said. ‘For example, I’d have to pick sap for you, Ray-Ray. Let us never forget the man who cries at dog movies.’

‘Who had to wait until the cinema cleared before he could leave,’ Peter said, laughing.

Liz hit the side of the table. ‘We watched it again at home. Same thing! Lainy said he was a baby.’

‘Well, they hadn’t changed the bloody ending, had they?’ Ray wrinkled his nose and pretended to beg. ‘He was so cute. Just like Copernicus.’

Liz topped up the wine glasses, but Kate covered her own and ignored the eye roll. She half rose from the table, hoping that would be the end of the game.

‘I’ve an idea,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s do the word thing for Mammy.’

‘No,’ said Peter.

‘Chicken,’ said Liz.

Ray sat forward. ‘Go on, Peter, try and capture our mother in a word.’

Peter’s folded his arms. ‘A lady.’

‘That’s two words,’ Ray said.

‘Ladylike.’

Ray doffed an imaginary cap but Peter stayed unsmiling, the stern bulk of him shrinking the table.

‘You go, darling.’ Ray rubbed Liz’s arm.

‘Darling?’ said Liz. 28

They all watched her, the non-sibling, the outsider.

‘Well, now.’ Liz smiled at Peter. ‘I need assurance first that it won’t leave this table.’

Kate nodded and Peter pointed at her nodding. Liz took up Ray’s hand, looked deep into his eyes. ‘And what about your assurance—darling?’

Ray grinned. ‘Why would a net start a fight between two rackets?’

Liz rounded her fine, full lips that still had a hint of lipstick. ‘The best word for your mother is—’ She took a dramatic inhale, ‘delicate.’

‘Yes,’ said Peter, who was visibly relieved. ‘A fine figure for a woman of age.’

‘Sicko!’ Ray said. ‘Don’t let the lads in Griffin’s hear you say that.’

Peter folded his serviette, the vein on his temple bulging. He excused himself from the table and asked for directions to the facilities, though he knew well.

‘Good,’ said Ray. ‘I wanted him gone for mine.’

‘You’re awful.’ Liz continued to play with his fingers. ‘Go on, so.’

Ray withdrew his hand.

‘Go on.’

‘Maudlin.’ He sat back in the chair, satisfied. ‘It’s the perfect word, every time we go down. Even at Christmas.’ He thought about it. ‘Especially at Christmas.’

Liz congratulated him on his choice but Kate thought he was being unfair again. Their mother wasn’t always down in the dumps. She was sometimes delighted with life, but there was generally a frantic quality to it. Kate supposed it might be a disorder of some sort, if they’d had that kind of thing back in the day. The word came to her unbidden and she blurted it out. 29

‘Undiagnosed.’

It sounded cruel out loud, especially with Liz’s high-pitched laughter. ‘Perfect!’

‘Welcome to the party, Kate Gleeson.’ Ray looked over his shoulder and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right time for this. You might think it’s mad but—quick, before Peter comes back.’

‘What?’ Liz was typing away on her phone, only half listening.

The door of the living room banged shut.

‘That’s a fine hand cream you have in the bathroom,’ Peter announced.

Ray took his hand out of the jacket and straightened it on the chair back.

Kate went to ask but he shook his head.

‘Very unctuous,’ said Peter.

‘Now there’s a word,’ said Liz. ‘It’s almost as good as Maria Burke’s.’ And off she went on the best put-downs from her work party and the fights that had ensued. Whatever was in the jacket was forgotten.

When Kate stood to clear the plates, Liz offered to help, but it was Ray who did the scraping while his wife slumped in her chair and started to play the damn game again. Kate stacked the cutlery to the sound of her own name popping across the table like a ping-pong ball. She drifted into her imagination, and when that failed her, she tuned into the lyrics of the song playing too faintly from the speakers. The day weighed down on her, exhausting, and she wished she could kick them all out now, even Ray.

‘Kind.’

‘Controlled.’

‘Skinny,’ Peter said.

Kate could feel Liz’s eyes darting over her body. Head, chest, legs, head again, like an elastic snapping each time it landed. She’d 30been doing it all evening, a kind of slanty, sideways watching, but now it was shameless. Now she had permission.

‘Yes, skinny,’ Peter said. ‘I’m afraid that’s the word for it.’

Kate bashed her knee on the table corner. A side plate nearly toppled from the stack.

‘You’ve gone backwards, Kate, have you?’ Peter touched her arm as she reached for the last plate, and she froze beside him until he let go.

They all knew—even Liz—that backwards meant third year in Trinity, where the second term had ended with a fractured pelvis and hip, and a bone chip in her sacrum. She’d been hospitalized for three months. They’d said confinement meant her bones would fuse together more quickly, but really it was so that people could monitor her eating. Although she’d agreed to the treatment, deep down she’d known she hadn’t been sick enough for such a fuss. (And her mother had agreed. Silly goose to go running in icy weather.)

‘Kate,’ said Ray. ‘Is everything OK?’

When she refocused, they were all staring at her. A heat crept up her neck and the plates suddenly felt too heavy. Oh, those mean pinhole eyes, what did they want from her? There was nothing—nothing!—to say. She wished suddenly that her mother was here, for a bit of her liveliness and drama, the wonder of her distraction. Her mother would help her, in that moment she was sure of it.

‘Kate?’ said Peter.

Afraid she would drop the plates if she didn’t go now, she started for the kitchen.

‘Can I—’

‘You’re grand, Ray. I’ve to do the dessert.’

Liz said, ‘Text the Netflixer, Raymond, if you want to be useful.’ 31