'They are, aren't they?'

'All your sisters are very impressed. And the house looks great.'

'Yes, we were right not to go meddling with the sitting room. It's perfect the way it is.'

'Why don't we join them there now? Everyone's looking for you, and Daddy's about to cut the cake.'

'All right, dear. You know, that dress or blouse or whatever it is you've on you is really quite nice.'

'Thanks, Mum. It's Lucy's.'

I don't think we've been that close in years.

After the cake-cutting, the speech-making (Keith acquitted himself very well) and the photograph Auntie Joan insisted on, everybody disappeared again. Even Keith. I had just located Mike sitting on his own by the window in the dining room and was making my way through the crowd to join him, when I heard Lucy's laughter coming from the study.

'Here you all are!' I said, almost accusingly, on finding Jean, Marion and Lucy in a huddle on the floor round a bottle of champagne. 'It's my party, you know.'

'That's why we didn't want to be stealing your thunder,' said Lucy. 'Oh, come on so,' she added, 'I'll pour you a gla.s.s. Where's Keith?'

'I don't know. Everybody's acting weird tonight.'

'No, honey,' said Marion. 'It's just you.'

'We were saying,' said Jean, 'that this is quite a good party. You have to hand it to Mum. She knows how to put on a spread.'

'Yeah,' added Marion, 'but do you remember how she used to be, when we were kids, before the cookery cla.s.ses? A dinner for every day?'

'Oh, G.o.d, yes!' shrieked Jean. 'A dinner for every day! Let me get this right now. Monday was bacon and cabbage, because it could be bought the week before and wouldn't go off.'

'Yes,' said Marion, 'and even though she hated it and never ate any of it, she cooked it every week because Dad loved it.'

'I remember,' said Lucy. 'She thought it was common and only for poor country people. It killed her to have to cook it. The smell of it stayed in the kitchen for ages. That's why she cooked it on Monday to get it out of the way for the week.'

'It killed her more that Dad liked it so much,' continued Marion. 'He didn't insist on much, but bacon and cabbage was sacred with him.'

'Do they have it any more?' I asked, not remembering the days of the set menu.

'Sometimes,' answered Marion, 'I can still smell it there the odd time, but Dad's watching his cholesterol now and he's less insistent than he used to be. To be honest, I think Mum's grown to like it and cooks it for herself.'

'So,' went on Lucy, 'what was Tuesday?'

'Right,' said Jean, getting back into her stride. 'Tuesday was steak, to make up for the poverty of the day before.'

'Yes,' said Marion, 'and she always went to town on a Tuesday.'

'Always, and stocked up at the butcher. But she wouldn't buy meat for too many days for fear of it going off.'

'Oh, yes! People were always getting food poisoning in those days. And Mum didn't believe in freezing meat. She said it ruined the texture.'

'Now, Wednesday was always chicken, roast or fried, and Thursday was lamb-chop night.'

'I remember the lamb chops,' said Lucy. 'They were lovely if she baked them but horrible if she grilled them. I don't know why she ever grilled them.'

'She grilled them,' said Marion, 'when she didn't have time to bake them. She was often out and about on a Thursday afternoon, visiting her friends or one of her sisters. Remember? She often got Doreen O'Doherty in from next door to mind us.'

'Ah, I remember Dopey Doreen.'

'She wasn't Dopey,' said Marion, mock-crossly. 'She was just a little too innocent for this world.'

'Whatever you say. I remember that she used to get really upset at Wanderly Wagon Wanderly Wagon. I don't know if it was the lost princess or Sneaky Snake, but something about Wanderly Wagon Wanderly Wagon had her in tears every evening.' had her in tears every evening.'

'Poor Mrs O'Doherty,' said Jean, then fell over herself laughing.

'Wait now,' Lucy broke in, between the tears of laughter, 'you haven't finished the week.'

Jean was trying desperately to pull herself together. I felt the tiniest bit peeved that I didn't remember the good old days according to bad housekeeping. By the time I was on solids three times a day, Mum was producing things like quiche and spaghetti Bolognese and coq au vin coq au vin. She was a regular Delia Smith.

'Oh, let me think,' Jean continued, 'that leaves Friday fish, of course, whatever was freshest in Saddlier's, but usually whiting. And never chips. We didn't know what a chip was. We thought chips were some delicacy you could only get once a year in Kilkee.'

'I'd forgotten about the chip embargo. Another nasty, fat-ridden item that only poor people ate.'

'That leaves Sat.u.r.day, which was either a mixed grill or shepherd's pie, depending on her mood, I think, and then on Sunday what we'd been waiting for the whole week the big, leathery, indigestible Sunday roast.'

'Oh, G.o.d, no,' burst in Marion. 'That was in the days when lamb was something you only got in spring, and the rest of the year you had mutton. Mutton! You couldn't chew it and it tasted of sheep literally!'

'Oh, yes, the overcooked meat because rare meat was something else Mum didn't believe in at the time piled up on your plate so you had no hope of finishing it. Oh, wow, happy times.'

The three girls were exhausted and delighted with their reminiscing. While Lucy and I share a lot of memories, I sometimes wish I remembered things the others share. Ruth and I were around at the same time, experiencing the same things, but I spent a lot of my time avoiding her, pretending she didn't exist. I remember I had a friend in primary school who was an only child and I thought it must be the most glorious thing in the world. Whenever Ruth and I do reminisce we end up contradicting each other. It's like we grew up in different houses.

'So, were Mum and Dad really that different when ye were young?' I asked, curious for more tales of these people I didn't fully recognize.

'Well,' answered Marion, 'Mum was definitely a little more strung out then. I don't think the whole business of housekeeping and bringing up children came naturally to her. She'd probably have been better off working, but that wasn't an option. It wouldn't have occurred to her to get a job. And she would have been brilliant at so many things. It's a pity, in a way, she didn't work for Dad. She would have loved it and it would have made a big difference to him. One of his biggest worries, always, was getting people he could trust.'

'Really? I thought she liked swanning around in her expensive outfits, visiting her friends and organizing the school garden fete.'

'And what a fete it was! Its success was largely down to Mum, you know. When she finally retired from the parents' a.s.sociation they stopped running it.'

'Would Dad really have wanted her working with him?' asked Jean, dubious of Marion's take on things.

'I think so. He has huge respect for her, even though he doesn't always give that impression.'

'Do you remember their rows?' asked Lucy, full of interest again.

'Oh, you could hardly call them rows. They consisted of Mum banging round the house, huffing and puffing about not being appreciated and Dad just holing himself up in the study, refusing to talk.'

'Oh, yes! Then he'd go out for a walk or something and come back with flowers.'

'And she'd bang about for another while until Dad told her about the dinner reservations he'd made for that evening.'

'Then she'd huff and puff some more about her hair being in a state until he told her to go off and get it done.'

'And they'd go out that evening and everything would be hunky-dory again until the next big coolness.'

'I don't think they ever talked about whatever had caused the problem. It was just understood between them that it was Dad's fault and he'd eventually apologize.'

'You know, they could do with a holiday, the pair of them,' Marion said, her tone suddenly quite serious. 'They haven't been away properly in ages.'

'Yeah,' said Jean. 'That trip to Donegal was the last, and it was only for four days. What's stopping them? Sure Dad's practically retired now.'

'I don't know,' Marion went on. 'I think that might be part of the problem. I don't think he wants to retire and lose control.'

'It's a pity none of us wants to take over.'

'But is that the case?' Marion asked. 'He never encouraged any of us, did he?'

'Well, no, but n.o.body showed any interest either,' said Jean. 'I mean, you work in the company and you're not that bothered.'

'Well... no... but...'

'Why? Would you be interested?'

'I don't know.'

'No really? Is it something you might like? If it is, you should tell Dad. Maybe that's what he's waiting for.'

'Maybe... I don't know... Anyway...'

Just then Keith appeared at the door, looking very dejected.

'Oh, hiya, love, I was looking for you everywhere.'

'We're just reliving old times here,' said Lucy. 'Come and join us.'

'Well, I was kinda hoping that '

'It's OK, Keith,' I said, getting up from the huddle on the floor. 'I've had enough of this anyway. Let's find a nice quiet corner and snog.'

I led him away from my sisters' laughter, and while no one was looking, we ducked upstairs.

'We really shouldn't do this, you know,' he said, as I guided him into my old room. 'Everybody's downstairs... your mother...'

'Oh, they won't mind. They have their own rooms.'

'No, seriously, Kate... I want to talk to you.'

I climbed on to the bed and eyed him seductively. 'Are you quite sure you don't want to take me here, on this former virgin's bed?' I teased.

'Mmm,' he said, 'maybe not quite quite sure. But I want to talk to you first.' He squashed in on the bed beside me. 'I don't know about you,' he continued, 'but I feel sometimes that this whole engagement thing is getting away on us. It's like it's everybody else's business but ours. You know what I mean?' sure. But I want to talk to you first.' He squashed in on the bed beside me. 'I don't know about you,' he continued, 'but I feel sometimes that this whole engagement thing is getting away on us. It's like it's everybody else's business but ours. You know what I mean?'

'Yes. Yes. Yes, I do.' In fact I had been contributing to that feeling.

'Well, I feel we need to take control ourselves take charge, you know.'

I sat up. Was he about to announce that we were eloping? Were we about to tie the sheets together and make our escape through my bedroom window? Were those airline tickets sticking out of his shirt pocket? (Wait a minute, there was nothing sticking out of his shirt pocket. Was I seeing things?) '... so, do you think it's a good idea?'

'Sorry, what did you say?'

'A holiday. Just get away on our own and not have families or anybody asking questions or organizing parties. Just the two of us. What do you think?'

'Keith, it's a brilliant idea. A holiday's just what I need. What we need. That's brilliant. When are we going? And where? Maybe we should never come back.'

'Hold on there we'll have to sort out work. I've nothing booked yet, just made enquiries. But you do think it's a good idea? Nothing too extravagant, given all the expenses we'll have soon.'

I was about to ask what expenses, but then I realized. 'No, Keith. This is your most perfect idea yet.' And then I persuaded him into something that that little bed had been looking forward to all of its life.

6.

A holiday was just the ticket. I'm no sun-worshipper and neither is Keith, but when some crowd on the Internet can fly you to a sun-drenched village on the Spanish coast for the price of your car insurance, you'd be a fool not to whip out your bikini and factor forty-seven. And when your boyfriend insists on paying for the whole thing (well, as he said himself, he didn't have to fork out for the ring) you're already at the beautician's being sprayed from head to toe the sun-kissed bronze you'd never have the courage to allow the sun to kiss you.

We had an early start on the Sat.u.r.day morning but everything, including the flight, was on schedule. Keith had supervised my packing the previous evening because he didn't trust me to be ready on time. His own bag, a medium-sized case he had borrowed from his mother, was already in the boot of the car, complete with combination lock and multiple labels. Before we left the flat he laid all our essential doc.u.ments on the table: two pa.s.sports, flight confirmation and hotel details, credit cards, euros (which he secreted in five different places about our persons), important phone numbers and his mobile phone, which now had 'roaming'. My own pa.s.sport had taken some time to find, but I eventually located it in a drawer behind last year's Christmas cards.

Keith was the master of order and calm. On the way out to the airport he made lists of the things we could do when we got there. He had done a bit of research on the resort and apparently there was no end to the activities we could get involved in. I kind of switched off as he went on; all I wanted was a week of sun and nothingness. In the end it hadn't been difficult getting the time off: my boss simply reminded me that I had already used up a considerable portion of my annual leave, and were I to need any more extensive periods of time off this year, it might prove difficult. He was skirting round the issue of the wedding, of course, but I had never said it was going to be this year. n.o.body had set a date. Keith, on the other hand (who is really good at his job and whose boss hates to let him go), had had to practically beg for the time. (I think he had to leave one of his kidneys in storage.) But he was determined. He was in need of this holiday even more than I was. His love affair with my family had plateaued and he was in need of time away to refresh. It was just as well I was a little tired of him never seeing things as they really were.

When we pulled into the long-term car park we were well ahead of Keith's schedule. He had worked out that by arriving an hour before our check-in time we would avoid the queues and have plenty of time for a leisurely breakfast and shopping in Duty Free. Even though the value isn't as good as it used to be I can't help picking up a few essentials from Dior and Chanel, so I was happy to go along with it. But as we were placing our luggage on a trolley, Keith began to hurry me along insisting that queues were forming even though he couldn't possibly see through the brown gla.s.s. As we approached the entrance he was banging his coat pockets to check he still had our essential doc.u.ments.

'You have them,' I insisted. 'You've already checked twice.'

But he kept stopping to pull them out and go through them one by one. I was getting a little impatient, but he was fine again once we were in the (four-deep) queue at the check-in desk.

Our breakfast wasn't as leisurely as I had antic.i.p.ated. We had been looking forward to a full Irish but as soon as we sat down to eat, Keith lost his appet.i.te. Then he was hopping up and down to the toilets. At this rate I'd never get any shopping done. The third time he got up to go, I actually shouted at him: 'Oh, for G.o.d's sake,' I snapped, 'what is the matter with you?'

I don't think I had ever spoken a cross word to him before.

'Nothing! Nothing's wrong,' he said, and ran.

When he came back I told him I was going on into Duty Free and he could follow me when he was done going to the toilet. And that was when he broke down. 'Oh, G.o.d, no, no! Don't leave me here!' he whimpered. 'I'll never make it if you leave me.'

'What?' I said, aghast.

'Oh, Kate,' he said, sitting back down at the table (he seemed to need the support), 'I never told you... Well, I was hoping I wouldn't have to...'

'Never told me what?' I asked, unable to keep the note of impatience out of my voice.