‘Your hair’s gorgeous.’ Ashling admired, stroking Clodagh’s thick honey-gold tresses.

‘Thanks. I got it blow-dried for tonight.’

Then Ashling remembered the newly papered front-room and ran in for a look.

‘It’s fantastic!’ she enthused eagerly on her return. ‘It totally changes the mood of the room. You’ve a real eye for colour.’

‘I suppose.’ Clodagh was no longer terribly interested. She’d been very excited about her new wallpaper. But now that it was done, satisfaction and fulfilment evaded her.

Suddenly everyone looked ceilingwards as an eruption of bloodcurdling shrieks broke out in the room above them. The rinsing of Craig’s hair.

‘It really does sound like he’s being burnt alive,’ Ashling giggled. ‘Poor little thing.’

After a while the shrill screams died down into hysterical whimpers. Back to the force-feeding.

‘Everyone has to eat their dinner if they want to grow up to be big strong girls.’ Clodagh approached once more with her spoonful of scrambled egg.

‘Why?’

‘Because they just do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because.’

‘Why?’

‘Because.’

‘Why?’

‘Just FUCKING because.’ Clodagh clattered down the spoon, bouncing yellow particles around the table. ‘This is a waste of time. I’m going to get ready.’

As Clodagh swept from the room, Ted passed Ashling a shocked, wide-eyed, ‘Jayzus!’ look. ‘Bad idea to let children see your weakness,’ he observed, knowingly.

Clodagh stuck her head back in. ‘I used to think that too. You wait until you have children yourself,’ she accused. ‘You’ll have loads of rules and none of them will work.’

Ted hadn’t meant to criticize Clodagh. It was just that he’d thought his tough-love approach to child-rearing might help her. He felt misunderstood and acutely embarrassed. Even more so when Molly pointed her spoon at him and crowed maliciously, ‘Mummy hates you.’

Clodagh belted up the stairs. No chance of having the long, relaxing aromatherapy bath she’d planned. Barely time to have a quick shower before scribbling on some make-up. Then, reverentially, she put on the pink and white little slip-dress that she’d bought the day she’d gone shopping with Ashling. It had hung in the wardrobe ever since, its pristine newness a reminder that her social life was non-existent.

She watched herself anxiously in the mirror. Bloody hell, it was short. Shorter than she remembered. And see-through. But when she put on a black half-slip to cover her modesty, she just looked stupid, so she took it off again. Underwear on display was fine, she told herself. Better than fine. Compulsory, actually, if you wanted to call yourself well-dressed. Her problem was that she’d been in jeans and T-shirts for too long. So she stuck her feet into high sandals, told herself she looked brilliant and appeared at the top of the stairs like a movie star making an entrance.

‘How do I look?’

Everyone gathered below, gazing up. There was a kind of nonplussed pause.

‘Fabulous,’ Ashling enthused, a split-second too late.

Ted was open-mouthed with admiration as he watched Clod-agh’s treadmilled legs making their way down the stairs.

‘Dylan?’ Clodagh enquired.

‘Fabulous,’ he echoed.

She wasn’t convinced. She was sure she’d seen a caveat in his eyes, but he was smart enough not to voice it. Craig, however, was unencumbered by such reticence. ‘Mummy, your dress is too short and I can see your wonderpants.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Yes, I can!’ he insisted.

‘No, you can’t,’ Clodagh corrected. ‘You can see my knickers. Boys wear wonderpants and girls wear knickers… Unless they’re Ashling’s friend, Joy,’ she muttered to herself, astringent bitchi-ness erupting from nowhere.

Molly, engaged in the act of washing her hands with blackberry jam, was the only person who seemed not to care what Clodagh wore or didn’t.

‘You look very well too,’ Ashling said to Dylan. And indeed he did, in his unstructured, navy suit and biscuit-coloured shirt.

‘You sweetheart,’ he grinned.

‘Ponce,’ floated into Ashling’s ear, so small and contemptuous that she almost thought she’d imagined it. It seemed to emanate from Ted’s direction.

‘Are we right?’ Dylan looked at his watch.

‘Just a minute.’ Clodagh was in a flurry of leaving phone numbers. ‘Here’s Dylan’s mobile,’ she scribbled. ‘And here’s the number of the restaurant just in case the mobile’s out of coverage…’

‘It’s not likely to be a problem in the middle of Dublin,’ Dylan interjected.

‘… and this is the address of the restaurant, if you can’t get us on the phone. We won’t be late.’

‘Be late,’ Ashling urged.

Clodagh grabbed Molly and Craig, hugged them fiercely and said – without much conviction – ‘Be good for Ashling.’

‘And Ted,’ Ted added, bunching his mouth in what he thought was a suave manner at Clodagh.

‘And Ted,’ Clodagh muttered.

Just before they left, to wish them God-speed, Molly firmly placed a blackberry-jam-covered hand on Clodagh’s bottom. Unfortunately – or maybe it was fortunately – she didn’t notice.

30

As soon as Clodagh closed the front door, pitiful wailing from Molly and Craig began on the other side. With a helpless look at Dylan, Clodagh turned to go back in again.

‘No!’ he commanded.

‘But…’

‘They’ll stop in a while.’

Feeling as if she was being ripped in two, she got into the taxi and submitted to being driven into town. Fucking unconditional love, she thought bitterly. What a terrible burden it was.

Their table at L’Oeuf was booked for seven-thirty – they’d been given a choice of seven-thirty or nine, and Clodagh felt that nine was far too late. She was often in bed by then. She liked to get a few hours’ kip in before having to rise at four a.m. to sit and sing songs in the dark for an hour. Dylan and Clodagh were the first diners to arrive. They proceeded in hushed, reverential silence into the empty, white, Grecian-columned room and Clodagh became ever more anxious about her dress. It seemed to draw astonished looks from the po-faced staff. Trying to tug it down to make it longer, she hurried to the safety of the table. She’d been out of the loop too long and no longer knew what was the right or wrong thing to wear. Sinking into her chair and shoving her thighs under the forgiving cover of the table, where the error of her on-display knickers was hidden away out of sight, she gratefully ordered a gin-and-tonic.