Page 13 of Postscript

He concentrates on his food, hurt.

‘I think …’ Mum says thoughtfully, ‘you should do what feels right for you. I never like to interfere, but as you’ve asked: if it has you this …’ she looks at my plate, then back at me ‘… upset, then it’s not a good idea.’

‘She said she ate a big breakfast,’ Mathew says in my defence, and I throw him a grateful look.

‘What did you eat?’ Ciara asks.

I roll my eyes. ‘A big dirty fry-up, Ciara. With pig’s meat and pig’s blood and eggs and all kinds of dirty animal products dripping in butter. Butter that came from a cow.’ I didn’t. I couldn’t stomach breakfast either.

She glares at me.

The kids laugh again.

‘Can I film it if you help them?’ Declan asks, his mouth full of food. ‘Could make a good documentary.’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Declan,’ Mum says.

‘No. Because I’m not going to,’ I reply.

‘What does Gabriel think?’ Jack asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Because she hasn’t told him yet,’ Ciara says.

‘Holly,’ Mum admonishes me.

‘I don’t need to tell him about it if I’m not doing it,’ I protest, but I know I’m wrong. I should have discussed it with Gabriel. He’s not an idiot, he already senses something is up. Never mind Joy’s reveal about the club, ever since I got off the phone with Angela’s husband weeks ago, I’ve not been my usual self.

We all go quiet.

‘You still didn’t ask me,’ Dad says, looking around at everyone as though they’ve all individually hurt his feelings.

‘What do you think, Dad?’ I ask, exasperated.

‘No, no. It’s clear you don’t want to know,’ he says, while he reaches for the replenished jug of gravy and drowns his second helpings.

I violently fork another floret. ‘Dad, tell me.’

He swallows his hurt. ‘I think it sounds like a very thoughtful caring gesture for people in need, and it might do you good to do good.’

Jack appears irritated by Dad’s response. Mum, again, is unreadable; she’s thinking it all through, examining the angles before sharing her opinion.

‘She can’t eat as it is, Frank,’ Mum says quietly.

‘She’s practically inhaling her broccoli,’ Dad says, winking at me.

‘And she put six chipped teacups out in the shop this week,’ Ciara adds salt to the wound. ‘She’s distracted as it is, just knowing about it.’

‘Some people don’t mind chipped teacups,’ I retort.

‘Like who?’

‘Beauty and the Beast,’ Mathew replies.

The kids laugh.

‘Hands up if you think it’s a good idea,’ Ciara addresses the table.