Mum and Helen surveyed Rachel doubtfully. Rachel’s look was the low-key sleek New York downtime one: cashmere hoody, canvas cutoffs, and superlightweight trainers, the kind that fold in eight and fit in a matchbox.

“Do something with your hair,” Helen suggested, and obediently Rachel unclasped a clip on top of her head and a load of heavy dark hair tumbled down her back.

“Why, Miss Walsh, you’re beautiful,” Mum said sourly. “Comb it! Comb it! And smile a lot.”

The thing was, Rachel was already radiant. She usually was. She had an air about her, a sort of throbbing stillness, with the faintest suggestion of a secret dirty streak.

Then Mum clocked the Ring. How had she not noticed until now? “And wave that yoke around every chance you get.”

“’Kay.”

“Right, let’s see it.”

Rachel eased the sapphire ring off, and after a scrabble between Helen and Mum, Mum got it. “By Janey,” she said fiercely, clenching her hand into a fist and punching the air. “I’ve waited a long time for this day.”

Then she examined the ring in great detail, holding it up to the light and squinting, like she was a gem expert. “How much was it?”

“Never you mind.”

“Go on, tell us.” Helen joined in.

“No.”

“It’s meant to be a month’s salary,” Mum said. “At least. Anything less and he’s taking you for a fool. Right! Time for us all to make our wish. Let Anna go first.”

Mum gave me the ring and Rachel said, “You know the rules: turn it three times toward your heart. You can’t wish for a man or money, but you can wish for a rich mother-in-law.” Again, as she realized what she’d said, she went poker-up-the-bum frozen.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay. We can’t go on tiptoeing round it.”

“Really?”

I nodded.

“You sure?”

I nodded again.

“Okay, let’s see your makeup bag.”

For a while, squashed between Rachel, Helen, and Mum, all of us strewn with cosmetics, everything seemed normal.

Then we pretended to be Claire.

“Marriage is just a form of ownership,” Mum said, doing Claire’s soapbox voice.

“She can’t help it,” Rachel said. “Her abandonment and humiliation traumatized her.”

“Shut up,” Helen said. “You’re ruining the fun. Chattels! That’s all we are, chattels!”

Even I joined in. “I thought getting married was all about wearing a lovely dress and being the center of attention.”

“I hadn’t thought through any of the gender-political implications,” we all (even Rachel) chorused.

We laughed and laughed, and even though I was aware that at any moment I might descend into uncontrollable weeping, I managed to keep laughing.

When we’d finished making fun of Claire, Rachel said, “What’ll we talk about now?”

Mum suddenly said, “I’ve been having funny dreams lately.”

“About what?”

“That I’m one of those girls who’s marvelous at kung fu. I can do one of those kicks where you twirl around in a circle and take the heads off of twenty fellas while you’re doing it.”

“Good for you.” It was nice to have a mother who had fashionable dreams.

“I was wondering if I might take up Tae Bo or one of them yokes. Maybe myself and Helen could do lessons.”

“What are you wearing in the dreams?” Rachel asked. “Special kung fu pajamas and stuff?”

“No.” Mum sounded surprised. “Just my ordinary skirt and jumper.”

“Ahhh.” Rachel held up a finger in an attitude of wisdom. “That makes a lot of sense. You feel you’re guardian of the family and we need protection.”

“No, I just like being able to kick lots of men in one go.”

“Clearly you’re under almost intolerable stress. With everything that’s happened with Anna, it’s understandable.”

“It’s nothing to do with Anna! It’s because I want to be a superhero, Charlie’s Angel, Lara Croft self-defense woman.” Mum sounded close to tears.

Rachel smiled very, very kindly—the sort of kindly smile that gets people killed—then went off upstairs for a snooze. Mum, Helen, and I lay in silence on my bed.

“You know what?” Mum broke the quiet. “There are times when I think I preferred her when she was on the drugs.”

13

For our one-drink date, Aidan and I went to Lana’s Place, a quiet, upmarket bar, with concealed lighting and muted, sophisticated tones.

“This okay?” Aidan asked as we sat down. “Not too weird?”

“So far,” I said. “Unless it’s one of those places where the bar staff tap-dance at nine o’clock every night.”

“Jesus.” He clutched his head. “I never thought to check.”

When the waitress took our order, she asked, “Should I open a tab?”

“No,” I said. “I might have to leave in a hurry.

“If you turn out to be a weirdo,” I said after she’d gone.

“I won’t be. I’m not.”

I didn’t really think he would be. He was different from the speed-dating guys. But it doesn’t do to be too trusting.

“We have matching scahs,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Scahs. On our right eyebrows. One each. Isn’t that kind of…special?”

He was smiling: I wasn’t to take this too seriously.

“How’d you get yours?” he asked.

“Playing on the stairs in my mother’s high heels.”

“Age what? Six? Eight?”

“Twenty-seven. No. Five and a half. I was doing a big Hollywood-musical-style thing, and I fell down the stairs and at the bottom hit my forehead on the corner of the convection heater.”

“Convection heater?”

“Must be an Irish thing. Metal yoke. I needed three stitches. How did you get yours?”

“Day I was born. Accident with a midwife and a pair of scissors. I also got three stitches. Now tell me what you do when you’re not being a magician’s assistant.”

“You want the real me?”

“If that’s okay. And if you could speak quickly, I’d appreciate it. Just in case you decide to leave.”