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a small logo above the breast pocket. A tiny outline of a man swinging a golf club, which somehow in the euphoria of the garment having only two sleeves, we'd missed. Naturally enough, we were both dismayed but concluded that it was so small it was barely visible.
    Besides, we were too

    ANGELS / 33
    poor for him not to wear it. So he wore it. And the next thing I hear is that Garv wears the same kind of sweaters as Dad. Then a rumor started that he played golf, which was not only untrue but very, very unfair.
    Garv is no fool and he was aware of my family's antipathy. Well, it was hard to be un aware when every time he appeared at the house, Helen would bellow, “For God's sake, don't let him in!”
    While he never responded to their discourtesy with rudeness of his own, he also didn't launch a charm offensive to try and win them over. And he could have—he had a nice, easy manner most of the time. Instead, he became very protective of me around them, which they interpreted variously as standoffishness or even downright hostility. And responded with standoffishness or downright hostility. All in all, it hasn't been that easy, especially at Christmases…
    “You and Garv are just going through a bad patch,” Mum said, trying valiantly.
    Wretchedly, I shook my head. Did she think I hadn't thought of that? Did she think that I hadn't clung to that, hoping with gritted teeth that this was all that was wrong?
    “Was he, ah…?” My father was clearly trying to frame a delicate question. “Was he dipping his wick where he shouldn't have been?”
    “No.” Perhaps he had been, but that wasn't the cause. It was a symptom of what was wrong.
    “Things haven't been easy for you, for either of you.” Mum was off again. “You've had a couple of—”
    “—setbacks,” I said quickly, before she used another word.
    “Setbacks. Perhaps you need a vacation?”
    “We've had a vacation, remember? It was a disaster; it did more harm than good.”
    “What about going for counseling?”
    “Counseling? Garv?” If I'd been capable of laughter, this would have been a good opportunity. “If he won't talk to me, he's hardly likely to talk to a total stranger.”

    34 / MARIAN KEYES
    “But you love each other,” she said, with desperation.
    “But we're making each other miserable.”
    “Love conquers all,” Mum coaxed, as if I were five.
    “No. It. Doesn't,” I spelled out, an edge of hysteria to my voice.
    “Do you think I'd do something as awful as leave him if it was that easy?”
    That plunged her into sulky, that's-no-way-to-talk-to-your-mother silence.
    “So you're not going to tell us what's going on?” Helen concluded.
    “But you know everything that's happened.” Okay, not quite everything, but truffle woman was not the cause, she was simply the final nail in the coffin.
    Scornfully Helen flicked her eyes upward. “This is like your driving test all over again.”
    I might have known someone would bring that up. The bitterness still ran deep.
    When I was twenty-one I took driving lessons, then took my test and passed it. Only then did I tell any of my family, and, instead of being delighted for me, they were hurt and confused. They felt left out, shortchanged, deprived of a drama, and they couldn't understand why I hadn't involved them.
    “I could have given you a St. Christopher's medal for your test,”
    Mum had protested.
    “But I didn't need it, I passed anyway.”
    “I could have taken you out to practice in my car,” Dad said wistfully. “I see Maurice Kilfeather takes Angela out.”
    “We could have waved you off from the test center,” Claire pointed out.
    Which was precisely the kind of thing I'd wanted to avoid. Doing my driving test was just something I'd wanted to do on my own.
    I didn't think it was anyone else's business. And if I was being brutally honest, I'd have to acknowledge the issue of failure—if I'd failed my test, I'd never have been allowed to forget about it.
    Finally Dad