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cakes and cupcakes with logos on them for things like launches and festivals. Tilly’s married to a banker but doesn’t have children as yet; she’s too busy building up her company. Then there’s Kia, who’s twenty-seven, single and great fun, a physio and probably my favourite of the clan apart from Lainey, who at twenty-four like me slots in next; and finally, Chloe, who at twenty-one is the baby of the family and is about to start her first job as a primary school teacher. If I ever felt lonely or sad, sitting in the Andersons’ kitchen with the bread maker almost permanently on the go and the daily cries of ‘who nicked my black tights/earphones/charger?’ always managed to banish my woes and make me feel part of something bigger than myself.
    Lainey and I met on the very first day of senior school and bonded over our mutual passion for Robbie Williams and Keanu Reeves – but only in black leather in the Matrix films. Over the years she weathered many storms with me, including the many Ed Powers hurricanes and tornadoes. I never once considered her lack of boyfriends strange – she always said she was waiting for the perfect man and, knowing what Lainey was like and how much patience she had, I believed her. It never occurred to me that Ed was her very own Robbie/Keanu.
    I’ve never admitted how kicked in the head, crucified and utterly stupid and blind I feel about the whole damn Ed and Lainey thing to anyone, not to Pandora and certainly not to Bird – and believe me, they’ve tried to drag it out of me. It’s all too overwhelming. I’m afraid if I start digging around, letting every-thing come bubbling up to the surface, I’ll start crying and I won’t be able to stop, ever. Or I’ll work myself into such a state, I’ll slip up and say something I’ll regret, let the past slither out and spread around my feet like an ugly oil slick.
    I’m hoping talking to Jamie will be different. He’ll understand when to push and when to just listen. He’ll understand because he knows – everything. He knows what it’s like to blame yourself when things go belly up. Because he’s been there too. But right now it looks as if he’s stood me up.
    I sit there for a few minutes, staring into space, feeling itchy with anger and disappointment, before pushing myself off the sofa and marching through the kitchen and into the pantry. I grab one of Dad’s bottles of wine and a glass, stomp back into the living room, pour myself a large drink, and settle back in front of the telly, grumpy to my bones. As one of the models talks about her brush with breast cancer, I try to zone out, to think about something else, anything, but my mind is determined to rake up old memories today.
    I was eight, and Pandora was fourteen when Mum and Dad sat us down in the living room and told us the news. Our beautiful, vibrant, clever Mum had breast cancer, Dad said, but we weren’t to be worrying, the doctors had caught it nice and early and there was every chance that with treatment she’d be absolutely fine.
    ‘Of course I will,’ Mum had said brightly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. ‘I’m not going anywhere. And that’s a promise, girls.’ But there was sadness behind her big china-blue eyes. Mum looked like a model but had a razor-sharp mind, which confused people no end. When she opened her rosebud mouth, they always expected her to witter on about shopping or shoes, but she was more interested in the details of the latest budget. As Economics Editor at RTÉ, she was on the telly and radio almost every day, presenting her carefully researched news pieces on the current state of the nation. Mum was invincible, or so I thought.
    It was the ‘every chance’ that got me; I didn’t say anything at the time of course, didn’t want to say it out loud, make my worries real. But even at eight I knew ‘every chance’ meant there was also a possibility that she wouldn’t make it, that she would in fact die.
    Later that