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the ankle, sky-high wedges and a pale grey T-shirt in some funny shrunken fabric. The whole effect looks like it cost a fortune but it probably didn’t because Karen is very clever that way, very good with money. Her nails are perfect nude ovals, her eyes are blue and framed with lush lashes and her blonde hair – which in its product-free condition is as wild and curly as mine – has been captured and tamed into a sleek bun. She looks glossy but casual, relaxed but elegant. This is the way I must go.
    I grab pretty little Mathilde. ‘C’mere till I squeezy you!’ I say.
    But she struggles and says, in high alarm, ‘Mummy!’
    She’s a drip, that child. Five-year-old Clark is better. I’d say he probably has ADHD but at least he’s a bit of fun.
    ‘Stella!’ Karen plants a kiss on each of my cheeks. It’s an automatic thing with her. Then she remembers that it’s only me. ‘Sorry!’
    Dad actually smiles. He’s amused by Karen’s aspirational ways and – though he wouldn’t admit it – a little bit proud of them. I used to be the success story of this family, but in recent months I’ve been stripped of my rank and the position has passed to my younger sister.
    Karen is a ‘business woman’ – she owns a beauty salon – and she looks every inch of it. She’s married to Enda, a quiet handsome man from a monied Tipperary family, who’s a superintendent in the Gardai.
    Poor Enda. When he started dating Karen, she was so brisk and sassy and pulled-together that he mistook her for middle-class. Then, when he’d fallen in love with her and it was too late to back out, he was introduced to her family and discovered that she was an entirely different beast: working-class-made-good.
    I’ll never forget that day. Poor polite Enda, sitting in my parents’ teeny-tiny front room, trying to balance a cup of tea in his giant lap and wondering if he’d ever arrested Dad.
    Twelve years later we still laugh about it. Well, Karen and I do. Enda still doesn’t find it funny.
    ‘Out of me road, Parvenue,’ Dad says to Karen.
    ‘Why do you call her “Parvenue”?’ Clark asks. He asks every time but doesn’t seem able to retain information.
    ‘A Parvenue,’ says Dad, ‘and I’m quoting from a book, is “A person from a humble background who has rapidly gained wealth or an influential social position; a nouveau riche; an upstart, a social climber.”’
    ‘Shut it!’ Mum says, shrill as anything. ‘She might be a Parvenue but she’s the only one in this family with a job at the moment! Now get in that stairlift!’
    I take a quick look at Karen, just to check that the Parvenue thing hasn’t upset her, but not at all. She’s remarkable.
    She helps Dad into the seat. ‘Get in, you old snob.’
    ‘How can I be a snob?’ he splutters. ‘I’m part of the under-class.’
    ‘You’re a reverse snob. A well-balanced working-class man: you’ve a chip on both shoulders.’ Then, with a flourish, she lifts the lever and Dad rises up the stairs.
    We all clap and shout, ‘Woohoo!’ and I pretend I don’t feel sad.
    Overcome with the excitement, Clark decides to take all his clothes off and dance, naked, in the street.
    Dad returns to his customary position in his armchair, studiously proceeding with his book, and Mum, Karen and I sit in the kitchen and drink tea. Mathilde snuggles on Karen’s lap.
    ‘Have a fairy cake.’ Mum throws a sixteen-pack, cellophane-wrapped slab of buns onto the table. I don’t need to look at the ingredients to discover that there’s nothing that sounds like food and that the eat-by date is next January.
    ‘I can’t believe you eat this shit,’ Karen says.
    ‘Well, I do.’
    ‘Five minutes’ walk away, in the middle of Ferrytown, the Saturday Farmers’ Market is selling fresh, handmade cupcakes.’
    ‘It’s far from fresh, handmade things you were reared.’
    ‘Grand.’ Karen is too canny to waste her energy getting into an argument. But she’s going to leave