Jack laughs.
‘Boys,’ Mum says, and they stop.
The kids giggle.
‘Sit down, Mum,’ I say gently.
She surveys the table, her hungry family all greedily tucking in, and finally sits beside me at the head of the table.
‘What’s this?’ Ciara says, looking into the jug.
‘Vegan gravy,’ Mum says proudly.
‘Ahh, Mum, you’re the best.’ Ciara pours, and a murky watery substance flows all over the base of her plate like soup. She looks up at me, uncertain.
‘Yum,’ I say.
‘I’m not sure if I made it correctly,’ Mum says apologetically. ‘Is it nice?’
Ciara takes a small taste. ‘Delicious.’
‘Liar,’ Mum says with a laugh. ‘Are you not hungry, Holly?’
My plate is practically empty and I haven’t even begun eating. Broccoli and tomatoes are all I could bear to look at on my plate.
‘I had a big breakfast,’ I say, ‘but this is fabulous, thank you.’
I sit forward and tuck in. Or try to. Mum’s food, vegan gravy aside, really is delicious and on as many Sundays as possible she tries to gather the troops for a family meal, which we all adore. But today, as has been the case for the past few weeks, my appetite is gone.
Ciara eyes my plate, then me, worriedly. She and Mum share a look and I immediately sense that Ciara has spilled the beans about the PS, I Love You Club. I roll my eyes at both of them.
‘I’m fine,’ I say defiantly, before stuffing an entire broccoli floret in my mouth as proof of my stability.
Jack looks up at me. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’
My mouth is stuffed. I can’t answer, but I roll my eyes and give him a frustrated look.
He turns to Mum. ‘What’s wrong with Holly? Why is she pretending she’s fine?’
I grumble through my food and try to chew quickly so I can end this conversation.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Holly,’ Mum says calmly.
Ciara pipes up in a fast-paced high-pitch volley: ‘A woman who died of cancer started a PS, I Love You Club before her death, made up of people who are terminally ill, and they want Holly to help them write letters to their loved ones.’ She seems immediately relieved to have gotten it out of her system and then afraid of what will happen next.
I swallow my broccoli and almost choke. ‘For fuck sake, Ciara!’
‘I’m sorry, I had to!’ Ciara says, holding her hands up defensively.
The kids laugh at my language.
‘Sorry,’ I say to their mum, Abbey. ‘Guys,’ I clear my throat. ‘I’m fine. Really. Let’s change the subject.’
Mathew looks at his tell-tale wife with disapproval. Ciara sinks lower.
‘Are you going to help these people write their letters?’ Declan asks.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, slicing a tomato.
‘With who? With them or with us?’ Jack asks.
‘With anyone!’
‘So you’re not going to help them?’ Mum asks.
‘No!’
She nods. Her face is completely unreadable.
We eat in silence.
I hate that her face is unreadable.
Frustrated, I give in. ‘Why? Do you think I should?’
Everyone at the table, bar the kids and Abbey, who knows better than to get involved, answer at the same time and I can’t decipher anybody’s words.
‘I was asking Mum.’
‘You don’t care what I think?’ Dad asks.
‘Of course I do.’
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.
The kids put their hands up, Abbey quickly pushes them down.
Dad raises his fork in the air. So does Declan. Mathew looks like he’s with them, but Ciara glares at him and he stares her down, but doesn’t raise his hand.
‘No,’ Jack says firmly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Me neither,’ says Ciara. ‘And I don’t want it to be all my fault if it goes wrong.’
‘It’s not about you,’ Mathew mutters, frustrated.
‘No, I know. But she’s my sister and I don’t want to be the one to be responsible for—’
‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ Richard’s voice calls out from the hall. He appears at the door. He looks around at us all, sensing something. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ we say in unison.