15

Molly

Trim the meat and chop into one-inch-cube size pieces. Coat with two tablespoons of flour.

Molly took a deep breath. Her sleeves were rolled and an apron was neatly tied around her waist as she held a giant butcher’s carving knife threateningly over six striploin steaks. Trim means cut the fat, she reminded herself, one inch means bite size. Right, she could do this.

‘I mean how in this day and age could he not be on social media?’ Anna threw her phone down in disgust. She was perched at the island in Molly’s kitchen, cradling a cup of tea and making her way through some Jaffa Cakes. Anna had come over for moral support—batten down the hatches and call in the army—Molly was cooking.

‘It just seems, you know … suspicious somehow. And I’ve gone deep—very deep—into the internet and I can’t find him. You know how good I am at finding someone?’ Detective Inspector Anna’s nose was most definitely out of joint. She had spent precious time frantically googling and trawling through social media for Charlie, the phantom Mary Poppins. And in spite of keeping a tight surveillance of Molly’s front door via many drive-bys and countless buggy push-bys, she had not caught sight of the drop-dead gorgeous sleep nanny.

‘Maybe I’ve made him up.’ Molly cocked her head over her shoulder, laughing.

‘At this point it’s the only explanation.’ Anna sounded genuinely annoyed. ‘I bet if I go up to your bedroom right now, I’d find a blow-up male nurse in your wardrobe that you drag around the house and talk to when no one is here.’

‘My secret. Ahhh—’ Molly turned the knife towards her own chest and pointed it down ‘—there’s no other way out.’

‘Just get a picture of him, that will keep me happy.’ Anna pushed the plate of Jaffa Cakes to the edge of the island. ‘Take these away, would you?’

‘I’m going to have to call Mam. I don’t understand half of this recipe.’ Molly ignored Anna, grabbed her phone and FaceTimed her mam.

Yvonne picked up immediately. ‘Your hair! Hold the phone back a little bit to give me a full three-sixty.’

Dutifully, Molly spun herself and her phone around, angling the camera at her head. She was still getting used to her new pixie look—platinum blonde with a long side-swept fringe that nipped in at the nape of her neck. It had been a last-minute decision; the kind of impetuous move Molly used to make. She came across the voucher tucked away in a rarely opened kitchen drawer under the potato masher and next to an unused whisk. Someone, she can’t remember who, had gifted her a salon voucher after Andy was born. It was out of date by eight months, but one quick call, and hey presto, they promised to honour it. Angela arrived to babysit with a grimace.

‘Great for you popping out to the hairdressers mid-week. I’ve always worked so it was weekends for me with the hairdressers, a real treat for you. I’m due a cut, too, but I just can’t find the time.’

Molly plopped her handbag back down, her heart sinking. ‘Angela, if this doesn’t suit, I’m sorry.’

‘I’m here now.’

‘It’s just that they told me to come in quickly as they had a spot. It’s an out-of-date voucher …’

‘Go. Enjoy,’ Angela responded, devoid of any enjoyment.

And Molly had zipped up her light-weight jacket and left with a stomach lined with guilt. All the joy of a pampering session sucked out of her.

She sunk into the smooth leather seats, flicking through a magazine and something overtook her: guilt, anger and an overwhelming desire to do something unexpected.

‘That. I want that.’ She firmly planted her finger on a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow fashioning her nineties’ hair-do, which was exactly the same as Brad Pitt’s, her boyfriend at the time.

‘I want Brad and Gwyneth’s haircut combined, please.’

The hairdresser paused, surveying her client. ‘Divorce? Are you going through a divorce?’

‘No. I have young children.’

And solemnly the hairdresser confided that she too was a mother and offered her twenty per cent off any deep conditioning products.

Molly gave Angela a hair mask on her return which went down like a cheap cocktail.

‘You’re not to spend your money on me. Take it back, I don’t want it.’

Molly had already broken the seal to have a sniff so there was no returning it in any case.

‘Sorry, I just wanted to say thank you.’

‘Not by spending money, no. That’s why I help out so you don’t have to pay a babysitter and you can save. I don’t want this.’ She wagged an admonishing finger, making Molly feel two-inches high.

‘Thank you,’ she said meekly. She would have to talk to Dommo. This was not working. She hated asking Angela for anything. But on the plus side Molly did love her new hair. It was such a dramatic change but it suited her. Even she could admit that she looked younger and more vibrant somehow, her eyes looked bluer. It helped that she had taken two minutes in the morning to spread some primer on her skin, layer on a fine coating of mascara and a brush of blusher. And of course, it helped a lot that she’d slept for the last four nights. Every particle in her body felt bouncy.

‘It’s just gorgeous,’ Yvonne cooed down the line.

‘Charlie thinks so, too,’ Anna sung in the background.

‘Anna!’ Molly scolded her. ‘I’m talking to Mam.’

Anna waved behind her, showing her presence to Yvonne.

‘Hi, Anna. Can neither of you cook?’ Yvonne laughed.

‘Toast and chicken nuggets are my speciality!’ Anna shouted.

Yvonne, patiently and for the third time that morning, started to go through the boeuf bourguignon recipe, slowly explaining how to braise the meat, the importance of red wine and shallot onions. Once again, Molly listened like a good student and took notes where needed, while thinking that she may have lost the run of herself. Surely a few chicken kievs thrown in the oven would fill hungry bellies just as well. Two weeks after Charlie had turned up on her doorstep to start the sleep routine, it was finally working. There had now been four nights of full sleep, in a row, and Molly’s world had turned upside down; she felt like herself again or a jacked-up version of herself. It was as if she’d spent the last eighteen months locked in parent jail quietly creating bucket lists of what she’d do on release, and now here she was checking them off with military precision. Yesterday, she had brought the boys to the pool, something she hadn’t done in the six months since Andy had shut the toddler pool down when a giant poo snuck out of his nappy like a toxic submarine coming up for air. With great defiance, they had slipped into their togs, repeatedly visited the toilet, and splashed happily for approximately fourteen minutes. She brought the boys to the library and took a Cathy Kelly book out for herself. She had downloaded the ‘Couch to 5k’ beginners’ jogging app and may even consider starting it. And tonight, in honour of her grandmother extending her stay a few days, she was cooking a fancypants meal for her family. Her sister Rosie was coming, Dommo had promised to be on time, and in a show of unmistakable kindness and goodwill, the new and improved Molly had invited Angela. That gesture should earn her some kind of medal in heaven or a fast-track pass through the pearly gates. She had also decided to wear a pre-pregnancy dress that was a little snug, but just about passable if she popped a few buttons when she sat down and wore a cardigan to hide the fact that the zip was only pulled up halfway.

She hung up from her mam and methodically started to carve away at the meat.

‘You’re a brat, Anna. You shouldn’t have said that about Charlie. What if Mam had heard?’ Molly giggled.

‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’ Anna opened and closed the fridge looking for something, but not quite knowing what.

Molly didn’t respond. It was true that Charlie had said he liked it. Well, actually he’d said, ‘You’re lovely.’ Then he’d looked suddenly away and apologised, ‘Sorry, I mean your hair is lovely.’ Charlie’s third visit had fallen on the day after her hair appointment and his mouth had fallen open slightly as she’d answered the door with Andy on her hip, his pudgy little hand slapping her cheek repeatedly. She watched in amazement as Charlie stammered and fumbled his way into the house. Was she having an effect on him? Was this something she could possibly do? Still? Back in the day, when her skirts were dangerously short and her tops were circulation-stopping tight she’d had plenty of offers, but it had been a while. And now this previously polished man was sneaking sideways glances as if he didn’t quite recognise her.

‘Tea?’ She had thrown her standard greeting out at him.

‘Go on. I will, I’ll just …’ He had unpacked, swung his bag off his shoulder, stripped off his jacket, popped his shoes at the door and was crouched on the ground playing racing cars with Rory before the kettle had boiled.

She slipped the mug of tea into his hand and found herself humming as she straightened the kitchen. ‘Dommo’s working late!’ she shouted into thin air, not sure why she was marking his absenteeism. Dommo was never there, he never made bedtime anymore. He hadn’t even met Charlie. He’d spent last weekend on emergency conference calls. And his absence was exhausting.

‘The red one has turbo jets.’ She heard Rory excitedly revving up his cars, knowing how delighted he was to show off his collection.

She watched Charlie crash and zoom his non-turbo jet car into second place.

‘Loser. You’re the loser.’

‘Looks like it.’ Charlie feigned devastation. ‘Come on, let’s go again. I’ll win this time.’

Molly heard more zooming, whirring, smashing and delighted yelps from Rory.

‘Again, Charlie lose again!’ Rory howled in happiness.

‘Okay, losers, let’s get this show on the road.’ Molly was breaking up the car party. Immediately, at the sniff of bedtime, Andy threw himself on the ground in full meltdown, kicking tiny feet and thumping fists.

Charlie and Molly caught each other’s eyes and she gave a knowing smile. They’d been through this. He had given her coping mechanisms that did not involve a quick look at videos on her phone. And so, under his watchful gaze she started putting them in place. She turned her attention to Rory, took his hand and moved towards the stairs.

‘Rory, you’re going to have a lovely bath,’ she sung to him.

Andy continued to roar, but by the time they’d reached the first step, his cries were dimming to a whimper. He peeped up to see why no one was looking at him. Charlie’s peaceful presence hovered in the background as Molly went through the night-time routine. Right through the bubble bath, the nappy refusal, the great pyjama chase and the never-ending toothbrushing nightmare, Charlie offered calm, helpful advice and encouraging words, praising Molly and her efforts not to lose her shit.

Rory had recently become a night walker; small blessings that Andy couldn’t climb out of his cot yet. Within five minutes of being put down, Rory sprung like a jack-in-the-box out of his room to roam the house looking for mischief. Tonight, Molly and Charlie positioned themselves at his doorway. Molly was going to redirect him back to bed. They sat side by side on the floor, their backs resting against the wall of the dimly lit hallway.

‘Thanks, Charlie.’ Her fist gently bumped the side of his knee. ‘They’re hard work.’

‘Not at all. They are fantastic little guys with a lot of energy.’ He said quietly, ‘You’re doing a great job, you know.’

Molly felt a lump catch in her throat. She had never been sure she wanted children. Some women were just so sure—they knew, or they pretended they knew. Molly couldn’t understand how you could know that. How you could be so certain that having a child was the thing to do. But herself and Dommo had decided to go for it because that seemed to be what you did. She got pregnant so easily. Now she knows how lucky they were, but at the time she felt shocked. Pregnant. Wow. They were really doing this. But all of it: the bloating, the sleeplessness, the all-day sickness and exhaustion. Every second was worth it when she met Rory. She had howled and sobbed with the outpouring of joy at his very existence. He’s here, he’s here. She had waited her whole life for him and she hadn’t realised until that very moment when his soft, warm little self weighed down on her chest. The glory of him. She inhaled him. Consumed him with kisses. This insanely precious being. This was an abundance of love. This was sunshine.

‘They’re as great as they are because they have a mum like you.’

‘Stop it.’ Molly tried to speak but felt the emotion well up in her, so she just made a hissing sound like a puncture in an inflatable pool. Charlie turned his head to look at her, his eyes holding hers, seeing her. It was so hard. She loved her boys so much her chest ached when she thought about them. But at every step she worried she failed them: too much TV, too much meat in their diet, not enough books, not enough outside time. She knew she had emptied herself caring for them. She had been tipped over and poured out. She had given everything and it still wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough. Perfect mums haunted her, posting hilarious #mumfails on Instagram, that looked nothing like her actual mum fails. Adorable kids smothered in chocolate sauce didn’t compare to yet another drive-through McDonald’s Happy Meal for the third time in a week because Mum couldn’t get it together to cook. Or sleeping in their clothes because the pyjama battle was just too hard. Or realising she’d forgotten to brush their teeth for ten days, maybe longer. Not quite Insta perfect moments.

‘What you’re doing is amazing. You have the hardest job in the world. Well done.’

Molly would have crumbled. She felt her shoulders shaking and stomach knot. She was close to splintering, but then Rory appeared. He burst through the door in the nip, pyjamas thrown asunder and a nappy on his head. They’d started laughing and got on with the task at hand.

She had said goodbye to Charlie that night feeling lighter, more capable somehow. And the boys had slept through.

And he liked her hair. She bit back a smile. He liked her hair.

‘Let’s have a drink?’ Anna, not waiting for a response had started to pour two glasses of chardonnay. ‘The kids are happy watching TV, your granny is napping, you’re a confirmed domestic goddess—let’s have a glass to celebrate winning at life right now.’

Gladly accepting the chilled wine, Molly said, ‘I love you. Have I ever told you that?’

‘I love you, too. Cheers to that.’ They dutifully clinked.

‘I have news.’ Anna looked warily at her.

Molly clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Pregnant?’

‘God no.’ She stared into her glass. ‘I’ve got a job. I’m going back to nine to five. McCanns headhunted me, if you can believe it? I’m going to be a corporate lawyer again and I can’t wait.’

‘Congratulations.’ Molly heard her own voice, weak and shaky.

Anna rushed to her and pulled her into a hug. ‘Oh, come here, you big loon. I’ll miss you so much. All this time we’ve been mums together. You’ve just been the best friend I could ever ask for.’

‘You too. It’s great, I really am pleased for you,’ Molly spoke into Anna’s neck, her words catching, the sniffles starting. ‘What’ll happen now?’ To me? Molly meant but didn’t ask. What about me? What will I do without my friend? Who will be a mum with me?

‘We’ll get an au pair, probably someone French and skinny who I’ll hate and love in equal measures. I’ll feel guilty I don’t get to spend time with Bev so I’ll spoil her rotten and ruin her sense of self for the twenty minutes I do get with her. And we’ll see how it goes.’ Anna’s worried eyes flitted around.

Finally, Molly knew what to say. ‘This will work. Lots of people do this. It works out great for everyone.’

Anna nodded her brow creased in concern. ‘It’ll work, and if it doesn’t, I’ll leave.’

‘Of course, and come back to pushing buggies around the green with me.’

Molly swirled her wine and focused hard on smiling. She tried and failed to stop the screaming inside, But what about me? What will I do now?

Molly watched Rosie’s cheeks bloom as she got deeper and deeper into her story, holding the table spellbound with her natural charm. It was something about her boss and someone bringing their dog to work. Rosie’s dark hair was swept up into a loose bun, highlighting her long chandelier earrings, a smattering of freckles tickled her nose. She waved her hands around and picked up and replaced her wine glass repeatedly without ever taking a sip. Molly felt nothing but love for her little sister as she watched her eyes moisten with laughter and her red lips never dipping from a happy smile. After their mam and dad had split, Molly had been overwhelmed with the need to protect Rosie from the upset. There were six years between them, but she’d never felt such an overpowering urge to be the big sister and tell the world to get lost. Their parents had invited them to afternoon tea in The Merrion Hotel, a posh city centre hotel, where everyone speaks in hushed voices and pretends they’re not trying to spot a celebrity. She smelled a rat immediately, but assumed her parents were about to reveal an illness. She gripped herself for cancer, mentally rejigging her life to bring whichever parent it was to exhausting chemo sessions and planning a family holiday for everyone in Florida as soon as they were out of the woods. She could see them all waving to Mickey Mouse and slurping down ice-creams at Sea World. They’d get through it because that’s what families did. Families did not separate. Her parents would slide into retirement, golf trips and rum and cokes on the Costa del Sol. They’d held hands when they told them. Her mother had just popped half a scone slathered in strawberry jam into her mouth. Her dad wearing a canary yellow jumper reached for her mam’s hand and held it on her knee.

He spoke up. ‘Your mother and I have decided to go our separate ways. We’ll always love each other, very, very deeply, but sometimes people just grow apart.’ A lonely solitary tear trickled down his cheek.

‘You’re not dying!’ Rosie had shouted at him.

‘Lord, no. Whatever gave you that impression?’ Yvonne had looked shocked.

‘We’re in the bloody Merrion eating cucumber sandwiches. I thought you were dying, at least one of you. Are you sure?’ Rosie asked suspiciously.

Beside her Molly was quietly weeping, ladylike sobbing like an aristocrat in Downton Abbey who’s been caught having it off with the stable boy. ‘Me too, I thought you had cancer,’ she managed to splutter. ‘But this is worse, so much worse.’ In her defence, Molly was heavily pregnant. Her brain had ceased all rational functioning weeks before and she was now running on ninety per cent hormones and ten per cent muscle memory of who she used to be pre-pregnancy.

‘I’m not happy about this one bit.’ Rosie stood up and gallantly threw down her linen table napkin right onto the petit fours. ‘I think you’re bastards. You’re both bastards. What are we now, orphans? Or something like that. How could you do that to us? We’re only children.’

‘It’s just incredibly selfish,’ Molly agreed.

Yvonne interrupted her, looking flustered. ‘We’re people too, you know. We’re entitled to choose our own lives. We’re more than just your parents.’

‘How could you say that?’ Rosie was clearly affronted.

‘Because it’s true. I’m not just Mam, you know?’

‘Oh, so this was your doing, was it?’ Molly clambered up beside her sister.

‘Hang on a minute.’ Their dad put his hand in the air defensively. ‘This is no one’s doing. It just happened.’

‘So, it was you?’ Rosie pointed a finger.

‘It was no one, there’s no blame, and would you two calm down. You’re both adults.’ Yvonne had sounded very cross.

‘No, no,’ Rosie was practically shouting, ‘you’re the ones acting like children here, just running away from the problem, not even trying to stick it out. What’s wrong with you? Come on, Molly, let’s go. Let’s go find an orphanage.’

They had stumbled out of the tea rooms and straight into the bar.

‘Bit dramatic with the orphan thing.’ Molly watched Rosie down a brandy for the shock.

‘They are bastards, though. I was right about that.’

‘What’ll become of us?’ It was as if the roof had come off Molly’s house.

‘I wish you could drink. I’d like us to get roaring drunk,’ Rosie announced.

‘I’m sure this is just shock. We’re in shock.’

‘You don’t think one of them is having an affair, do you?’

‘Oh Jesus, no. What if Dad has a younger woman?’

‘And we have to call her Mam and she’s younger and skinnier than us.’

‘Everyone is skinnier than me.’ Molly rubbed her giant belly.

‘Why did they tell us here, with all the richy-rich shit in The Merrion?’

‘Because they have good scones?’ They started to laugh at the insanity of it all. And the tears rolled down their cheeks as they slapped their hands on the bar counter and ordered another drink for Rosie and a sparkling water for Molly.

It was unsettling. That’s what Molly had told the therapist who Dommo had made her see when her tears had not stopped six weeks later. It had surprised her how deeply she’d been affected by it. She thought only kids got damaged by divorce, not adult children, especially not twenty-seven-year-old married adult children. Her therapist had stroked his moustache, and through soothing ooohs and ahhhs, quoted studies to her and recommended self-help books. There was an entire shelf at the bookshop for adult children of divorce. Who knew? Molly started to pick them off and began to understand her cascading emotions a bit more. She was angry with her parents for a long time, and now, when pressed on it, she admitted to being very sad.

Bizarrely, it had brought herself and Rosie closer. They were united in their grief, their laughter at the whole situation and their resolve to help their parents not to be lonely. Although, really, that only applied to Mam now since Dad had Patricia.

Rosie seemed well, Molly thought, she seemed happy.

‘More boeuf bourguignon?’ Molly played up her French accent with a pout.

‘Ooh la la, mon chérie.’ Dommo grinned and held up his licked clean plate. ‘You bet I do.’

‘Does she cook like this every night, Dommo? I’ll be round if so.’ Rosie spooned some sauce on her plate. ‘This is delicious.’

‘Nah, just since she’s got her new foxy haircut.’ And he winked across the table at her. Molly self-consciously ran her hand up her neck and looked away, quickly squeezing a tight grin from the corner of her mouth that didn’t reach her eyes. Herself and Dommo were struggling to get their rhythm. He was annoying her. Right now, winking across the table at her like some jack-the-lad, that was annoying. Like it’s all alright with a wink. He’d hurtled into the kitchen earlier after work, like some kind of star football player about to save the day. Like he expected some rapturous applause that, yes, hooray, he’d made it home from work on time. He threw his bag onto the middle of the floor exactly where everyone would trip over it and dramatically started to roll up his shirt sleeves. Dommo grabbed a dishcloth and screamed like he’d scored a goal, ‘Right, what are we cooking?’

Coolly unimpressed, Molly responded, ‘I have cooked, the boys are bathed and in their pyjamas. Why don’t you go into the sitting room and have a gin and tonic with Granny?’

‘You sure? I can put some garlic bread in the oven?’

‘We’re not having garlic bread. I’ve got the meal sorted. Go. Gin and tonic.’ She pointed to the sitting room. ‘Granny’s dying for a drink.’

Molly didn’t know if this was true, but it was easier to have Dommo out of the kitchen than running around sabotaging her dinner.

‘Gran? Some more?’ Molly smiled expectantly.

Evie shook her head, and then changed her mind. ‘A smidgen maybe, with a few potatoes?’

‘Angela?’

‘No, no, I never do seconds.’ Angela paused and caught the end of a sigh from Molly. ‘But it was delicious, thank you so much.’

Molly relaxed and dished out the remainder of the meal with a smile. The evening was going so well. She had dominated the cooking, and the kitchen buzzed with laughter. Rosie had taken out her phone and was demonstrating DeLuvGuru to the table. It was her sales pitch and very effective.

‘So, in just two swipes, you can find love. Look …’ With great aplomb and an overextended finger she swiped across her screen.

Mesmerised, her audience marvelled at her genius.

Angela had put her glasses on and leaned across the table for a better look.

‘It’s really that easy?’

Rosie nodded. ‘It’s the technology, the algorithms behind the programming.’

‘English, Rosie, please?’ Granny raised her eyebrows at her.

‘Your online history matches you. You can’t lie about it, you see? People lie on dating application forms all the time, but if we’ve got all your information how can you lie about it?’ Rosie was happily swiping through photographs and interfaces.

‘I dunno, Rosie. I might spend half my day on celebrity gossip sites or Instagram but I don’t really care about it, I’m just flicking through. I’d never want to be partnered up with someone who actually did care about that stuff?’ Molly piped up.

‘But maybe you’d like them to be mildly interested?’ Rosie asked, eyebrows raised.

‘Well, I’m out. I couldn’t give a stuff about celebrity gossip, I’m a straight-up sports guy.’ Dommo took a satisfying swig from his glass.

‘And I don’t care about sports.’ Molly felt her jaw jut out. ‘I’m not even mildly interested.’ She sang the words but there was an edge to her voice, a hardness that had crept in. She shook it off and tried to sound lighter somehow. ‘Besides that stuff doesn’t matter when you’re married with kids. You don’t even have time to go online then.’

‘Well, I don’t really understand it, darling.’ Evie sat back from staring at the screen. ‘It’s definitely not how I’ve worked at matchmaking people over the years. I hope there’s good money in it. There’s always money in matchmaking, mark my words.’

‘I know it’s different, Gran, but instead of just doing one-on-one the way you do it, this can be matching hundreds of people at once.’ Rosie’s eyes glistened with excitement.

‘By a computer?’ Evie shook her head sceptically. ‘There’s so much a computer will never know about people and their ways.’ She looked off into the distance. ‘But I’m sure you could charge like a wounded bull.’

Rosie shrugged.

‘Simon has developed the back end of this?’ Dommo spooned the last of the beef into his mouth. ‘What program has he used?’

‘I dunno. I don’t know anything about the techy stuff.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, it sounds pretty amazing that you’re getting people to hand over all of their data. I mean data is king out there, it’s practically our most valuable currency as human beings at this point. That data you’re collecting would be worth a lot of money.’ Molly could see the cogs and wheels in Dommo’s brain clicking over. ‘That’s the real business there, not the matchmaking. Targeted advertising, audience projections, that kind of consumer information is gold. What software are you using for security?’

‘I don’t know. I forget you work in IT, Dommo. You sounded vaguely knowledgeable there. I thought you just switched computers off and on and gave the photocopier a kick.’ Rosie attempted to dodge the techy questions and resume her comfortable slagging relationship with Dommo.

Dommo didn’t take the bait, in fact he sat up a few inches taller, and nibbled the edge of his thumb pensively. ‘What kinds of terms and conditions do you have people agreeing to? Did you get a compliance lawyer familiar with EU regulations, because these laws change every day?’ Dommo was concentrating on Rosie now, his eyes clear with focus and a look of concern creasing his brow.

‘Simon handled all of that.’ Rosie was starting to look uncomfortable; she twiddled self-consciously at her earrings.

‘Where is he?’ Dommo looked around as if hoping to find Simon hiding under the table.

‘He’s, um …’ Rosie looked to Molly for support even though she hadn’t quite brought her up to speed. Molly had only met Simon once and had been decidedly mute afterwards, which was never a good sign from her opinionated and always vocal sister. ‘He’s in London, with the developer, sorting out a few glitches.’

‘Well, I’m very proud that you’re following in my footsteps as a matchmaker, darling,’ Evie interjected, while beaming at her granddaughter. ‘And the most important question of all is does it work? Are you helping people fall in love?’

There was a long pause as Rosie considered lying to her family but then decided against it. ‘No. It’s not working. Yet.’

‘No?’ Molly, who had started to clean off the table, abruptly sat back down. ‘Shit. But you’re live, it’s out there?’

Rosie batted away Molly’s words, attempting to downplay the situation which she somehow successfully had done in her own head. But now, looking at the reactions from across the table, she saw deep concern flashing across their faces and slack jaws that needed to be slammed shut and she wondered if she had been just a little bit laissez faire about it all.

‘It’s fine. Yes, there seems to be a little bit of a problem with the matching, but Simon is going to fix it.’ Did she still believe that? His emails had bounced back and there had been nothing but radio silence for days. Did she honestly still believe it? A few heads slowly nodded in agreement, but their faces showed how worried they were for her. Rosie couldn’t help her blabbermouth self, she threw fuel on the fire. ‘Remember my friend Catriona from work?’

‘Gorgeous, tall, dark-haired girl,’ Dommo answered straight out of the traps and way too fast for Molly’s liking.

‘Yes, so she got matched up and went on a date, and didn’t even like the guy, let alone want to jump his bones.’ She looked around the table. ‘Oh gosh, sorry, Granny.’

Evie patted Rosie’s wrist, and with her typical good sense of humour, replied, ‘Don’t you worry, I know all about jumping someone’s bones.’

‘It’s clearly a glitch in the programming, mistakes like this happen all the time,’ Molly added hopefully.

‘In testing,’ Dommo said quietly, but still managed to be heard.

‘A lot of people signed up very quickly and we weren’t ready for it.’ Rosie sounded apprehensive.

Evie patted her wrist again in a rhythmic tap. ‘You know, sometimes it’s wisest just to look after your own corner and not worry about everyone else. Start small and watch happiness ripple out. It always does.’

Molly thought that Rosie wasn’t listening to Granny, but she had.

‘I’m going to crochet that on a cushion as soon as I learn how to crochet,’ Rose said.

Everyone laughed, even Angela cracked a smile. She had only met Molly’s granny on a handful of occasions and every time she had looked slightly uncomfortable in her presence. She shifted around her uneasily. Evie had that effect on some people, they wanted to avoid being seen by her. But tonight Angela had embraced Evie and chatted away about the boys and the weather; she had to all intents and purposes been a delightful dinner guest. All of which just reinforced Molly’s theory that Angela hated her, and not everybody.

‘Who’s for dessert?’ Molly jumped up from the table, remembering the chocolate cake that looked like a heart attack under plastic she’d bought from Tesco’s.

‘You sit down, love. I’ll get it.’ Dommo sprung to her side, and quickly swiped the dinner plates out of her hand. ‘You’ve done enough, you’ve really done an amazing job.’

His eyes caught Molly off guard, brimming with adoration for her, hopeful and loving. It felt equal parts nice and unexpected. She sat back down.

‘Dominic, you’ve been working all day. You must be exhausted. I’ll get dessert, you sit down.’ Angela rose from the table, throwing a side eye at Molly.

‘It’s fine, Mam.’

‘No, no, you work so hard. You shouldn’t have to do all the work at home, too.’

Molly groaned loud enough so the whole room heard her. ‘He doesn’t Angela, he doesn’t do anything at home. He doesn’t even know where the bloody nappies are.’

Angela neatly pushed her chair into the table. ‘Well, that’s between you two, but you know he is working so …’

‘And I’m not? Is that what you’re saying?’

Dommo leapt across the kitchen and in between the two women in his life. ‘What about some ice-cream?’ he said, all jolly, like he was at a children’s party.

‘Just use the chocolate cake that’s in the fridge,’ Molly said.

‘I’ll run to the shops to get ice-cream. I fancy ice-cream.’

‘What?’ Molly pushed her chair back and heard it screech across the floor. She stood up, hands on hips and snapped, ‘Sit down, Dommo. There’s cream with the cake. I’ve got this.’ She felt a burning fury inside her. It had all being going so well and now he was going to blow it up.

‘A bit of ice-cream would be nice. It’ll only take me ten minutes.’

‘No. You don’t get to change everything. There’s no garlic bread. There’s no ice-cream.’

‘Literally five minutes in the car.’

‘No!’

‘Jeez, Molly, calm down. I’m just trying to help.’

‘Never tell a woman to calm down!’ Molly hollered.

‘Lads,’ Rosie interrupted them with a warning tone. Standing at the top of the kitchen was Rory, face wet with tears, looking from one parent to another, settling on Molly before erupting in an earth-shattering roar.

Molly swung back. ‘Well played, Dommo. You’ve woken him. Probably thrown out his whole sleep schedule. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, because you’re never here. You’re always at the pub.’

‘I’ll put him to bed,’ Angela piped up.

‘No!’ Molly roared. She scooped Rory up, cradling him like he was a baby once again, shushing and kissing his hot sticky cheeks. She marched up the stairs, listening to the sounds of Dommo apologising to the table and feeling utterly shattered that they could come apart so publicly and so easily.