The Book of Love. Fionnuala Kearney

      It’s Lydia’s party and I’m standing with a man and woman I don’t know who are having an animated discussion about Brexit. He’s ignoring me and nodding sagely as she speaks. She’s paying no attention to me either, only interested in jabbing the air with her forefinger to make her point. I look around the room – a large front-to-back ground floor of a Victorian villa, it’s packed with people, all deciding they’d rather not risk rain outside.

      The Brexit duo and I are in the exact spot Lydia and Nigel have their pine tree in December. Except for last year. Last Christmas Lydia understandably went all Grinch-like and trees and baubles and sparkles and tinsel and laughing were banned. My eyes search her out in the crowd. She must be in the kitchen directing operations, so I head that way, only stopping when I hear familiar voices in the hallway. Nigel’s booming laugh followed by a quieter, higher-pitched, tone. She sounds just like Erin – their voices have the same timbre, but the tell-tale hairstyle confirms it’s Rachel, our daughter.

      I scramble past strange faces but as soon as I near, I see that she’s brought Paul and I turn back on myself. Though I’ve heard about him, I’ve not met this older live-in lover of hers. Holding back, I watch from my vantage point. And while he doesn’t exactly have liver spots on his hands, it’s there. The age gap is, to me anyway, this big gaping thing standing tall, almost proud, between them. He’s a chino-wearing forty-year-old; shirt nicely ironed, fair hair a little too coiffured for my liking – screams ‘father figure’ – which makes me feel a little sick. Her two-tone, blue-bottomed, dreads are tied back in a ponytail; her silver nose ring glints under the light from the ceiling spotlights as she rests her head on Nigel’s shoulder. He’s hugging her tight and I want to do that so badly.

      ‘Jude here?’ she asks Nigel about her brother.

      ‘Jude’s taken a few days off,’ I hear his reply.

      Jude is interning at the school where Nigel is head teacher and term-time breaks are not encouraged. I wonder if he’s already decided teacher training isn’t his thing – he’s never been great at sticking to things. I keep moving, disappointed I won’t see my son, acutely aware that I’ve always had many more flaws than him and that I spent the afternoon talking to a stuffed elephant.

      ‘Oh,’ Rachel replies, her neat eyebrows arching, ‘he never said. C’mon,’ she grabs Paul by the hand and says. ‘I’m famished, let’s find the birthday girl.’

      I follow, feeling like the guy in that movie, Father of the Bride, chasing his daughter, not quite able to reach her, too many people in the way. Through the kitchen door, I can just about spot Lydia’s head, when some idiot bumps into me, spilling his drink on me, carries on walking. Christ, something’s telling me I should have just stayed away. I swear quietly. All I want to do is hug my daughter, hug my sister, and let them feel my arms around them.

      I ask myself what Erin would say to me right now.

      ‘Get over yourself and get your ass in there. It’s a party! Go party! And maybe see what you make of Paul?’

      Or something like that.

      So, without her on my arm, that’s what I try to do.

      It takes very little time for me to conclude that he’s a boring asshole not worthy of Rachel. If Erin were here, she’d have an elbow firmly wedged in my ribs, primed for an urgent poke. If Erin were here, she’d have hissed. ‘This is her choice, not yours.’

      But Erin is not here, so after another hour, I slip away unnoticed and take the shorter route home.