Page 44 of The Mother-in-Law

‘I’m a fitness influencer.’

My hands flatten on the cutlery tray.

‘I have a hundred and twenty-two thousand followers on Instagram at the moment, so yeah, things are taking off. But I mean . . . I need to keep growing it.’

I find some servers and start tossing the potato salad. I went heavy on the mayonnaise, which I now suspect was a mistake. The green salad, too, is chock full of avocado and feta and oil. ‘And how do you . . . grow it?’

‘You know . . . analysing the best performing posts . . . looking at the hashtags you’re using like #fitspo and #fitnessporn, keeping up to date with who is influencing in your field.’

‘Gotcha.’

‘Then it’s pretty much about partnering with brands. I’ve been contacted by a really interesting up-and-coming organic juice brand and I’m going to be doing some really cool stuff with them and yeah, it’s good.’

‘Great!’

I feel like I’m babysitting a friend’s teenage daughter. She is wearing a sports bra and Lycra leggings with a clear slicker over the top. To lunch! Through the slicker I notice that her breasts look suspiciously round for her slender frame. I spare a sudden thought for my own deflated breasts, destroyed by two pregnancies and two hungry babies. Ollie doesn’t seem to mind my breasts—in fact he seems rather fond of them—but all the same I indulge in a moment of mourning for my pre-baby boobs, all upright and roughly the same size as one another.

A door slams and a moment later Eamon appears, a bottle of champagne in each hand. He waggles them about like an idiot. ‘It’s party time, ladies!’

Eamon’s shirt is unbuttoned too far. He’s lost a bit of weight lately, the way men do when they are having affairs or midlife crises. (Ollie, God love him, has maintained a relatively stable weight, even gaining a little with each passing year, which is good news on the affair front.)

‘Champagne glasses, Luce?’ Eamon says.

A few minutes later he returns with four glasses, filled to the brim. ‘I said I didn’t want any!’ Bella exclaims as he pushes a glass into her hand. ‘I’m on a cleanse.’

‘Nothing better for cleansing than champagne,’ he says cheerily.

‘Who is cleansing?’ Ollie asks, appearing in the kitchen with a tray of overcooked meat.

‘Bella,’ Eamon and I say together.

Ollie glances at the meat on his tray the same way I looked at my salads.

‘Don’t worry,’ Bella says, smiling. ‘I brought my own food.’

Ollie gawps at her. ‘You brought your ownfood?’

She unzips a brightly coloured cool-bag that I’d previously thought was her purse. ‘I meal prep at the start of the week, so it’s no trouble really. All I need is a plate. Easiest guest you’ve ever had, right?’ She laughs.

I can already hear Ollie and me impersonating her tonight after they’ve left.Easiest guest you’ve ever had, right?For this reason, and this reason alone, I manage to smile.

I give Bella a plate and she dishes up a sad-looking salad that appears to be brown rice and lettuce. The rest of us tuck into potato salad, sausages and burgers.

‘So how’s business, Eamon?’ I ask. ‘Things going well?’

The one upside of Eamon being here is that I have an opportunity to ask him about the business. Since it started, Ollie has been working around the clock for months, but when I ask him how things are going, he says very little. He has a tendency to be a worrier, and I console myself with this when he seems less than optimistic. But today I’d been hoping for a little reassurance from Eamon as well.

‘We don’t need to talk shop today.’ Eamon puts down his glass. ‘It’s theweekend.’

‘I’m happy to talk shop,’ I say.

‘You know what would be more fun?’ Eamon puts down his glass. ‘Truth or dare.’

Mid-sip of my champagne, I choke. Truth or dare? Eamon is forty-three, I remind myself.Forty-three.

‘Comeon. It’s a good icebreaker. We played it the other night, didn’t we, Bells?’

Bella nods, spearing a spinach leaf. She’s listening, it seems, but her entire focus seems to be on her food. The poor little thing is probably starving.