Secrets Between Sisters: The perfect heart-warming holiday read of 2018. Kate Thompson

and Río turned to each other, but this time they didn’t laugh. ‘Poor Dad,’ they said simultaneously, each reaching for the other’s hand.

      And then they had their arms wrapped around each other, and they were crying, and Río was saying, ‘I’m so, so sorry about the thing with Shane.’

      And Dervla was saying, ‘Don’t be sorry–sure, wasn’t it ages ago and wasn’t he an awful eejit anyway. And weren’t we the awful eejits to let something as petty as a teenage crush mess us up.’

      ‘And for so long!’ exclaimed Río. ‘Twenty stupid, stupid years we’ve wasted, acting like characters in a Dostoevsky novel.’

      ‘Except in a Dostoevsky novel the characters would never kiss and make up.’

      ‘Is that what we’re doing?’

      ‘I think so. Don’t you? Don’t you think it’s possible to wipe a slate clean after twenty pointless bloody years of resentment and strop?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Río. ‘I do. I’m so sorry’ And leaning forward, she gave Dervla a kiss on the cheek.

      Dervla kissed her back. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, for overreacting the way I did.’

      ‘No, no–I’m the one who should be sorry for stealing him.’

      ‘No, no–you didn’t steal him. He was never mine anyway.’ And then they were laughing again, but it was a kind of snuffly laughter.

      ‘Do you have a tissue?’ Río asked finally, wiping her cheeks.

      Dervla undid the clasp of her shoulder bag, and passed over a packet of Kleenex.

      A plaintive mew from the doorway made them turn. There, arching his back and rubbing his muzzle against the door jamb was W.B., their father’s cat. His marmalade fur was bedraggled, and the leather collar dangling loosely round his neck told them he’d lost weight.

      ‘Oh, W.B.!’ cried Río, bending to scoop him up. ‘Poor you! I’d forgotten all about you–you must be starving. Let’s see if there’s anything to eat in the kitchen, puss cat.’

      ‘Apart from mouse pie, you mean?’ remarked Dervla.

      ‘Ew. I’d forgotten about them. You’d better go first, since you’re so used to them.’

      Dervla moved down the hall. A lozenge of light on the tiles indicated that the kitchen light was still on. Inside, the big table in the centre of the floor was covered in detritus. More bottles and glasses, half-empty mugs of tea with mould floating on the surface, cereal packets, milk cartons, a box of Complan, empty tins, books, newspapers and magazines.

      W.B. pitter-pattered into the room and immediately leaped onto a work surface upon which boxes of dried cat food were stacked alongside a wine rack.

      ‘Wow,’ said Dervla. ‘There’s an entire bottle of wine in there. He actually left us some drink. Fancy a glass of Dutch courage?’

      ‘Definitely.’ Río moved to a drawer, rooted among its haphazard contents for a corkscrew, and reached for the bottle. ‘Merlot,’ she said, deftly inserting the corkscrew. ‘Chateau-bottled, interesting vintage.’ There came a plop! as the cork slid out. Río sniffed it. ‘Mm. Plum pudding fruit, spicy vanilla oak, peppery nose, a touch of stewed mulberries.’

      Dervla gave Río a curious look, as she poured cat food into W.B.’s bowl. I didn’t know you were a wine buff.

      ‘I’m not, I’m just spoofing. It’s plonk. Here’s a challenge for you. Find a couple of clean glasses.’

      ‘There aren’t any.’ Dervla moved to the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. There were half a dozen or so dead bluebottles on the inside windowsill, and half a dozen or so dead snails on the outside one. She selected two of the least disgusting wineglasses, and rinsed them under the tap. ‘Well,’ she said, clearing a space on the table and setting the glasses down. ‘That’s interesting. Dad was still able to do the cryptic crossword.’ She picked up a backdated copy of the Irish Times and scrutinised the Crosaire. ‘There’s only one he missed,’ she said. ‘“Sounds like fifty ended like this.” Eight letters, second letter “e”.’

      ‘Deceased,’ said Río. ‘Here’s to him.’ She sloshed red into the wineglasses, then passed one to Dervla.

      ‘Here’s to our daddy,’ said Dervla, raising her glass.

      ‘And to our mama.’ Río raised hers likewise. ‘We’re officially orphans now, Dervla.’

      ‘I’ve felt like an orphan for years,’ Dervla observed, matter-of-factly. She took a sip of her wine and made a face. ‘Ew. Nasty.’

      ‘Very nasty,’ agreed Río. ‘But don’t let that stop us from finishing the bottle.’

      Dervla sat down at the table and looked around the room. The framed photograph of her parents on their wedding day hung, as it had always done, next to the dresser full of their wedding china. Dervla noticed abstractedly how intact the dinner service was; but then, she supposed, throwing plates had never been their mother’s style. ‘Here’s hoping Ma and Pa don’t run into each other in the big blue hereafter,’ she remarked.

      ‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Río, taking the seat opposite her sister. ‘I reckon Dad yearned always to be reunited with her, like Heathcliff and Cathy. I don’t think he ever stopped loving her. I wonder what made her put up with him?’

      ‘She stayed put because of us, of course,’ said Dervla.

      ‘I suppose this is where we give each other thoughtful looks and start reminiscing about the past.’

      ‘Somebody once said that the past’s another country. Let’s not go there.’

      ‘Unless we can travel first class. And this ain’t no luxury stateroom.’ Río looked round the kitchen with distaste. ‘How could he have lived like this?’

      ‘You’d be surprised at how many men who live on their own, live in squalor. I could tell you stories that would make you puke.’

      ‘Houses you’ve seen?’

      ‘Yes. Sometimes I’m scared that I might actually puke, then and there, all over the kitchen floor. One woman used to cook pigs’ feet for her husband every evening—’

      ‘Gross!’

      ‘And because he was incontinent, he smelled perpetually of wee. I used to have to spray the house with Jo Malone before every viewing.’

      ‘Business must be good if you can afford Jo Malone.’

      ‘It is. Very good. I’m going to have to recruit another girl.’

      ‘Is someone leaving?’

      ‘No. I’m expanding. I’m going to offer my clients a home-staging service.’

      ‘A home-staging service? What’s that?’

      ‘For an extra charge, I turn the house into a really desirable property–the kind of place where a prospective buyer will walk in the door and say, “Wow! I simply must have it!’”

      ‘How could you possibly do that in a house that smelled of pigs’ trotters and wee?’

      ‘That one was a challenge, all right. But some places can be really dramatically transformed. Statistics prove that a house that has been home-staged is far more likely to sell than a house that hasn’t.’

      ‘Isn’t it a waste of money for the owners, since they’re going to be moving out anyway?’

      ‘Not if it guarantees a sale. And makeovers don’t need to cost a fortune.’

      Río gave Dervla an interested look, then leaned her elbows on the tabletop. ‘Really? What would you do with this place?’

      ‘Clean