episodes ahead. Mother’s performances before the camera were brief; it was Sherry who was the star. And just two years after Bouncer’s appearance, Sherry’s viewing ratings shot up once more. After all, nothing tugs on your heart strings more than the death of a pet. His demise was cruel but, according to her mother, necessary. She said Bouncer was clever – too clever; there was even talk of his own spin-off show. There was no way she would allow Sheridan to be upstaged by a dog. As she cried real tears, Sherry hated her mother for what she did, but she learned a valuable lesson as her popularity grew. Power and wealth were there for the taking, as long as you knew how to play the game. After an award-winning performance at Bouncer’s funeral, Sherry’s number-one status was restored.
Nowadays Sheridan Sinclair was part of a picture-perfect family; she and Daniel had been voted the most successful celebrity couple of 2019. But others were snapping at their heels and threatening their sponsorship deals. She needed to up their ante. She knew where things were going wrong: their son Leo was the faulty component. He hated having his photo taken, and tugged at the clothes Sheridan dressed him in. He could not sit still for two seconds; he’d pull faces and scratch his head. He was far from a natural in front of the camera. He was not like her.
But a girl . . . Sheridan stared at the TV screen. A girl had the power to delight her audiences. And it wasn’t as if she would work her that hard. Things were different now. With social media, they only had to give glimpses, carefully constructed insights into the lives they wanted to portray. She allowed her thoughts to wander. A blonde-haired little girl would secure their position for years to come. And if it didn’t work out? She thought of Bouncer. Life was one big stage show . . . and players could be written out.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROZ
I buried my head beneath my pillow and exhaled a low moan. I did not want to get up, but my lie-in had come to an abrupt end with a sharp poke in the back.
‘Wake up, you lazy moo. Are you dreaming about Tom Hiddleston again?’
Blinking, I cleared my vision. ‘Eww, no. What time is it?’
Dympna’s red hair dangled over me, her bacon sandwich making an unwelcome sensory advance. ‘It’s gone ten. I made you a cuppa. There’s toast there, too, if you fancy it.’
I pulled back my new Dunnes Stores duvet, the one with the hearts that I’d saved for a month to buy, and sucked in a breath as Dympna slipped in beside me, her feet freezing as they pressed against mine. It was our weekly ritual. Dympna didn’t do hangovers. Each Sunday morning she’d hop into my bed, bringing tea and toast, and we’d dissect the night before. Her afternoons and most evenings were spent with Seamus; I appreciated that she was not one of those fair-weather friends who dumped you the minute they got a new squeeze. She furtively wiped a splodge of ketchup from my duvet. It’s a good thing we were besties.
I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes before gratefully accepting the cup of Lyons tea. Now she had her boyfriend and I was off the booze, there were no regrets about the night before. But I should have known my friend was way ahead of me. Reaching down, she picked up my laptop from our threadbare rug and placed it in front of me on the bed. ‘I thought we could go through this instead – see if you’ve got any replies on that Mammy Mashup site.’
‘It’s Miracle-Moms, and I thought you didn’t approve,’ I said, remembering the stack of emails dinging into my inbox the night before.
‘I don’t, but we’re only looking. Go on . . .’ She snuggled up beside me with a dangerous twinkle in her eye. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Fun’ was not the word I would have used, but it was better than some I could think of. ‘Well, I suppose we can look at the site,’ I said reluctantly. Last night, I’d shut my laptop with a snap, too freaked out to read any more of those responses. ‘But I need to pee first.’
After inputting my password, I left her to it while I tiptoed down our ice-cold hall lino to the loo. Outside, the wind howled around our badly fitted windowpanes. Winter