LITMIR.BIZ

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one of the anchors of her mam’s favourite TV show This Morning was speaking. Emily always denied that she had a crush on him, but when he spoke her face softened, and she hung on his every word.

      Only when Eamonn had finished talking did Emily answer, ‘What’s that love?’

      Greta pointed to a photograph of Dr Greta Gale, her famous namesake.

      In the photo, Dr Gale was sitting on a red-brick wall, with the backdrop of a green ocean behind her, smiling to the camera. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’

      ‘How does she get her hair to look like that?’ Emily asked, smoothing down her own shoulder-length bob. ‘Maybe I should grow mine out a bit.’

      ‘She probably has a glam squad at her disposal twenty-four/seven,’ Greta replied. ‘What do you think she means by being the same personally as well as privately and publicly?’

      Drgretagale Be the same person privately, publicly and – most importantly – personally. Can I get a hell yeah?

      #inspirationalquotes #drgretagale #inspire #mindfulness #strong #whatsinyourcupboard

      Emily put her glasses on to read the post beneath the photograph. ‘I don’t know. Half the stuff she posts is a load of mumbo jumbo if you ask me.’

      ‘Mam!’ Greta loved Dr Gale and wouldn’t have a word said against her. And that wasn’t just because they shared the same name – although that was part of it. It was more because Dr Gale epitomized everything that Greta wished she could be herself. Dr Gale was successful, beautiful and loved. She was living her best life. She represented hope for Greta. Maybe one day she too could have everything that Dr Gale had. There wasn’t a single Instagram post that Greta had not read. And with each new double tap of love, she felt her connection to her grow stronger.

      Greta would lie in bed, late at night, knowing she should be at least making an attempt to sleep, but somehow unable to take her eyes off Dr Gale’s Instafeed. She would lose hours googling books, food, art and restaurants that Dr Gale tagged in a photo. She followed accounts that Dr Gale followed. Last year she bought a green kaftan similar to the one that Dr Gale wore to a beach party, but that had not ended well. On Dr Gale the kaftan looked very boho chic. On Greta it looked as if she’d eaten all the pies.

      More than how Dr Gale looked, lately her Instagram posts felt as if they were speaking directly to Greta. Every word seemed like a secret message just for her, as if Dr Gale had looked into Greta’s mind and knew exactly what to say to help her, support her, advise her.

      While her mam’s back was turned, Greta picked up the remote control and hit the Netflix button, pressing play on the one-hour Dr Greta Gale Special, ‘What’s In Your Cupboard?’

      ‘Not again,’ Emily groaned.

      ‘What?’ Greta feigned innocence. ‘You like her as much as me. And I love this bit. Look at that strut.’

      They both watched Dr Gale sashaying onto a stage, the spotlight following her as she walked. ‘Hello y’all.’

      ‘Hello y’all,’ Greta and Emily called back to the screen in their best copycat US accent.

      ‘When I grew up in Kansas, on a little old bitty farm, I could never have dreamed that one day I’d be standing here in front of y’all. A New York Times bestseller, translated into thirty-three languages – so far – with my own TV special. I’m not sharing that to brag, but to illustrate how life is full of surprises. You never know what is around your corner for you. Am I right? Can I get a hell yeah!’

      ‘Hell yeah!’ Greta and Emily called back.

      ‘I’d love to know where she got that dress. I’ve got your second cousin Breda’s confirmation coming up in April. I’d take the sight out of their eyes if I walked into the church in that.’

      ‘It’s Diane von Fürstenberg. $1,800. Sorry, Mam. But guess what? Dr Greta has announced her first-ever live one-day seminar in Las Vegas. Wouldn’t it be something else to go and see her there?’ She felt a frisson of excitement at the very thought.

      Emily muttered something about notions and outrageous airfares under her breath then went back to making a pot of porridge. A loud bang from upstairs ricocheted down the stairs into the kitchen. Emily and Greta raised their eyes upwards. The boys were up.

      ‘Wait till I get hold of those … those two bowsies!’ Emily said. Bowsie was Emily’s favourite slang for her two sons whenever they were being unruly.

      Greta slipped into actress mode and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow in question, a move she had been practising for weeks. She had a big audition later today in London and she planned to end her prepared monologue with this facial expression. Emily sighed as only a mother who had the full weight of her irresponsible boys on her shoulders could. She pointed to the grill. ‘It was left on all night. We could have burned to a crisp, the whole house up like a light.’ She blessed herself quickly, muttering thanks to St Anthony, her saint of choice for keeping them safe.

      Greta felt a shiver of something ripple through her. Staring at the grill, she imagined flames bursting from its dark cave, filling the kitchen, sneaking up the stairs to the sleeping family.

      ‘Did they wake you up with all their drunken shenanigans last night?’ Emily asked.

      ‘No. I slept like a log,’ Greta replied, focusing on her phone.

      ‘Ah, good girl,’ Emily said. ‘Did you …’

      Her question hung unasked because Aidan and Ciaran bounced into the room, seconds apart. Greta marvelled that she was related to them at all. She never bounced anywhere. Unless you counted every evening when she took her bra off …

      Greta had been nine years old when Aidan had been born, with Ciaran following on a mere ten months later. Irish twins, as the saying went. She loved them and the feeling was mutual. They would sit in their high chairs, captivated by their big sister who sang and danced for them both, making them squeal with delight.

      ‘I’m starving, Mam!’ Aidan said, throwing an arm around his mother’s shoulder. ‘Any chance of a bacon sandwich?’

      ‘Same. Make that two!’ Ciaran said, pouring two mugs of tea.

      ‘Sit down,’ Emily said to them, smiling. ‘I’ve already made your breakfast. The full Irish.’

      ‘You da best,’ Aidan said, a loud rumble escaping his stomach. ‘Big G in da house.’

      He took a seat opposite Greta at the table and saluted her. Aidan had given her the nickname ‘G’ when he was a toddler and couldn’t get his tongue around Greta. And as is often the way with childhood nicknames, the name somehow stuck. Ciaran amended it to Big G a few years later. He said it made her sound like a rapper. That used to make Greta laugh. She would put a baseball cap on sideways, throw on a load of her mam’s costume jewellery and do a mean Jay-Z impression. It always ended with all three of them collapsed into a big pile of giggling.

       Big G in da house.

      With the emphasis on the word big.

      They watched Emily as she opened the grill and loaded two plates with an imaginary fry. Ciaran whispered to Greta, ‘Is Mam all right?’

      Greta looked away, unable to watch the drama about to unfold. Never mind the grill going on fire, her brothers were about to get roasted.

      ‘There you go,’ Emily said, as she placed an empty plate in front of Aidan, and then another in front of Ciaran. ‘Enjoy that now.’

      ‘But there’s nothing there,’ Ciaran said. ‘Is there no fry then? What about a bacon sandwich?’

      Emily sat down beside Greta. ‘Sure how could I make you a sandwich when I’ve not got a single slice of bread left.’

      ‘Ah Mam,’ Aidan complained. ‘You had me looking forward to a fry.’

      ‘Don’t

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