In My Sister's Shoes by Sinéad Moriarty Page A

Derek and me. I sniffled into my glass of wine. My sister was glad I was home, and that was all that mattered. Mark and his snide remarks were irrelevant.
    The door opened and Dad came in. ‘How many Oscars did Katherine Hepburn win?’
    ‘Three.’
    ‘Name the films.’
    ‘ Morning Glory. Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. On Golden Pond .’
    ‘Wrong. She won four, and you know the other one. Come on, Katie.’
    I racked my brains. This was Dad’s and my favourite game, and one that I was actually good at. I shared his obsession with films. As far back as I could remember he had sat me down to watch all the classic Hollywood films – it was our way of bonding. Fiona had been too busy with chess and Derek had had the attention span of a flea, so Dad focused his love of cinema on me. I had spent many a rainy Saturday afternoon with him, watching spellbound as Henry Fonda, Gregory Peck, Bette Davis, Lauren Bacall and many others strutted their stuff.
    ‘ The Lion in Winter ,’ I shouted.
    ‘Well done. Good to see you haven’t lost it,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘Now, how did it go with Fiona?’
    ‘She’s stressed and scared but, all things considered, she seemed OK. As for that husband of hers, though – God, Dad, he’s so patronizing! He didn’t get back till nine and then he started giving me grief. He’s behaved like a total tosser since she got sick.’
    ‘Careful, Kate, you can’t go around criticizing Mark. He’s Fiona’s husband and you have to respect that and put up with him for her sake – even if he is being a pain in the arse,’ he muttered.
    ‘Who’s being a pain in the arse?’ asked Derek.
    ‘Mark,’ I said.
    ‘Wanker,’ said Derek. ‘He called me up yesterday and told me to stop asking Fiona for advice and stuff. He said she doesn’t need to be worrying about me when she’s sick. As if I’d offload on her now! I’m not a total moron.’
    ‘That’s a relief,’ said Dad, winking at me.
    ‘How is she anyway?’ asked Derek.
    ‘Being brave.’
    ‘Sure that girl was born brave,’ said Dad. ‘How are the twins?’
    ‘Fine. They seem blissfully unaware that anything’s wrong. I’ve a list of things to study for tomorrow, though. They have a very precise schedule.’
    ‘Don’t talk to me about that ,’ groaned Dad. ‘I’d to look after them one afternoon and I learnt more than they did. We were doing sums and all. They’ll be going to college next year at this rate.’
    ‘Cool, like the little dude in Little Man Tate ,’ drawled Derek.
    ‘Didn’t he have a breakdown at the end of the movie?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes, he bloody did,’ said Dad. ‘Those kids need to kick a ball around and climb trees.’
    ‘Well, there is forty-five minutes allocated for “out door activities”,’ I said.
    Just as Dad was about to reply, the door opened and a girl wearing baggy jeans – which showed off her boxer shorts – with a yellow bra top strolled in. ‘Yo, Derek, you should have woken me up. I’ve gotta hit the road.’
    Dad and I, decked in woolly jumpers, stared at Derek.
    ‘This is Roxanne,’ he said proudly.
    ‘I thought it might be Daisy,’ said Dad, pointing to her nose-ring, as I choked on my wine.’
    ‘No, I’m named after the Police song,’ said Roxanne, staring blankly at Dad.
    ‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ said Dad, and then, unable to resist, he added, ‘I see you don’t feel the cold, which is great, especially in this climate.’
    ‘You have to freeze for fashion,’ said Roxanne, winking at him, as I nodded sagely. She had a point there, especially if you lived in Ireland. You had to freeze at some point or you’d never get out of woolly jumpers and boots.
    Derek put his arm around her.
    ‘And what do you do with yourself when you’re not freezing?’ asked Dad, cutting to the chase.
    Roxanne sighed. ‘I’m an artist.’
    ‘Could you be more specific?’ asked Dad, as Derek groaned.
    ‘I create body art.’
    ‘I’m not with you,’ said