I love Irish writers and devoured all of the Tana French books.  I also confess that I love Maeve Binchy on a rainy afternoon when  i want to laugh a little and cry as well.  This book was hard to follow, the characters were one dimensional and I got no sense of who anyone really was.  The narrator (sister of the alcoholic deceased  is filled with self pity, appears to hate every member of her large Irish catholic family.  Her husband may or may not be a lying, adulterous cad, but she is so delusional, I feel sorry for him.  Was her grandmother really a prostitute?  Was the man who was best friends with her grandfather a pedophile?  Who really knows?  Most of the narrative takes place in the narrator's mind and it is impossible to distinguish her delusions from reality.  I only finished the book because, in light of the Man Booker prize, I expected it to get better.  It never did and i would not recommend this miserable tome to anyone.