"Yes, but his life will be there, I can tell. He's a clever chap. And I want to be near him." May as well iron out that little crease straight away: some things are non-negotiable.

He nodded. Looked thoughtful. "Although London doesn't have a monopoly on attracting clever people?"

"I know. But the sort of place he'll want to apply to does."

"Oh, OK." He grinned. “So — what? Make a pile of dosh before retiring to the Home Counties to hobby farm? Send his children to private school and take up shooting?"

I laughed. "You make that sound like a bad thing."

He shrugged. "No, not necessarily. Just a trifle . . . formulaic."

I swallowed. I could explain that my own life had been anything but formulaic. That I fervently wished it had been. Wished I'd been to the right schools, that I'd had all the advantages Christina had had: played in all those lacrosse matches, been captain of the tennis team. Or at least, had the opportunity to turn it all down. And how a ridiculous part of me wondered if that was what I'd lacked, for Hugo. Polish. Once, when Christina and I had had a nerve-wracking chat at speech day at Peter's school, she'd told me how she wished she rode, and how good Hugo said I was. I knew she was being kind and I appreciated it, even though I hated it, too; this crumb from the rich man's table that my feet should by rights have been under. But I was interested that this was what Hugo had chosen to praise about me. Not my art, or even my mothering skills, but my prowess in the saddle. Or perhaps I was reading too much into it, as was my wont. As for ensuring a formulaic life for my son, Peter had already turned his nose up at banking, which I'm sure Ted would applaud, but with every fibre of my being I wanted to be on hand to personally supervise any future enablement. For him to be party to all the best choices, even if he refused them. And yes, Ted, this powerful maternal force, perhaps the most powerful force of all in the natural world, that world you love so much, would therefore prevent me from settling by my beloved seashore, which constantly called me back and which I so longed to call home once more.

I shrugged. "I can take it or leave it, frankly," I told him. "I saw enough of the sea in my youth."

Our sandwiches had arrived, and I bit into mine, wiping hot cheese away as it dribbled down my chin. Ted regarded me with curiosity and I'm not entirely sure I got away with it. The lie or the mess on my face.