Most didn't want to be seen to push, to be sniggered at, although one friend cheerfully told everyone she gave her son mock Oxbridge interviews every night for a week before his own interview. Having been there herself and read the same subject, she knew the form. People laughed at such a professional mother, but he got in. It was all such a race. A struggle. And with so many highly educated, highly trained circus animals performing, it was something of a lottery. Peter may well back himself but there was every chance he wouldn't get in next year. I forced myself to be calm. To sit down again. I took a large slug of wine.

"What does your father think?"

"He's pretty cool."

"He would be."

“Mum, that's not fair."

"No, but he doesn't take the same interest."

"Which is good. Takes the pressure off."

I acknowledged this. Had always thought we made a good team in this respect. So he'd told him first.

"I saw him up at the house, literally just now," he told me, reading my thoughts. "Had a quick chat. He told me to think about it first. And to come down here. I told him I'd been on my way anyway when I met him."

"Right." I was calming down a bit. Not a lot, but a bit. Still felt sick. "Well, he's right, you should think about it. I mean – last week you were going, am I right?"

"Yes."

"And suddenly, just to partake in some Sloaney rite of passage, some jaunt to South East Asia to get off your head at half-moon parties—"

"Full."

“To be able to say you've drunk buckets of vodka on the Ganges and vomited as much as you consumed, which no doubt all your surfing mates you met at the pub are doing, Adam, Sam, whoever."

"I'm not going to Asia."

"Well, Columbia, then."

"I'm going to America."

"America." I stared. "Why?"

"I'm going to get a job. I want to work in New York."

My mouth fell open. I stared at him. Suddenly the dawn came up. The chats. The walks. The discussions. "Janey," I hissed.

"Yes, OK, I've been talking to Janey. But I had the germ of the idea anyway."

"Liar!" I roared.

“Mum! Get a grip."

“She's influenced you," I snapped. "Whispered in your young, vulnerable ear about the Big Apple, the buzz, the excitement, the glamor — oh, you stupid boy, Peter."

Peter widened his eyes. “This is going well."

"Well, what did you expect? Oh yes, fab idea, darling! Any old eighteen-year-old, with no experience and no connections, and no work permit, incidentally, can get a job on Wall Street, no problem at all. How naive, Peter. Did you expect me to say go for it, darling?"